Page 100 of Stricken

He approaches the table and takes an empty chair.

"This is Axel," Esteban supplies. "My nephew." He turns to the youngster who hasn't uttered a single word yet and mutters something in Spanish. By the tone, it's clear Esteban is chastising the boy, Axel.

"Hello," Axel mumbles after his uncle is finished scolding him. He then grabs an empty plate and loads it with some food and digs in quietly.

"We apologize for his behavior," Esmeralda says.

"Teenagers," her husband adds. "If you know what I mean."

As the evening grows late and the sky above us is inky black, Esteban's family has long since left the table, including Axel. The remnants of our meal are being cleared away by staff.

In the distance, I spot Esteban's son, his face a study in concentration as one of the cooks patiently guides his hands over the grill. The boy's mother and sister sit on a nearby bench, their heads bowed together in quiet conversation.

Esteban's gaze lingers on them. I notice a softness in his eyes I've rarely seen in our world of brutal realities. He catches me watching and chuckles ruefully.

"Everything we do, Vlad," he muses, "it's all for them, isn't it? The sacrifices, the blood on our hands..."

I nod slowly, considering his words. "How do you ensure their safety, with them so close?"

Esteban sighs, swirling the wine in his glass. "I don't. They spend more and more time in the States now. I have a house in Los Angeles where they can live without the constant shadow of our business."

"And you're okay with that? Being apart from them?" I ask.

He meets my gaze. "You ask me that when you've kept your own brother away all your life."

"Correct."

A sad smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "When you truly love someone, Vladimir, sometimes you have to let them go. To sacrifice your own wants for the life they deserve."

His words strike a chord within me, a bittersweet truth I've long buried. I think of my own mother, the price she paid for my father's ambitions. The price I'm still paying.

Esteban rises from the table, his demeanor shifting. "Walk with me, Vlad. I think it's time we discuss the real reason for your visit."

I stand, Ivan falling into step behind us as we navigate the villa's winding paths. The garden we stride through is a lush oasis with the sweet scent of jasmine mingling in the air.

I realize we're heading away from the main house and toward the edge of the garden, where a vehicle waits. Ivan tenses, his hand drifting toward his concealed weapon.

Esteban notices and offers an explanation, "Faster that way then by foot, my friend. We have much to discuss, and I thought perhaps a change of venue would be appropriate. Besides, the person we need to talk to isn't here."

I exchange a glance with Ivan, a silent communication honed over years of working together. He nods almost imperceptibly, and we approach the vehicle.

The door swings open and with a deep breath, I climb inside.

* * *

The room is a box made up of cement walls, brutal in contrast to the comfort of the villa we left a few minutes ago. The air here is heavy with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid tang of fear. In the center, a man sits bound to a chair, his head lolling forward, face obscured by a curtain of matted hair.

Four guards are posted in each corner of the room, armed with AKs and machetes.

Esteban steps forward, his polished shoes clicking against the dirty concrete floor. "Our guest here has been reluctant to share what he knows." His voice is calm, almost conversational, but there's an undercurrent of menace there that sets even my nerves on edge.

I approach slowly, taking in the man's battered form, the cuts and bruises that stain his skin. He's still breathing, but each ragged inhale seems to cost him.

"And what exactly does he know that he doesn't what to share with us?" I keep my tone even too, but my gaze is sharp as I meet Esteban's eyes.

It's a game now, cruel and deadly.

"He was overheard in a bar, drunk and running his mouth about a man with an accent holed up in La Alianza's location in Guanajuato." Esteban shrugs, a fluid motion that belies the tension in the room. "But since then, he's been less than forthcoming."

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