#Pacho fanfic

[purplesong1028]

The Perfect Storm

Chapter 4: A Gentle Reminder

Miguel tries to forget that night ever happened. It was just a mistake, a terrible lapse of judgment. Or was it?

Rating: General Audience

Paring: Pacho/Miguel

Words: 2,816

A week after the storm, everything resumes to normal. After all, it was just a tropical storm, not a hurricane. It’s nothing new, not even something worth mentioning in small talks, and Miguel fully intends to keep it that way. A few more days later, Amado brings him a silver briefcase after coming back from the airport.

“It came from Cali. They said it was for you.”

“Did they say what it’s about?” Miguel feels the weight in his arms. It’s quite heavy for its size, so probably not documents. What could it be? A full bag of new product samples?

“No, but I gave it to your security first and they vetted it. It’s safe.”

“Ok, I’ll see what they want later.” He sets it aside. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll leave you to it.”

As soon as Amado walks out and closes the door again, he immediately brings the briefcase up to the desk, and unlocks it.

It’s a full bag of neatly stacked cash. What? Why would Cali…Oh.

It was less than two weeks ago, but he honestly already forgot about the poker game, and the fact that Pacho owed him a million dollars. He rarely ever forgets about the money he’s owed, but frankly, it’s understandable this time. A million dollars really became utterly insignificant after some other stuff happened after the bet.

He forces that piece of memory out of his mind, and picks up a stack of cash. He’s not trying to count, but just wants to feel it against his fingertips. Many years ago, shortly after he got into the weed business and had the first stack of cash in his hand, he did this exact same thing. The bills were dirty and wrinkled, but they felt so nice, even smelt nice. That pure bliss of having cash in his hands, having any money, he still remembers it until this day.

But that’s not what he’s feeling now. Cash doesn’t faze him anymore, at least not with this amount, but victory does, and money is just one representation of winning.

Miguel puts the cash back, aligning the edges to make sure everything is perfectly stacked. Sometimes he still handles the bribes himself, when the amount is especially large or when the recipients are important. In those circumstances, presentation truly matters a lot, so it has become a habit for him at this point.

Something hard and cold touches his fingers. That’s strange. That’s definitely not the bottom of the briefcase, so there’s something else in there. Of course there’s something else in there! He grabs the stacks of cash around it, throwing them out, revealing the hidden object: it’s a pink candle.

A fucking pink candle.

The weird sicario, the darkness, Pacho’s face under candlelight, his body, their bodies…

All memories rush back into his brain, regardless of his best efforts to suppress and erase them. It’s humiliating, debilitating, like an addict having a relapse after swearing to get clean.

He hurls it across the room under blind rage. It crashes into a wall and shatters, glass pieces falling soundless on the carpet.

“Señor? Are you alright?” His security knocks.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” Miguel grabs the glass of whisky and drinks a large gulp, trying to calm his nerves. No, he can’t lose control. This is exactly what the fucking Colombian wants to see. He’s not falling into the trap, not again.

But why even bother sending the cash, if that candle is the real “gift”? Why not just add a million to their usual payment, and just send the candle on its own? Wouldn’t that be more blaring? Get the point across easier?

Wait…wait.

Miguel rushes back to the briefcase and pours all the cash out. He swears, if there’s one cent more than a million in there, he’s going to kill that asshole. He will. The stacks are scattered everywhere: on the table, the couch, the floor, and he picks them up one by one, frantically counting, one, two, three… The paranoid part of him really wants to take each one apart, just to make sure there are 100 one hundred dollar bills in each stack, and not one more. But he stops himself. This whole time, he’s been preventing himself from going crazy, and hand counting every single bill to a million dollars sounds exactly like what an insane person would do.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take that long to pick up a hundred stacks of cash, but by the time he has piled them back together, he’s covered in a layer of thin sweat. It is exactly a million. Nothing less, nothing more, but it doesn’t bring him the slightest comfort.

How did he let a simple bag of cash that he’s rightfully owed and a stupid candle trigger him into full blown rage? This isn’t like him. He hasn’t been like himself since the day he returned from Panama.

Most nights have been sleepless, which is nothing new, but his mind is occupied by a different kind of thoughts: exciting, erotic, beautiful even, if he’s completely honest with himself. Yet it keeps him on his toes, keeps his mind and body awake while his pretty young wife lies right besides him. Sometimes he would wait for her to wake up and hold her soft body in his arms, taking whatever he wants, chasing a temporary release, but more often, he can’t even be bothered.

It was just one night, one lapse of judgment, one derailed mistake. It’s supposed to be nothing, but he knows that’s a lie. How could it be nothing when it made him angry, confused, and although for just a brief moment, wholeheartedly relaxed and happy? Nothing, no one else has been able to do that, not for a very long time. If it’s about sex, he’s done that with so many gorgeous women; if it’s about novelty, he still doesn’t feel anything towards any man. If it’s about the person…he hates everything about the person.

It doesn’t make any sense, but he wants it. Fuck…he craves it.

*

Miguel runs a hand down his face and takes a look at his watch. It’s almost time for dinner. He should eat something and put all these useless thoughts behind. They will disappear one day; eventually they won’t matter as time passes by. That’s always the case, plus he has a lot more important matters to occupy his mind with. He agreed to larger shipments, so his organization needs to deliver that promise.

He calls his secretary in, asks her to get someone to clean shattered glass pieces off the floor, put the bag of cash aside and bring him dinner. She nods at his commands and walks out, and then, a cleaning lady and two security guys walk in, each doing their task silently without disturbing him, efficient and organized. Within a few minutes, all evidence disappeared without a trace.

The secretary comes back after another fifteen minutes with his dinner, along with a box of freshly baked cupcakes.

“Your wife stopped by earlier, sir, and she asked me to give this to you.”

Miguel looks at the cupcakes. They’re very pretty, of course, everything Daniela does is pretty. She worked at an art gallery after all.

“Did she say anything else?”

“She said she’s going out for dinner tonight, but she’ll be back before midnight.”

“Ok, thanks.” Honestly, he’s not sure what she does or who she hangs out with these days, and he doesn’t really care, and he knows she doesn’t care what he does either. He’s ok with that.

The phone rings, and the secretary turns to leave without being asked, closing the door behind her.

*

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.” There’s some background noise on Amado’s side. “I’m back at the airport, just wanted to tell you that we should be ready for the larger shipment this weekend.”

“This weekend? That’s earlier than expected, right?”

“Yeah, we’re all good here! I could have told you earlier, but just wanted to talk to a few more guys to make sure.”

“That’s good! Great job, Amado.”

“Yeah, no problem. Just let me know when the next shipment is coming.”

“Of course.”

He puts down the phone and picks up a cupcake. Usually he doesn’t like dessert or other sweet things in general, but good news with business always puts him under a better mood.

It’s only after he finishes dinner, he realizes that he will need to call Pacho and tell him they’re ready for the shipment— the last person he wants to speak with at the moment.

It’s stupid, he knows. There is absolutely no way to avoid or ignore Pacho if he wants to keep doing business with Cali. Even if he tries to avoid direct contact, the act itself would appear as weakness and defeat, and he will never allow that, so might as well just rip the band-aid off.

Business carries on; the world carries on. He sits there for a while, indulging the nervousness and paranoia in his mind, until they naturally calm down just enough for him to take action.

He grabs the phone and dials the now familiar number.

For some reason, it takes significantly longer for the other side to answer this time.

“Hello?” After six or seven rings, he almost hangs up when Pacho’s voice comes through, smooth and calm as usual, but it sounds different to him now, because all he hears is this exact same voice whispering seductively in his ear, in complete darkness.

“Hello.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “Is this a bad time?”

“I answered, didn’t I? But it better be important if you’re calling at this hour.”

What hour? Miguel frowns and turns to the clock: it’s already 12:30?! How long was he zoned out for? Now his reason will just sound ridiculous. No one calls at midnight to say they can deliver the shipment early. For a second, he almost wishes that he actually has some business crisis going on, so he can be saved from this embarrassment.

“You’re still there?” Pacho speaks again, audibly more impatient.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call at this time but…” He pinches his nose bridge. Well, something is better than nothing. “I just wanted to tell you we’re ready for the next shipment, if you want to send it a week or two earlier.”

There’s nothing but complete silence for at least 10 seconds, not even the sound of breathing. His palm starts to sweat, making it more difficult to hold the phone.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah…look, I just lost track of...”

“Of what?” Pacho interrupts him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Of time!” The coldness and accusation in the other man’s voice turns his own embarrassment into irritation and defensiveness. Why does the Colombia always have to be such a fucking asshole?! “What, it’s never happened to you before?”

Pacho scoffs, the contempt still very clear across thousands of miles, on the other end of a phone.

“Fine, sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing.” He wraps up the conversation in the politest manner he can manage, ready to just hand up and toss the phone.

“And what are you really doing, Miguel?”

His finger freezes on the red button, like he’s bespelled by the sound of his own name. Pacho has never called him that. At first it was Félix, and then Miguel Ángel, but never just Miguel. In fact, the only person who calls him Miguel is María, and Neto too, sometimes, but that old man just calls anyone whatever he wants.

