Page 99 of Stricken

He and I know this is not the kind of fruitful most people mean when they say this.

With all niceties out of the way, Esteban leads me into the house, where the warmth of family life permeates the air despite the underlying tension. Staff rush about, tidying, preparing, silent anticipation hanging over their efficient movements. Unlike the last time I visited, there are signs of children here—toys, messy blankets, a Wii game still on the TV screen.

We walk along the tiled corridor, some of it seems familiar and some of it doesn't. The corridor loops and turns and Esteban gestures to a door on the right. "Your room. Your security detail is next door. The rooms are adjacent."

I nod my thanks, stepping inside the quarters.

"I will let you settle in," Esteban supplies as he starts walking away. "Dinner is at seven."

He disappears around the corner and Ivan shuts the door.

The space is well-appointed, but my focus immediately turns to security. Ivan and I methodically check each entry point, assessing vulnerabilities.

Moving to the window, I gaze out at the garden below, noting grapevines heavy with fruit. Armed men with what I recognize as my own AKs patrol the perimeter. They seem out of place in this tranquil greenery. The landscape is familiar too—I guess this room is just down the hall from the one I used during my previous stay. Where I was almost got killed.

"Looks good enough," Ivan remarks in Russian, "but I'm not taking any chances. I'll stay here tonight." He gestures at the couch.

I don't argue, knowing his loyalty and caution have kept me alive this long. As I turn from the window, my mind drifts to the purpose of this visit—finding out more about Shtyk's whereabouts.

The weight of this unfinished business sits heavy in my chest, like a constant unwanted companion. But for now, I must navigate this delicate dance of alliances and hidden agendas.

Several hours later, as the sun drops below the mountainous horizon, Esteban and I settle on the terrace. Ivan has melted into the background along with several of Esteban's men.

The table in front of us is an extravagant display, a riotous palette for both sight and scent. Vibrant platters brim with Sinaloan treasures—rich moles glazed with dark chocolate hints just shy of bitterness, steaming tamales, a variety of dips. Around us, chaos subtly simmers. Staff dart past, adjusting illumination to frame shadows against sandstone walls while three figures stoke the grill to life.

Ropes of fairy lights overhead sway against a whispering breeze, their glow bathing everyone's faces in soft golden halos.

Underneath it all drifts the smoky sonata of slow-roasted meat tangling with jalapeño-soaked salsas. And each inhale tastes of earth and fire flirting across your tongue.

For a second, I forget where I am and what happened to me in this place. And the conversation about real estate between me and the owner of this house seems like a conversation between two normal businessmen, not between people trading lives.

We are in the middle of talking currencies when Esteban's family joins us. His wife, Esmeralda, with her gentle smile and wise eyes, their teenage son, Diego, who fights to mask his curiosity with a veneer of indifference, and their shy eight-year-old daughter, Luna, clinging to her mother's skirts.

They all speak fluent English with a hint of Spanish accent, even the little girl.

We all take our seats. Glasses clink, and the clatter of cutlery mingles with soft conversation.

"SeñorSolovey," Esmeralda asks at some point, "tell us about your family. I remember you have a brother?"

The mention of Sasha evokes conflicting emotions, but I share anyway. "That is correct. And please, Vlad is fine."

She nods.

"He is traveling now..." I pause, wondering if it's worth saying my brother is seeing a man. These people, their tradition, it's different. "With his partner," I finally supply. Let them assume what they want.

"Taking some time off is always great," Esmeralda says with a polite smile, nimbly cutting a piece of meat on her plate into smaller pieces.

"Our mother passed away when we were young," I say. "I don't mind supporting his crazy ideas."

The conversation goes on. Nothing too serious. Mostly safe topics around young ears.

Esteban pours us deep red wine, offering a toast to the women who have shaped us.

I gladly cheer to that, watching how Esmeralda's eyes sparkle with amusement as she shakes her head.

A figure appears on the terrace. A new face. A young man with charcoal shoulder-length hair. He's maybe eighteen or nineteen, looking a bit lost with that rebellious frown on his forehead most teenagers show when they are forced into doing something against their will.

"I want you to meet someone, Vlad," Esteban says and gestures for the young man to come closer. "Ven acá, mijo. Siéntate. Come algo de comida."

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