Page 23 of Victorious Vice

“Let’s go,” I say.

Once Elmo and I are outside Agudelo’s mansion, we wait.

“You sure you got a driver who isn’t compromised?” I ask Elmo.

“Yes, he comes highly recommended.”

I bite my lip. “Let’s hope. We need to drive into the heart of the Chapinero district.”

“The driver knows who we need to see.”

I have no reason not to trust Elmo. He’s had my back since I returned. I don’t for a moment trust Mario.

“You can trust your grandfather,” Elmo says as if reading my mind. “I’ve been with him for over ten years, and I’m the best on his staff of security. He wants you safe, Mr. Gallo. He told me as much.”

I take a slow breath in. “Yes, well, I am his heir.”

And his son, though Elmo doesn’t know that. I don’t think anyone knows that other than Mario and me. And my dead mother.

Our driver arrives in a long black Mercedes. He gets out of the car, and he and Elmo speak in Spanish.

If only I knew Spanish. I picked up a bit during my time in Europe, but not enough. I spent most of my time in Italy and in Eastern Europe.

Except for when I was in Tibet.

My Italian is pretty good, and that’s close enough to Spanish for me to roughly translate what I see and hear, but I won’t be able to speak clearly to anyone unless I have a translator present. Elmo’s Spanish sounds pretty good, but I of course have no way of knowing.

The chauffeur opens the car door, and I slide into the back seat. Elmo gets in next to me.

“He’s taking us where we need to go,” Elmo says.

The streets of Bogotá blur past. The low hum of the engine feels like it’s vibrating through my bones, a constant reminder that we’re out of place here.

Once we’re miles away from Agudelo’s mansion, the road becomes uneven, cracked, and riddled with potholes that forcethe driver to swerve more than I’d like. Every turn feels like a gamble. Kids in tattered clothes dart between alleyways.

The buildings loom closer now, like they’re closing in on me. Graffiti covers almost every surface—some of it crude, some of it warnings, and some just words I can’t understand. A skinny dog limps across the street, ribs poking through its mangy fur. It pauses in the middle of the road, eyes wild and distant, as if it doesn’t even care whether it lives or dies. My heart aches for it.

Elmo sits next to me, silent but alert. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes never stop scanning. He’s got that look on his face—like we’re driving straight into the devil’s den. He’s probably right. This is Agudelo’s territory. Every crack in the pavement, every windowless building is a reminder of the people who disappear in places like this.

We hit another corner, and I see them—two men standing on a street corner, smoking. They look up as we pass, their eyes cold and calculating. One of them flicks his cigarette to the ground, and I catch the glint of metal tucked under his jacket. I don’t need to look twice to know what it is.

The tension in the air thickens. We’re getting closer to the meet, but it feels like the whole neighborhood is watching, waiting. I feel it in the pit of my stomach. The further in we go, the fewer options we have. There’s no way out if this goes sideways.

I take a deep breath. We just have to make it through. Just a little farther.

The deeper we go into Agudelo’s territory, the more the cityscape changes. The buildings grow taller and more foreboding, and the air grows dense with the stench of decayed trash and distant fires.

We drive past a group of children playing with a deflated soccer ball in a makeshift patch of dirt. Despite everything,despite their circumstances, they find joy. A sobering thought that hangs heavy in my mind.

A few minutes later, on the far south side of Chapinero, our driver comes to a sudden stop before a dilapidated warehouse that looks like it could crumble at any moment. The massive structure looms above us, casting shadows onto the cracked pavement.

Elmo exits the car and I follow suit, the door closing behind us with a hollow thud. The air is different here—thick and stale yet crackling with an unseen energy.

Our driver remains inside the vehicle, eyes straight ahead, his grip on the wheel unyielding. Around us, the distant laughter of children playing, dogs barking, and urban music fades into the background.

Elmo leads me towards the entrance of the warehouse. As we approach, two men step out, both tall and lean with hard eyes.

“Who are they?” I ask Elmo.

---