Part of him feels extremely offended, enraged even, because it’s not Pacho’s fucking place to call him that.

However, it’s not only the name itself that’s the issue, but more about the way it is said: carefully, intentionally, with every syllable meticulously pronounced.

“What are you doing, hmm? Sitting behind your desk alone, in a large, empty room?” Pacho keeps talking, now with a much more softened tone, but somehow it sounds even more dangerous, more personal. “Do you hear voices in your head too?”

He should just hang up. He is in fact hearing a voice in his head right now, and it’s screaming at him to fucking hang up.

He shuts it up internally, and brings the phone back to his ear. “What about you then? Your best late night activity is to insult me over the phone? How interesting.”

Silence falls upon them again, and Miguel feels his heart dropping in his chest. What the fuck is he doing, throwing meaningless insults back and forth like some rebellious teenager? He shouldn’t have called at all. That is the worst idea, or the second worst maybe, the worst one being sleeping with Pacho.

A small sound passes through the line, almost inaudible, and he can’t tell if it’s a huff or a sigh. But then Pacho laughs out, nothing extra, merely a light chuckle, but just like that, all the tension vanishes under the lightheartedness.

“Well, it could be worse.” The Colombian says, teasingly, but still an acknowledgment nothing less than truce, yet it makes him feel more taken back than any threats he was anticipating.

Are you ok? He almost wants to ask, but of course he doesn’t.

“Like what?” He ends up asking, although he knows it’s a useless thing to say. In fact, there’s no point in keeping this conversation going at all.

“Can you seriously not think of anything worse than being insulted in this business?”

“That’s fair.” He feels the corners of his mouth curve up into a tiny smile. It’s the ugly truth, but hearing it from Pacho somehow makes it sound like dark humor.

“We’ll send the shipment a week early. You can expect it on Sunday.”

“Ok, sure.” He almost forgot that was what they were talking about before the conversation took a weird turn. “I’ll tell them to get ready.”

“Bueno.” There’s a slight change in Pacho’s tone, like the kind of strenuous sound when someone talks while trying to reach for something. “Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s it.” He keeps his voice even, but can’t stop himself from imagining the Colombian stretching in bed, or reaching to the side to turn off the lamp… He closes his eyes and snaps the thought out of his brain. What the hell’s wrong with him?!

“Alright, buenas noches.”

“Buenas noches.” Miguel responds, a little more hurriedly than intended, so he can hang up as soon as possible.

The office becomes quiet again. It’s not even that late, and there must be some people still awake in the hotel, but he can’t hear them since he’s on the top floor. It’s great most of the time. It provides an appropriate environment to focus, to think, but the problem is he can never fully control what he thinks. He can most of the time, but not a hundred percent— no one can do that, not even him.

When his mind wanders free, quietness transforms from blessing to curse.

He gets up from the armchair, stretching his arms a little, and walks into the bathroom. It’s going to be another restless night.

*

Miguel wakes up the next morning when sunlight shines through the slit between thick curtains. He didn’t sleep that bad, surprisingly. He spent quite some time tossing and turning, but once he drifted off, he slept through the entire time. Maybe it’s better for him to sleep alone now.

After he gets ready and walks into the office again, the secretary tells him Azul’s here. He lets him in, and they talk about some updates within the organization: the fuel between Tijuana and Sinaloa, some difficult PRI politicians…all the old annoying shit, nothing easy but nothing new.

“Did you hear about Cali already?” Azul suddenly asks, just when he thinks the conversation is about to end.

“What?” He switches to a calmer tone. “What about them?”

“They were bombed by Escobar last night. I heard it hit pretty close.”

“Wait, last night?”

“Yeah?” Azul confirms a little hesitantly. “Did you hear something else?”

“No, but I just spoke with them on the phone last night, and they said they could send their shipment on Sunday.” He states the facts, carefully masking all the emotions. “Probably not that serious, just get me more information on the two senators you mentioned.”

Azul nods, and takes it as his cue to leave.

Once he’s alone again, Miguel pours himself a glass of whisky. It’s a terrible idea to drink liquor before breakfast, especially for his stomach, but he doesn’t care. He needs it.

He fucking called Pacho after midnight for something insignificant, right after Cali was bombed. But that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is that it bothers him, while he has zero reason to care.

@ashlingiswriting @narcolini @yourlocalspacewitxch @drabbles-mc @mandaloria314 @alreadywritten @cheesybadgers @cherixrosa @cositapreciosa @criatividad-e @dashavau @sikkui

[hausofmamadas]

| Always short to the gate |

⁂

Pairing: David Barrón & Enedina Arellano Félix

For my df, dear friend, and fellow writer @purplesong1028 - Candyhearts Exchange 2023

Word count: ≈ 7.8K

TWs: Canon-typical violence, descriptions of violence

✷Disclaimer - This is an AU version of Barron, to the point that mans is essentially my OC. So, for purposes of morality/sanity/all that is holy, we disregard Nmx - S3, ep8, Last Dance. For more details, refer -> here. On a similar note: if I have to say “not condoning/glorifying the real people” aka “I don’t sanction the real-life actions of drug cartels,” I implore thee, look where you are. You’re in the wrong place. Best take that elsewhere porque no hay bronca, for civility's sake, we will not be going there✷

Still, these were all things to wish for, not to have. What was left now? What if some things were better dreamt than done? David Barron is in love. He's in love and he does care who knows it. Particularly, if the brutal, savage cartel-boss brothers of the woman he loves, Enedina Arellano Felix, know it. But what’s he to do when he's taken by another powerful cartel leader, in retaliation for Dina's secret side-project moving coke across the Tijuana/San Ysidro border with fellow drug baroness, Isabella Bautista? In the face of a potentially more imminent death para su rayo de luna, can Dina afford to keep both him, and the business she built from the ground up, a secret?

⁂

So, this is it. I finally made it. Staring at the crowd, all the bigwigs laughing and clinking their champagne flutes, and now that I’m here, I can’t figure what all the fuss was about. Because in my whole damn life, I’ve never been to a party like this. Frankly, I’d sooner hit up a barbecue at Chato’s grandma’s trailer or a tailgate in Chicano Park, than show up willingly to a place like this.

The guest list is a family tree of Sinaloan-born narcos and an obnoxious who’s-who of Mexico City elites. Men come down from the ivory tower to grace all the thieves and plebes. Fat cats in pressed gray suits. Although, the champagne-glass pyramid is pretty cool. And somehow, this isn’t even as lavish as last year? At least according to Ramón. When we arrive, he explains that there was still all of well ... everything. But last year kicked off harder because Güero and Co rolled through with a life-size train and a tiger in a gilded cage. A fucking tiger.

“Pendejos only did it to kiss Miguel’s ass, que sean tan mamónes,” he growls, shooting a dead-eyed stare at Chapo across the lawn.

I laugh into the highball glass I’m sipping from. I don’t normally drink at events like this, and on the off chance I do, always a Corona with a lime ‘cause it reminds me of home. But thank you, no. I would not like to keep my tab open.

Except this time, the over-interested hostess practically forces a drink on me when we get there. No clue who she is either, except she must’ve been a high-roller herself or at least married to one, based on the obscene dress she’s wearing. Fuck if I know a thing about designer shit, but I can spot the difference between black-tie and fuck-you money. And I’m not in the habit of saying “no” to fuck-you money. Even if she is smiling and touching my shoulder too much.

My eyes wander, looking for Dina, brooding an invisible SOS into the night air, hoping she might swoop in and save me, but she’s nowhere in sight. Neither is Mín. I smack Ramón in the chest with the back of my hand. “Oye, dónde está tu hermana?” <'Hey, where is your sister?'>

He shakes his head.

The fuck did she go? The only reason I’m even at this glorified peacock-fest, and— oh wow, yeah, there are actual peacocks wandering around on the lawn by the lake. No tigers, but of course the night isn’t complete without some form of exploited wildlife. No, the only reason I’m here is because she asked me. Or rather, because of what came out when she asked me.

✺

Dina sat on Mín’s desk, legs dangled over the side, smoking a cigarette like always, and eyeing me slyly from across the room as I buttoned my shirt back up.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you?” I asked, readjusting my collar.

“What?”

“That it’s rude to stare.”

She threw her head back, laughing.

“Yeah, they must’ve had some lesson at whatever charm school you probably went to.”

Her mouth dropped open in mock outrage, “Charm school? No me digas esas shingaderas, hombre. I wasn’t as poor as you but we didn’t have that kind of money.” <Charm school? Don't give me that bullshit, man. I wasn’t as poor as you but we didn’t have that kind of money.>

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, “Ah, tu lo sabes? Tienes razón. <Ah, you know what? You're right.> Because the working-class shit I’ve heard outta your mouth?” and shook my head. “They wouldn’t have let you in the building.”

She snapped her fingers. “Sí, David. Now he’s getting it.”

“Well, then that would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why you don’t know it’s rude to stare at someone like that.”

Her voice shot up half an octave into the range of feigned innocence. “Like what?”

“Like they’re dessert.”

“Es solo porque eres tan dulce. <It's just because you're so sweet.> Maybe I just can’t get enough. Maybe I have no choice.”

I looked up at her, smiling wide, all love-struck-stupid ‘cause I couldn’t help myself. “‘Can’t get enough,’ like you didn’t just get a three course meal.”

She kicked her heels against the desk, then hopped off and strolled over. I made a face when she flicked her cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. “Your brother’s gonna hate that.”

“Ya lo sé, y no me importa ni una mierda.” <Oh, I know and I don't give a shit.>

“Oh, sí? Pues lo haría tampoco <Oh, yeah? Well, I wouldn't either> pero the second he sees it, he’ll think I did it.”

Voice dropping just above a whisper, she came closer, “If he does, he can take it up with me,” and slid her hands under my shirt. “It’s as much mine as it is his. Maybe more even.”

They felt cold through the thin, ribbed fabric of my undershirt, gliding around my waist, creeping around to brush my lower back with her fingertips. At first, I thought she was going for my pant pockets, until her thumb hooked around the handle of the gun in my waistband. It startled me in spite of myself.

She smirked, practically presenting it, barrel pointed up at the ceiling. “Sorry, were you gonna need this? Or can we remove the ‘fire’ hazard.”

Taking the gun and grumbling, “You know there’s a safety, right,” I leaned over and set it on the filing cabinet against the wall.

When I turned my attention back to her, she tightened her grip around my waist suddenly and backed me up against the door. She tried bracing with her other arm so I wouldn’t fall back too hard. It didn’t work. A second thud, my head smacking the door, followed the first of it slamming shut. Still, the though that counts, right? My pained smile complemented a look of amused pity on her face.

Laughing, she winced and mouthed, “Shit, sorry!”

“So, this is how you treat your employee—“ she cut me off with a few well-timed, remorseful kisses.

She pulled back breathlessly, grinning, almost electrified. “Yeah, why do you think I took your gun away?”

“Mmm, yeah, would’ve been a hazard.”

“That, yes. But mostly I didn’t want you to feel like you were on the clock,” she murmured against my mouth, “this isn’t meant to be company time,” then caught my lower lip gently with her teeth.

I sucked in a harsh breath, not a chance in hell of suppressing the feral rumble already escaping the back of my throat.

It might’ve been fine. I might’ve been able to tear myself away, because we’d already been there too long, nevermind it was never long enough.

Until her lashes brushed my cheek and I heard, “Ah, how I love to hear you, guapo.”

My heart bottomed out in my stomach. I got ahold of the collar of her jacket on both sides. Rocking her back, easy and gentle, I slid it slow off her shoulders. Goosebumps followed the path of my fingertips across her neck, collarbones, down the backs of her arms. The metal buttons clinked against the floor. A bell announcing another round.

And all of a sudden, I couldn’t get at her fast enough.

I swept my arm around her waist, hand sliding into the curve of the small of her back, the other palming the spot between her shoulder blades to flatten her against me. If I could just bring her close enough for us to melt together and into the wood grain of the door, the better to freebase the air she breathed, the smell of her hair, the blood rushing to her face.

How many nights had I spent awake, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling of my cell, dreaming of moments like this. I’d lost count a long time ago. And okay, maybe not exactly like this. The feeling. The wholeness to it. But not the details. Like I never could’ve predicted the boxy radio with the giant antenna that played from its sketchy spot on the window ledge, too close to the edge; day in and day out while we worked. Or the way the sun lit the dust in the air like the office was an attic in an old house that wasn’t ours. And Dina, all nimble fingers now, working my belt buckle. No way I could’ve dreamt her up. She was too complete for that.

Still, these were all things to wish for, not to have. What was left now? What if some things were better dreamt than done?

Suddenly self-aware, I wondered what it’d be like if just now, she could feel that inferno of memories at the tip of my tongue, burning through my lips to hers. If she could learn, inhaling every breath I took, things I’d share without saying a word. I wished she could. Maybe that’s why her kisses were so urgent now. Sharp, demanding, like she couldn’t get close enough. Like she’d occupy the exact same space if she could.

Don’t hide. Let me in. Anything. Tell me anything.

She was funny like that. Didn’t even know how far she’d gotten. So much further than most.

Lips still locked to mine like cross examining a witness, her hands grazed my jaw, my neck, practically mauling the collar of my shirt to get the buttons undone. I should’ve known not to bother earlier. This was the way it went with us. Part of the ritual, pretending we were done. Getting ready to leave, all raw nerves in the afterglow. Anxious awareness, never far behind not-near-enough satisfied. Because no matter how careful we were, there was a chance we’d be caught all the same. But we were never ready. Not really. So, we’d stall enough to justify starting up again. Living in each other as much as we could. Wringing out every last drop to bottle it up, a fail-safe supply for later. Another bump, another hit to tide us over. ‘Til next time. If we got one.

She’d only made it two buttons down when we both froze. A crashing sound, loud echoes of metallic clanging. Fuck. Someone on the main floor. We repelled to opposite sides of the room before we could think long enough to be disappointed.

I fixed my shirt, then grabbed Dina’s jacket from the floor and tossed it to her. “You said no one was supposed to be here till tonight?”

She caught it, draping it over one arm so she could get her cigarette holder out of one of the pockets. Trying her level best to look composed, she took one out and lit up. But I could see the tells; beads of sweat on her forehead; that too-quick rise and fall of her chest.

Eyes wide, she shrugged, at a loss. “They’re not. Pancho’s with Món at the racetrack. Apparently betting against some new horse Güero and Chapo brought up from Mazatlán. Mín’s taking Ruth to one of her appointments.”

I walked to the window and looked out onto the main floor. It was easy to make out a head of black hair bobbing just beyond the giant, industrial-sized forklift, partially blocking my view. My eyes followed it along the top of the forklift’s arm until Nestor came out from behind it, puttering around and practically strangled by a few long chains from one of the trucks. He swore, dropping them again. Poor guy. The links jittering against the cement floor filled the warehouse with what sounded like twisted, metallic laughter. Mocking him. Us.

“Who is it?” She asked it like she wasn’t looking out the same window.

Without a word, I turned and walked back toward the door. She followed, “Pinshe Nestor, este wey &lt;Nestor, this fuckin' guy>,” waving her hand dismissively at the window.

I couldn’t resist. “Mmm right? Fuck that guy. Yea, go yell at him, chew him out, tell him why you’re annoyed.”

She narrowed her eyes but in that way she did when she was stifling a smile. When she knew I was right.

“You know, it didn’t occur to me until this moment.” Sighing and cupping my chin gently, she turned my face from side-to-side to examine it. “But I think I just realized why you’re so quiet.”

My eyebrow shot up, not a clue where she was going with this.

“It’s this smart mouth of yours,” she mused, grazing my lip with her thumb, “gotten you into too much trouble.”

I brought her hand from my cheek to my lips and hummed into her palm, “Mm, mhmm,” before nibbling a few besitos across. “Funny coming from you, always trying to get me to talk. But only when you like what I have to say.”

“Ay chulito pues, I didn’t say I minded it,” she winked. “Just not when it’s used against me.”

“Mm yea, don’t play that way. I’m an equal opportunity offender.”

At that, she laughed, eyes closed, full-out, no doubt loud enough to be heard on the first floor. Remembering Nestor, I let her hand drop but held onto the tips of her fingers. I couldn’t be sure how long we stayed like that, twining and un-twining our fingers in silence; every once in a while pressing palms together; two kids in the sandbox, comparing to see whose were bigger. If we’d never stopped, I wouldn’t have cared a lick.

Something must’ve hit her though because her face fell. Serious. Troubled. Thoughts descended in real-time, only I couldn’t make out what they were.

Until she breathed out, “Oye.”

It wasn’t like her to retreat but when I looked up, she said nothing else. Just chewed ferociously on the inside of her cheek. I waited, eyes drifting back down to watch our fingers and knuckles, still rhythmically locking and unlocking.

Breaking the silence, she gave it another shot. “Miguel’s party is on Saturday.”

“Yeah.”

There it was again, another retreat. What the fuck was she gonna say that she was so nervous to say it?

“And?”

It came out soft like a secret. “Go with me?”

Huh. Whatever I thought she might say, it sure as shit wasn’t that. Not … asking me to the dance? Disbelief chipped away at my usual poker face and without thinking, I blurted, “What? Why?”

Zero-to-sixty in four seconds flat and now she was fuming.

“Why? What do you mean ‘why?’”

Senseless. I knew it then. Should’ve walked it back. Found a better way to ask. But still, it was the only thing that came out of my mouth and all too matter-of-fact.

“I mean like ... why.”

Her jaw cocked to one side. She looked like she wanted to slug me. Because despite the fact that I wasn’t family, had never even met Miguel, had no business being there, somehow it was the dumbest question in the world.

“There’s—” I fumbled for words, raking my hand up and down the back of my head. “I just— why would I be there? You don’t need security. He’s the main man. No doubt he’ll have his own.”

“Because.”

“Because,” I shot back flatly.

“Because.”

“Think your brother, my boss, is gonna need more than ‘because.’ Even from you.”

“You’d be surprised.” She cracked a smile.

That’s right. Stubborn. Impossible. And she knew it. Like a reflex or muscle memory, my face settled into that thousand yard stare, the one she and so many others felt the need to decode.

She conceded, “Because. Okay?” throwing her hands up and letting them fall. They smacked her hips on the way back down and the rest came out in practically one breath. “Because even though he’s a genius and he’s technically family, Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo is the most insufferable man in all of Mexico. I can’t stand him and I can’t stand almost everyone else on that fucking guest list. Así qué quiero que estés allí porque ya todos los odio. Pero a ti te quiero. <So, maybe I want you there because I hate all of them. But I love you.>"

Wait, come again? She didn’t just— no, but she did.

Pero a ti te quiero.

“Oh.”

I turned around, fell against the door, pressing into it with my forehead, and didn’t say anything for a long time. Mind searching for an explanation: the timing, why now? What day was it? What date was it? What was different about now?

I’d woken up in the same bed in that cramped apartment just down the street from Parque Teniente, the first one I could find when I got to Tijuana months ago. Woken up the same damn person. As far as I knew, so had she. There was nothing especially extraordinary about today. If anything it was routine, sneaking into Mín’s office when we knew no one would be there, away from prying eyes: Alicia, Ruth, their mother, the gaggle of Arellano women who always seemed to be at the house. Away from Pancho, who’d made a habit of passing out, snoring until three in the afternoon, on the pull-out couch at my place.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it sank in how unremarkable the day was. Maybe something happened. Some earth-shattering event she hadn’t told me about yet, something that would explain the sentence that just left her lips and turned reality into something like the dimensions of a funhouse mirror.

Shit, how long had I been standing there with my head against the door? How long had she been waiting? No idea. Did it matter? Of course it did. This wasn’t something silence could solve. Or even put off. Not that there was anything to solve.

I turned back around to face her, half-wincing, anticipating her fury. A satisfied smirk had settled in the corners of her mouth. She wasn’t mad. Just leaned against the desk, puffing away, which was ... odd. I scanned her face for any indication, clenched jaw, flared nostrils, blazing brown eyes, some sign of impending apocalypse. But no, she looked serene. Smug even, tickled at how surprised I was. No, she wasn’t mad at all.

Oh.

And it hit me. I could see it so clearly now in the way she stood with her hip out and how she held her cigarette off to the side, wrist lax, nothing to worry about. Why she wasn’t mad. She knew there was nothing to worry about. This wasn’t a confession. No grade-school picking petals off flowers, ‘he loves me, he loves me not.’ She hadn’t said it in the hopes that in return, she’d hear the same. Because it was plain as day. Fucking obvious. Not a doubt in her mind.

It was funny too ‘cause that had been sealed away in a vault in some deep, dark corner of my mind, cordoned off by an electric fence, wrapped in several yards of barbed wire and caution tape. WARNING. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. I barely knew because I barely allowed myself to. That came easy as it always did. Or easier anyway than feeling and not knowing what to do, where to put it. So I barely knew. Maybe it was now that I only just realized it, in a fully-formed thought.

A ti te quiero también.

But it felt wrong, seemed to make the moment small somehow, if I were to say it out loud back to her. Forced for obligation, ceremony’s sake, and altogether pointless when she already knew.

So I just said, “Fine.”

Her eyes lit up, filled to the brim with, you really mean it?

“Yeah, fine, I’ll go.”

She beamed. My own personal sun.

“But you figure whatever fake reason to tell your brothers. I ain’t sayin’ shit.”

She squeezed my hand. Any tighter and it would’ve cut the circulation. Not quite the deliverance that launching at each other would’ve been, sweeping all the papers and supplies off of Mín’s desk, not giving a shit what broke as it hit the floor, buttons popping loose from my shirt and rolling on the ground as she tore it off, taking each other carnally hostage right there. But with Nestor still downstairs, it’d have to be enough.

✺

So here I am. And she’s missing in action.

A hand comes down on my shoulder. Ramón’s. “Mira nada más <Look what we have here>,” he chuckles pointing to Ms. Fuck-You-Money. “Esa chulita been eyeing you all night.”

I roll my eyes.

Món chokes out, laughing through a sip of champagne, “Ay qué duro, cabron. <Ey, tough fucker.> Good answer. Attention from a woman like that? That’ll get you killed, or worse.”

Lost, I shoot him a look of confusion.

“What’s the look for.”

“What’re you talking about?” I say shaking my head.

“Wait d— you don’t know who that is?”

I stare at him through half-lidded eyes.

He can barely contain his amusement and I could bust that Cheshire-cat smile wide open for it, the chistoso. See, ‘cause it’s something I’ll never understand but Ramón lives for shit like this. How many times I wished I felt the same or could at least access some similar well of couldn’t-give-a-fuck charisma that allowed the kid to cut loose, no matter where he went. Unless he was in one of his moods. Still, his glee is infectious if not foreign. So despite being miffed, I’m grateful he’s here.

“That’s— okay, that’s Miguel’s wife, Daniela.”

“Thought her name was like Marta? María? Something else?”

“Oh nooo, no, no, no.” Ramón jiggles his head back and forth. “That’s his first wife. This is his second.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“Yeah, right?” Món shrugs. “Tío moves fast apparently. Upgraded to a new model already. Personally, I don’t get it. Should’ve stuck with the classic. And María,” he looks at me and whistles, “qué clásico.”

We both watch Miguel work a group of sleazy-looking politicians. I don’t need to be up close to imagine how badly they reek of too-expensive, tacky cologne, or how clammy their hands are, sweating because they’ve been mainlining too much sauce and blow. My eyes drift to Daniela who’s pointing around theatrically to the outdoor decor. Like her husband, she’s smooth-talking another group of guests.

That’s when it clicks. As she dances from a group of Senators, to a group of financial hacks, to a group of mid-level distributors, I can’t help but think how busy bees flit. Flower to flower, pollinating each one. Stroking the right egos, smiling, leaving a hand on a shoulder just long enough to make them think they might have a shot with the big man’s wife. From everything I’ve heard about Miguel, he might let them, for the right price. That fact fills me with equal measures of sadness and relief. Sad for her. Relief to know it’s a hustle, an award-winning performance. Though why she’s been wasting time on me, a friend of the Arellano family at best, low-level Arellano goon at worst, is anyone’s guess.

“Seems she’s like that with everyone.”

“Oh no, carnal. With you? That shit’s real. She knows you’re with us.” Ramón reaches for my face like he’s about to pinch my cheek. “Not some rich politician’s secret love child.”

“Ey, no mames, cabrón.” I swat it away with a smirk, so he knows we’re simpatico. “You and Pancho always fixin’ to get me in more trouble than I’m ever looking for.”

I think of Dina just then and how it’s possible for lies to lag like that sometimes. Feeling like truth ‘til the words are well outta your mouth.

As if anxiety’s summoned her to me, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dina walking toward us. On her way over, she grabs a drink from a guy standing by the bar holding two champagne glasses, someone she mistakes for a waiter. Based on the beet red look on his face, he turns to be a guest. He flips out and at first, Dina looks ready to apologize and move on. No big deal.

It’s not until he starts pointing his finger in her face, “Qué verga, vieja? No soy un pinshe mesero <What the fuck, lady? I'm not a fuckin' waiter>,” that I glance at the ground to hide a smile. I know what’s coming but this poor bastard doesn’t. It’s always satisfying to watch Dina work, handling men who make mistakes like that. No doubt it’d be a scathing indictment but never done in the same way. Refreshing, that kind of variety. I always respected it.

She leans back, eyeing the guy up and down, then walks over, purposely slow, all the time in the world, to a real waiter holding a tray. Grabbing a new glass, she walks back and shoves it into the guy’s hand, taking extra care to make sure it spills on his jacket. Beads of sweat and outrage pour from him, as he looks down at his damp lapel in disgust.

She waves her index finger back and forth between them, “Listo, pues. Ya estamos? <Well, then. We good?>” and points at Ramón next to me. “Or shall I have my brother, Ramón—“ she waves, “Hi Món! Yeah, that one. The tall one over there. Shall I ask him to step in, help mediate the matter?”

Everyone’s eyes shoot straight to Món who, on cue, flashes a smile so diabolical, the devil himself would’ve tipped his hat in appreciation. Still fuming, the guy brushes the front of his jacket and straightens his collar but says nothing.

“Aye,” Dina punctuates with a dip of her head. “Eso es lo que pensaba. <Yeah, that's what I thought.>"

And that seems like the end of it until she a twenty out of her wallet in that impossibly tiny purse. “Ey, next party you go to, if you want to avoid being confused with the catering staff, maybe don’t wear a dinner jacket. It’s a nice house, sure. Not the fucking Met.”

The guy is mute, shocked as she slips the bill in his breast pocket and glides away. Even a few feet away, I can already see her rolling her eyes and giggling as she makes her way to us.

Ramón says, cackling, “I thought maybe you were going to ask for a bottle there, crack him over the head with it,” as she gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“No, no. We couldn’t embarrass our tío querido could we. Besides,” she gives a cavalier wave toward the guy, “Drastic measures like those are reserved for Chapo. Or Cochi.”

I look at the two of them standing with Güero on the other side of the DJ platform. They look like they’re enjoying themselves about as much as I am.

I make eye contact with Güero briefly before I feel another hand on my shoulder. Dina’s?

“What no hug for me?”

I catch her awkwardly with one arm, stiffening as she pulls me in too close and for too long.

“Woo,” Món hoots. ”Creo que Enedina ha tomado un poquito demasiado. <I think Enedina's had one too many.>"

She bats him in the arm. “Ay que no, if you’d had the conversation I just had with Mín, you’d be chugging this,” she knocks back the last few sips of champagne, then holds up the glass, “like water too.”

“Why? What happened?”

”Oh nothing, he just–“ she lets out a hefty sigh. “Just rolled over for Miguel like he always does.”

Before Món can ask anything else, Dina’s face lights up at someone behind him.

All drunk swagger, Pancho waltzes over, a drink in each hand, yelling, “Estos cabrooooones. I been looking all over for you.”

He sidles next to Ramón, who reaches for the other drink in his hand. He pulls back. “Qué shingadas? <What the fuck?> I didn’t bring this for you.”

Món pulls a face like Pancho just kicked over a sandcastle he spent hours building.

I hold my hands up in defeat, chuckling, “Ey I didn’t ask him to bring me anything. Knowing this pruno-king, I bet they’re both his.”

“Y esto? Esto es porque es mi compa. Él me conoce <And this? This is why he's my homie. He gets me>,” Pancho slurs, with a tipsy smile, eyes half shut.

“Qué pedo <What the hell>, is everyone drunk here besides me?” Món catches me smiling and rolls his eyes. “Tú no, rarito &lt;Not you, weirdo>. You don’t count.”

Glancing at the crowd around us, Pancho asks “Where’s Mín?” and stumbles back, nearly planting his ass on the lawn.

He grabs Món for support, who already looks startled as Dina shoves her empty glass at him. “Who cares? Yo quiero bailar,” she declares, grabbing my hand.

She yanks me with such force, I wonder if I look like one of those Loony Toons characters, a regular Beaky Buzzard swept offscreen by Bugs Bunny with a giant cane.

Behind us Pancho and Ramón are busting up laughing. “Panchito, I think she might be drunker than you are.”

Pancho holds up one of his drinks in salute. “Aaaaaayyy órale, mi brujita!”

My hand firmly in hers, Dina shimmies around the other couples on the dancefloor. When she finds a spot she deems satisfactory, she turns and snaps me towards her, gliding her hand up my right arm to my shoulder, and moving my left around her waist. I’m lost in static. My heart’s beating fast. Too fast, like a hummingbird caught all up in my chest and each beat of its wings jolts my rib cage, while it tries to jailbreak outta there.

And it’s not the proximity that’s got my blood up, really. It’s her. It’s rare to see Dina overflowing with this kind of reckless joy. So rare in fact, there’s a gravity to it, a pull magnified by irregularity, that makes it harder to resist. In tandem with the music, I’m goner, already falling into it. But what does any of it matter, when I know how she feels now. Just the same as me.

✺

We finish with a dip, and the blurry wall of lights and onlookers, among them the suspicious face of Mín, the curious face of Ramón, and the drunk glassy eyes of Pancho, become crystal clear again, as I bring Dina back up. The song changes and I let go, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. Making my way off the dancefloor, she follows close, reassuring in a low voice, “It’ll be fine, amor. They know I’m tipsy.”

“Yeah. And they know I’m not.”

Although— I look over at the bar. Fuck it, I could fix that now. Before we can reach Mín, Món, and Pancho, standing by the DJ booth, I tear through the crowd, right to the bar. Fuck any rules. This is Def Con One and that lapse in judgment could only be reasonably explained to the Arellano boys by both of us being shitfaced. I flag down a bartender.

“Shot of tequila.”

“What kind?”

I eye him coolly. “Whatever. Dealer’s choice.”

Willing myself not to be too twitchy, conspicuous, I glance around to make sure Benjamín hasn’t sicced Món on me. That look of disapproval on his face is going to be seared to the backs of my eyelids for days. Maybe weeks. Not a chance in hell that he’d overlook that display. As far as Ramón, who looked more intrigued than anything, jury’s still out. Might be he’d follow Mín’s lead. That is, unless Dina were to intervene, which– that’d be something she’d have to do. I’d never ask her. Not an option. That leaves Pancho who’s unlikely to give a shit. Or if he did, he’s too drunk now to make a show of it. But no, even sober, we’ve been homies through and through. He’d have my back. Maybe the only one.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Christ, all of it, already a fucking mess. It hasn’t spilled out entirely from my head onto the world, but only a matter of time.

A whistle from someone a barstool away interrupts the game of 3D chess I’m playing with myself, trying to compute then varying combinations of factors and events that could end me. I’m so in it, it takes me a beat to even realize they’re whistling at me.

“Ey, dónde aprendiste a bailar como eso? <Hey, where did you learn how to dance like that?>” someone asks quietly, in familiar but strangely-accented Spanish.

I turn to shoot a fuck-off stare to whoever, but when I’m met with the sight of an odd-looking, half-bald, ginger dude in jeans, a denim jacket, and a pair of Jordans that probably cost more than my first car, I’m taken aback by the expression on his face. Strange-like, fondly admiring, but more like he’s observing a zoo animal, exotic as those peacocks waddling across the lawn, than a person.

“Viene de familia.” <Runs in the family.>

All the odd guy says is, “Ah,” and then proceeds to fiddle with the toothpick in his mouth and survey the crowd.

Based on how he’s dressed, it’s clear this dude isn’t a regular guest. If I had to put my money on anything? Sicario. No question. Because even though he doesn’t have the trademark hyper-vigilance, coiled up tight, a piston ready to pop, the strange little homie does have a cracked look I recognize. Like he doesn’t need to be on-guard because he’s past the point of feeling much beyond general amusement.

I’d come up with a couple guys like this back home. Met even more of them in prison. You could tell who they were because they didn’t pretend to be concrete copies of themselves. Already born steel people, they never needed to bother with the mandatory, self-imposed identity mutilation necessary to survive in the Petri dish of the California Department of Corrections. But the most interesting thing about them? Scary as they could be, they’re also some of the more honest criminals I’ve dealt with. At least, those who’re murder-for-hire, not murder-for-fun.

Spotting the shiny, engraved handle of a pistol in his waistband, I whistle, “Nice, .357?”

He doesn’t take it out to show it off, just flashes a slinky, joker smile. “You got a good eye.”

“Likewise. Dope piece.”

Yeah, definitely more than your average muscle. The real pros don’t tend much to show and tell. But who the guy works for, I can’t figure exactly. Given that I had to give up my own weapon before we came through, I’m guessing he’s Miguel’s muscle. Looking over at a doorway filled with the broad shoulders and Fabio-like hair of Miguel’s top security guy, Tony, I try picturing these two working together and have to stifle a laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Eh, it’s too hard— it’s nothin’.”

The strange homie responds with an amused snort but doesn’t press further. We go back to our mutual but silent surveillance. I can’t see the Arellanos anywhere, but I do spot the Sinaloa crew making their way to the exit by the bar. The weird little guy waves at them like they’re the oldest of friends. I nearly give myself whiplash, looking back and forth from Strange Homie to Güero and Cochi’s pained smiles and an outright look of disgust from Chapo.

“Those are the guys who brought the tiger last year,” Strange Homie helpfully explains, still waving.

“Man, everyone keeps telling me about that tiger. Guess I missed out.”

“You weren’t here last year?”

Still looking around for Ramón, I shake my head, stating absentmindedly, “Haven’t been to any kinda shit like this in my life.”

If Benjamín hadn’t already put him up to cutting me into little pieces, I would’ve at least expected Món to be hot on the heels of the Sinaloa crew, if only to berate, and harass, and swear at them as they’re leaving. And yet, he’s nowhere. Shoot, maybe Mín decided not to even bother chasing me down, and they just bounced. Left me there. Dina would be pissed but all things considered, I’d be getting off lightly. Compared to other possibilities. Could I be so lucky?

I turn my attention back to Strange Homie.

A jackal-like grin brightens his whole face. “Yeah, you did miss out. I got to feed it.”

“Big animal fan, huh?”

Strange Homie considers the question seriously as though it requires an answer, deep or existential in some way. But what he comes back with is relatively simple. “I guess, apex predators, yeah.”

“Easiest to relate to?” I joke.

The jackal smile back again as he exclaims, “Exacto!” Only this time, it bears sincerity that makes it more endearing than unsettling.

I raise my shot glass, saluting, “Makes sense to me.” An implied given what I know about you, unsaid in the air as I knock the shot back. Strange Homie likely knows, has probably been profiling my own profiling this whole time.

“So, you are not from around here?” Strange Homie ventures, as I catch the bartender’s attention to order another shot.

“From Guadalajara?”

Strange Homie shrugs and nods.

“Nah. You?”

He says with a knowing smirk, “Do I sound like I’m from Guadalajara?”

I shake my head, chuckling to myself. The bartender brings another shot and I put it away, perfunctory, then bite into the lime. It’s so sour, I feel shooting pangs in the sides of my mouth and tongue. The sensation of pain, concrete and tangible enough to focus on, brings me back to me.

I wipe my mouth and clear my throat. “You don’t sound like you’re from Guadalajara, but I got a few camaradas back home who sound kinda like you. Colombianos.”

“Good eye. Good ear,” Strange Homie notes, a hint of approval in his voice.

“The melting pot of America.”

“Ah, entonces eres un gringo?” <Oh, you're a gringo then?>

“Te has visto, hombre? De donde vengo, eres más gringo que yo.” <Have you seen yourself, man? Where I'm from, you're more gringo than me.>

I half-expect Strange Homie to be offended but he just snickers and nods in agreement. “Pues, tal vez tengas razón. Supongo que quiero decir que eres un gabacho.” <Well, maybe you're right. I guess I mean to say, you're a foreigner.">

“Close enough.”

“Well gabacho, un placer. Yo soy Navegante.” He reaches out to shake hands.

I extend mine tentatively, “David Barrón.”

As we stand there, forearms bobbing up and down slowly, a look of calculation and sorrow fills Strange Homie’s eyes. Something about it, and the way he says, “You seem like a cool guy. I wish we hadn’t talked so much.” I can’t quite put my finger on why it makes my stomach drop.

Fuck. Dina. Where are they. The Arellanos. Makes no sense. Been nowhere this whole time. Fuck. The empty spot where my gun usually sat in my waistband screams at me like a phantom limb. I try freeing my hand from Navegante’s, who holds on like a vice and laments, “I am glad you got those shots of tequila in though. Since we both know how bad this will hurt.”

My teeth grind into my lower lip so hard, I taste blood. And yet, it still does fucking nothing to ease the sting of surprise as the knife sinks into my stomach.

✺

Everything after that happens in slow motion. He must’ve carried me out at some point and anyone who saw me doing shots at the bar just assumed I was wasted. I don’t know how much blood I’ve lost. Enough that it feels like I’m moving through molasses when they chuck me in the backseat of that town car. Or is it a limo? The seats are facing each other like in a limo. Or maybe I’m molasses because of the booze. If not the booze exclusively, it definitely isn’t helping, blood thinning as it is. Fucking stupid. So stupid. In my life, had I ever been so stupid?

Although, I have to give it to Strange Homie— what was his name again? Navegante? — it’s been ages since someone got the jump on me like that. Since I was a kid probably. He’d been decent enough about it too, although I could’ve done without the stick in the gut. A few inches higher, he might’ve fractured a rib, but I might have more my full faculties. But no, this guy knew what he was doing. It’d landed exactly where he’d wanted it to.

Fingers wrestle with the tie at my neck, ripping it off, and it’s not until I bring it down to put pressure on the wound in my stomach that I realize those fingers are mine. The other courtesy Navegante had done? Strange Homie left the knife in. Although, whether that’s so I wouldn’t bleed out as fast or if it’s so he could further torture me by twisting it, is unclear. So much of it is unclear. I try going back, retracing every step leading up to the point I’d been stabbed but my brain’s stuck in quicksand. If I live to see tomorrow, I’ll have to take some kind of blood oath to never touch another drop of alcohol again. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Dina. Where is she. The Arellanos. They’d disappeared. Where the fuck was Dina. The panic, the cortisol, like a defibrillator at my chest, shocking me more awake, as I pack the fabric of my tie around the knife to soak up the blood. Forgetting myself, I reach behind for my gun and grumble at the empty spot where it normally is. Should be. Stupid. So. fucking. stupid.

I hear voices outside the car. No gun, no way out, no idea where anyone else is, where I am now, no choice but to accept it. So I just lean back against the seat, keeping pressure on my stomach and wait patiently for what’s to come.

When the door finally opens, I expect to be met with Strange Homie, Navegante’s jackal grin but instead it’s a taller man, a lot more normal looking, with dark eyes and a full head of hair. No one I recognize though and he’s someone I’d remember, considering he’s one of the most sharply dressed motherfuckers I’ve seen outside a movie. He slides in to sit across from me and grabs a file that had been laying on the seat next to him.

He reads from it calmly, soothingly business-as-usual. “I do apologize for the harsh introduction, Señor Barrón Corona. Navegante said you were nothing but gentlemanly prior to his stabbing you.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat and on reflex, the muscles in my stomach clench around the blade. Like I’ve stepped onto the worst elevator ride, my throat feels like it’s in my head. Just blistering, white-hot agony. A jagged inhale drags down the back of my throat and I try not to pass out. “S’funny,” I cough out, “was just thinking the same thing.”

“Please know, this isn’t personal. Or rather, not for me. I suspect it’s very personal for your employer.” He looked up from the file, smirking. “Or I suppose, that’s the idea.”

My employer? The fuck was Benjamín going to be upset about? Me with a knife in my gut in the backseat of whatever big-shot, cartel guy’s car?

“Banking on the wrong strategy there,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

The man looks up from the file again, waiting for me to explain further.

“No love lost between my employer and me.”

“Hmm. Is that so?”

He says this with such assurance, it becomes apparent that this whole scheme, whatever it is, whatever game this guy’s playing, this shit is well above my pay grade. No point trying to outmaneuver when my head’s still in quicksand and I don’t even have the fucking rulebook.

“But you answer to the whole family, no?”

I roll my eyes and slump my shoulders, too tired to summon a real response.

“David Barrón Corona. From Logan Heights, San Diego, California. Says here you were born in Tijuana, but your parents are naturalized citizens. Which would give you—” he licks his forefinger and flips a page. “Ah yes, dual Mexican-American citizenship. Oh, your father was in the navy? Why does it seem the best sicarios come from military families. Someone should do a study.”

“Eh, eres un soldado either way.” <Eh, you're a soldier either way.>

The man smirks and continues reading. “Two brothers, one older Mateo Barrón Corona, deceased. And one younger, Alexander Barrón Corona, incarcerated, life no parole. And your mother— hmm, we don’t have much on her.”

I clench my teeth so hard, it feels like I have a charlie horse in my jaw. Willing my stomach muscles to relax, I ease off the middle console with my elbow to lean against the window and breathe out a, “Wow.”

The man takes out a cigarette and pops it between his lips, mumbling, “Qué?” as he lights up.

“Just— I dunno. Seems a lotta paperwork for somebody who’s nobody. Whose asset are you, DoD, CIA?”

The man shakes out his match and cracks a window on his side to toss it out. “Ah, see, but that’s the thing, David— may I call you David?”

I nod listlessly.

“David, do I seem to you like someone who’d waste so much time, go to all this trouble if you were a complete nobody?”

“Can’t say. We just met.” We’re well past politeness. I’m already bleeding all over this guy’s Oxford leather seats.

But instead of insulting him, he cuts up, laughing deep and full. “Funny, discerning—tonight’s little encounter notwithstanding. And from what I hear, an excellent shot, a competent sicario.”

I snort loud enough that he pauses to say, “What is that? False modesty? Don’t bore me before we’ve gotten started.”

“No. I am as good as you’ve heard probably. But that’s not the point.”

Dragging slowly from his cigarette, he brushes a bit of ash that’s fallen on his pant leg, then looks up, fixes his eyes on me, and says, “Enlighten me, then.” He’s the cat. I’m the ball of yarn. It doesn’t even matter.

“Any sicario worth a shit knows it doesn’t matter how good you get.“

“Why’s that?”

A gotcha-type smile spreads across my face for the first time in what feels like ages. “’Cause however good I may be, I’ll always be expendable. Guys like me are always short to the gate.”

And just when I think I’ve got him, for some reason, that warms up those cold brown eyes of his, as though I’ve proven his point more than my own. He bobs his head toward the window where Navegante stood guarding the car. “Well, that may be true of most in your line of work. But I asked my man out there, and he seems to think you’re good people. I’m putting together the picture of you, beginning to understand the appeal, what she sees in you.”

“Why. You hiring?”

“Oh no, no,” he chuckles lightly, “you’re of no use to me that way. No, the fact of the matter is,” then clicks his tongue against the inside of his cheek, “you’re right. Some are more expendable than others. But at the finish line, when death comes to collect, really, we’re all expendable.”

If this guy doesn’t reach some point, some punchline soon, I swear I’m gonna yank this knife out myself, happily bleed out all over the place just to reach some definitive conclusion.

”But here and now? To one with a little power and something I need? You David, are much less expendable than you think.”

The hell is he even talki— oh, fuck.

What she sees in you.

It echoes in my ears until it detonates, like pulling the pin on a grenade in my head, shrapnel ricocheting on the inner walls of my skull, just as I’m trying to piece it together.

My boss. Personal. Dina. You answer to the whole family, no? The guy’s practically been explaining it from the beginning. I’ve just been too dead in the head to make sense of it.

“Ah yes, there it is. And now that you’re caught up with the rest of the class, allow me to formally introduce myself.” The man places his hand on his chest, bowing his head. “I’m Pacho Herrera.”

Yup. This is above my pay grade. Way, way, way the fuck above my pay grade.

[ashlingnarcos]

✏️ SIGNUPS OPEN for Narcos Fanfic Exchange 2022! ✏️

✏️ Make a Narcos gift, receive a Narcos gift. OG, MX, and crossovers, all are welcome! 500 word minimum. It’s like a Secret Santa, basically! Feel free to message me, shoot me an ask, DM me in Discord, or email me at ashling.and.hurricanes@gmail.com if you have any questions :)

✏️ Everything closes/is due/is revealed at 9:59pm EST.    Saturday, August 13—Signups & tagset nominations end    Saturday, September 3—Assignments due    Saturday, September 10—Gifts revealed    Saturday, September 17—Authors revealed

✏️You can:

Sign up here on AO3.

Read the rules here on Dreamwidth.

Exchange collection profile here on AO3.

View the tagset here on AO3.

Join the fandom chat here on Discord.

[narcosfandomdiscord]

narcos fandom smut alphabet - finished!

you know what goes really well with summer sunshine and narcos tv rewatches? SMUTTY FIC!

(they put that bisexual lighting on Isabella for a reason, after all!)

this was our first month of prompts over at @narcosfandomdiscord! for every letter of the alphabet, we had two smutty prompts that fanfic writers used for inspiration. 🥰 our group ambition was to create at least one fic per letter—26 new narcos smut fics during the month of July—and we totally smashed it, in large part thanks to prolific work from @salt-is-a-terrible-currency. happy reading!

if you prefer reading on ao3, check out our collection. all fics tagged as #nffalphabet on tumblr. and it's just that simple 🥰

if you have any questions, you can message us on tumblr or join our narcos fandom discord here!

🍰 Prompt List & Fic Masterlist 🍰

July 1 — A — angry sex, anal

Right For Once by @drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x f!Reader, angry sex, 2.3k

Infuriating by @salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, angry sex, 1.5k

Our Man In Mexico by @hausofmamadas — Horacio Carrillo x Andrea Nuñez, angry sex, 2.5k

July 2 — B — blood, bound & begging

Final Warning by @purplesong1028 — Amado x Pacho, bound & begging, 490

Please (with your finger) by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, bound & begging, 1.2k

blood on vacation by @ashlingnarcos — David Barrón x f!Reader, blood, 1.8k

July 3 — C — cuffs, choking

If I go too far by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, choking, 737

mentirosos by @narcolini — Kitty Paez x gn!Reader, cuffs, 1.1k

July 4 — D — domesticity, “don’t make a sound or they’ll hear us.”

Taking Care by drabbles-mc — Diego Ramirez (Narcos OC) x F!Reader, domesticity, 2.1k

Lipstick's smudged by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, domesticity and “don’t make a sound or they’ll hear us", 447

A Few Moments by @purplesong1028 — Miguel Félix/Pacho Herrera, “don’t make a sound or they’ll hear us", 482

July 5 — E — edging, eldritch

The first time I felt a ghost by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, eldritch, 716

July 6 — F — fight or fuck?, friends with benefits

No relationship talk by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, friends with benefits, 422

Unbroken Rules by drabbles-mc — Horacio Carrillo x f!Reader, friends with benefits, 2.9k

July 7 — G — gag/gagging, gun play

Paper-thin walls by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, gag/gagging, 361

Whatever He Wants by purplesong1028 — Amado Carrillo Fuentes x Miguel Félix, gun play, 416

July 8 — H — honor bondage, hatesex

Dress blues by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader x Gurney Halleck, honor bondage, 1.8k

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US by hausofmamadas — Enedina Arellano x David Barrón, honor bondage, 2k

July 9 — I — infidelity, in public

Never meet your heroes by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, in public, 955

Don't Mention It by drabbles-mc — Javier Peña x f!Reader, infidelity and in public, 2.7k

No Strong Suit by purplesong1028 — Miguel Félix x Pacho Herrera, infidelity, 439

July 10 — J — jealousy, "just shut up already"

Unprofessional by drabbles-mc — Walt Breslin x f!Reader, jealousy, 4.3k

A bad idea by @artemiseamoon — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, jealousy, 2.3k

The ring by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, jealousy, 1.1k

July 11 — K — knotting, knocked up

Which time? by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, knocked up, 418

Secrets in the night by artemiseamoon — Horacio Carrillo x Original Female Character, knocked up, 3.5k

Someday When It's Over by drabbles-mc — Horacio Carrillo x Original Female Character, knocked up, 2.8k

July 12 — L — luxury, lingerie

Eres guapa by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, lingerie, 544

Desire by artemiseamoon — Enedina Arellano x Original Female Character, lingerie and luxury, 3.9k

Round-trip Ticket by drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x Original Female Character, lingerie, 7.7k

July 13 — M — mirrors, "make me forget (all about him/her/it/them)"

Another brick in the wall by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, make me forget, 812

Favors Owed by drabbles-mc — Maria Elvira x gn!Reader, make me forget, 2.7k

Like Old Times by artemiseamoon — Judy Moncada x Original Female Character, mirrors, 1.4k

July 14 — N — nipple play, "no one does it like you"

No One Like You by drabbles-mc — Javier Peña x f!Reader, no one does it like you, 2k

Sore by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, nipple play, 580

July 15 — O — on all fours, one night stand

Cascade by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, one night stand, 580

July 16 — P — praise kink, pulling hair

Dress blues, pt 2 by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader x Gurney Halleck, praise kink, 404

July 17 — Q — quiet (or trying to be), quickie

Sweet, sharp, addictive by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, quiet (or trying to be) and quickie, 464

July 18 — R — role reversal, ruined

Bad Guy Treatment by drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x f!Reader, role reversal, 3.8k

What is she to him by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, ruined, 444

July 19 — S — submit, "say my name"

Stoke the flames by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, submit, 387

July 20 — T — trapped together, tied up

On company time by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, trapped together, 574

July 21 — U — upper hand, underwater

The Weight of It All by drabbles-mc — Walt Breslin x Sal Orozco, underwater, 2k

he keeps his rules. you keep him. by ashlingnarcos — Horacio Carrillo x gn!Reader, upper hand, 1.1k

Polkadots by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, underwater, 359

July 22 — V — virginity (loss or roleplay), video

Off the Backburner by drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x f!Reader, virginity, 4.1k

In this moment of pretend by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, virginity roleplay, 435

July 23 — W — "we probably shouldn't do this", worship

Stay A Little Longer by drabbles-mc — Horacio Carrillo x f!Reader, "we probably shouldn't do this", 1.5k

Lunch break daydream by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, "we probably shouldn't do this", 497

July 24 — X — exhibitionism, exes having sex

It's complicated by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Helena, exes having sex, 971

Not Yours Anymore by drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x Original Female Character, exes having sex, 3.2k

no witness by ashlingnarcos — Walt Breslin x f!Reader, exes having sex, 2.4k

July 25 — Y — yearning, "you look good like this"

Superman (4) by @garbinge — Javier Peña x f!Reader, "you look good like this", 5k

Lost Time by drabbles-mc — Horacio Carrillo x f!Reader, yearning, 2.9k

If he closes his eyes by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, yearning, 442

July 26 — Z — zipper, zeal

Things Like That by drabbles-mc — Danilo Garza x f!Reader, zipper, 2k

Zealot by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader and Nathan "Cable" Summers from Deadpool x f!Reader, zeal, 4k

(note: we hit the link limit on this post so from now on, links will be to fics + to authors on their first appearance.)

[imgeekgirlfan]

Renegada♱

Pairings:  Amado Carrillo Fuentes x f!reader(Latina Reader) x Walt Breslin  [From Narcos: Mexico TV Series]

Content Rating : Mature 18+  Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

Synopsis: You have to take on the role of a musician to infiltrate a restaurant filled with high-level international drug dealers.There, you meet Amado as expected, However, it seems that everything is not going according to the plan anymore.

AN : Just in case you're wondering, in this story, Pacho is the same person as in El Paraiso de las Pandillas. I imagine him as bisexual. (Please don't attack me; it's just my imagination and has no relevance to real individuals.)

I used to think that I wouldn't continue this fanfic, but because there are still people waiting to read it, I thought I would give it another try. However, if it doesn't really work out, I probably won't update it anymore. Thank you to everyone who has been following and reading it all along. I truly appreciate it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------  

𝙍𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙙𝙖♱ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

➡  Previous : Next

[1]ᅳ 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐥𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐚 ✟

Havana, Cuba

1830(Military Time)

It has been over three hours since you sat and played the grand piano in the restaurant of the capital city. Your fingers ache from pressing down on the black and white keys as you continuously perform well-known classical pieces to entertain the sole guest here, who is seated at the large table in the middle of the restaurant.

A tall, dark-skinned man with an unruly beard and disheveled hair, always dressed in black and adorned with brand-name sunglasses hanging over his chest on the edge of his shirt

That is Amado Carrillo Fuentes, the target you've been waiting for.

You watch this man intently, alert and attentive. Since the mission began, this is the first time you have seen this man so closely. Close enough for you to shoot him dead without missing a beat.

But that's not the objective this time, and you're not playing the role of an assassin or a CIA agent. Here, you're just a "Camila," an ordinary female musician hired to provide some entertainment during an important meeting of the Latin American drug cartel.

"It's too long." Diego's voice crackles through the earpiece, sounding irritated. "Are you sure the intel is correct?"

It's not just him who feels irritated; you feel the same. "I risked my life to obtain this information. If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't be here," your words barely whispered, but the tone sounds like a shout

"I think this should be enough," says the voice that comes back, belonging to Waltz, with a Texan accent that is so familiar to you. "You find a way out, and then we'll discuss what to do next."

No way, you think, but you don't say it out loud.  You deliberately ignored that command.

Suddenly, your bare back under the yellow floral-patterned dress shivers as you notice three more individuals walking into the empty restaurant. They are dressed in vibrant, tailored suits, adorned with thick gold chains and expensive watches 'drug lord uniforms.' That's what Diego told you—the first rule of identifying suspicious individuals—and it proves very useful this time.

Those people are the most powerful drug lord syndicate in Colombia, called "Gentlemen of Cali" Today, they have appeared together, all three of them. You discreetly observe the two Rodríguez brothers, Gilberto and Miguel, They both seem like ordinary old men with no apparent threat. No one knows that beneath that façade, they are the heads of 'Cali Cartel' the most powerful drug cartel in Colombia, controlling over 90% of the cocaine market worldwide, ever since Pablo Escobar fell.

However, the most frightening person is Pacho Herrera, the second-in-command of the gang. He is still young, handsome, and charismatic, with a strong sexual appeal to both men and women (mostly men, as confirmed by one of the prostitutes who is your informant that Pacho is bisexual). His appearance is strikingly different from that of other drug dealers. The reason why this man often takes on the role of negotiating and bargaining for the gang's benefits is that Pacho is always able to fulfill his duties and responsibilities. He is clever, cunning, and ruthless.

Nevertheless, Pacho's relationship with Amado seems to be going well. As far as you have learned, Pacho greatly admires this Mexican drug dealer. Although it is uncertain whether their relationship is strictly professional or romantic, there is a high possibility that this negotiation will succeed without any issues.

Although you are sitting closest to them, you are still considered distant. There is no way for you to hear their conversation, but you can read their lips to some extent.

—I want to make an offer.

—What offer?"

—A transportation exchange with Cocaine and market sharing in America

—You want to compete with my gang?

—I don't want to compete, and what I'm doing will help your gang in America.

That's all you know, albeit not much. However, it's enough to confirm that these two gangs are indeed negotiating a drug trafficking agreement.

There was a tense whispering between the Rodríguez brothers before they abruptly stood up without touching the food on the table. They didn't look upset but rather seemed deeply engrossed in their thoughts about that proposal. As for Pacho, he remained seated at the table, continuing to sip his drink, and began to casually ask Amado, "How are you, friend?" while spraying empty words for several minutes before finally getting up and patting Amado on the back, saying, "Wait for a phone call tonight."

"What happened then?" asked Diego anxiously, but you didn't respond. At that moment, nothing else on that table could divert your attention from the remaining Amado.

Suddenly, he raised his face—the only moment you and he made eye contact without intending to. He smiled at you, and you felt an instant chill when you realized it was the most dangerous smile in both America and Mexico.

And the man slowly stood up before confidently walking towards you.

You stopped playing the piano immediately. The last note resonated in the air before it fell silent. One of your hands instinctively reached to the back, a familiar gesture, only to realize later that you hadn't brought your gun with you.

This was an unexpected situation for you, and the most unsettling part was that you had no idea of his intentions or what kind of danger might arise within the next few minutes.

Perhaps this plan leaked to Amado. Maybe you would die at his hands.

No matter how nervous you were, you tried to smile calmly back at him, the calmest you could be. Your heart pounded when he stopped right in front of you, closer than ever.

"You play the piano very well," was Amado's first sentence. "May I ask your name?"

"I'm Camila."

"And I'm Amado," he said, extending his hand. You shook hands, feeling like it was a dream, but the firm and rough palm confirmed it was real.

The man fell silent, contemplating something deeply in his heart. You didn't dare move again; you remained seated, still wary what was happening.

He must have a plan. That's what you're thinking right now

And Amado also had a plan for you, just not the kind you had imagined.

"I think I'll have to stay around here for a while. It would be good to have a friend with me. If you have no business and don't mind being my friend," he said,

You raised an eyebrow, almost letting your jaw drop.

You didn't react immediately. You knew what he wanted from you.

"Well, I'm just a musician. If you need..." You left a small gap for him to figure out. "I think you can contact some women from outside."

"No, no, not like that." Amado quickly waved his hand, looking surprised and chuckling at the same time. "I just want you to join me for a drink and sit with me as long as I stay here, that's all."

You blinked in astonishment, realizing that everything happening was beyond the mission and beyond expectations. No matter what, you have obtained what you want now, and you should leave as soon as you have the chance before anything bad happens.

But deep down, you also knew that this was an opportunity—a once-in-a-lifetime chance that might never come again.

You tried to smile again and chose to do the opposite of what you should do.

"Sure, why not, if you're paying"

You accept his offer

---------------------------------------------------------------------------  

Inside the modified black van, loud conversations in Spanish resonated. Before Diego's face emerged from the van's window, he glanced at his boss, who was waiting outside with American officers, his expression not looking too good.

"We can't contact Y/N anymore, but we know she's with Amado now."

The deputy police chief, who had just finished smoking a cigarette, exhaled a puff of smoke before squinting at Diego. "What does it mean that She's with Amado? Did they catch her?"

"Nah, I think she chose to stay willingly." Diego took off his glasses, a rare occurrence unless he was feeling stressed. "That idiot lured her to drink, and she said yes!. I've invited her before, and she refused all the time. But now she chooses to go with that scumbag drug dealer without a second thought!”

Julio chuckled, He smirked before extending his hand to slap him on the back. "Because you're not as handsome as he is, little boy."

"I don't see what's so funny." Walt spoke up, leaning against the van door with a tense expression: "She's in danger, and we need to get her out of there quickly."

"Calm down, White Boy." Julio's voice remained relaxed, knowing that the American officer genuinely cared for their lone teammate. "She's C.I.A. Somehow she managed to survive, right?"

"But the C.I.A. isn't God," Walt retorted. "She could have been shot and killed just like me and you."

Diego glanced at Walt and immediately decided that this was not about himself. So he quickly turned his face and stepped back into the van. There was a faint shout from one of the Mexican soldiers on the other side, suggesting, "If you guys want to fight, do it in a secluded place." Walt responded to the advice by raising his middle finger in return.

Such situations were common in the battle against drug trafficking. Sometimes the tension of the mission led to heated arguments

If Americans were like tongues, Mexicans were like teeth. Julio knew this truth well, as did Walt himself.

The Mexican man calmly lit up another cigarette, exhaling a cloud of white smoke from his mouth and nose. "Listen, Walt, I know that the C.I.A. is not a god. Americans like you have never been my gods, and I know Y/N is going to do something by herself. No one is controlling her. That means she believes in herself, and you should have faith in her too."

With his long, pointing finger, he directed it straight at Walt, locking him in an intense gaze. Fatigued eyes still held a spark. 'We're all tired, and we don't want anyone to die’ conveyed Julio through his gaze, leaving the DEA agent at a loss for words.

Walt wanted to trust in you, as Julio told him, but that didn't help alleviate the anxiety in his heart.

Because you were the youngest agent Walt had ever worked with. You were the same age as his younger brother, and you had a bright future ahead of you. Walt didn't want you to make a mistake, and he didn't want to do anything that would restrain you in any way.

Walt closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a fresh cigarette being offered to him by Julio. Walt accepted the gesture by taking it and holding it between his lips, whispering a soft thank you. As Julio lit the cigarette for him,

They both stood there, smoking side by side, exchanging understanding through the smoke and silence. Walt gazed at the darkening sky as the streetlights gradually turned on one by one, illuminating both sides of the road. He took another deep smoke before turning to the person beside him and asking, "So, what do we do next?"

Julio smiled briefly, tapped the end of his own cigarette against the side mirror of the van, and let the ashes fall to the ground.

"All we can do is wait," he said.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------  

[unveranosinseb0514]

I was reading some fanfics, never thought of shipping anyone in Narcos

But DAMN?! What a GREAT ship Pacho and Miguel are, like??!?? Hot, good looking, and miguel just gives me the vibe that if somebody grabs him the right way (the right way being by his hips), it's going to fucking dismantle him, i swear

[artemiseamoon]

😂 to the Anon who just called me homophobic for making Pacho bi in my made up - make believe - fantasy story

I’m a queer woman, a BISEXUAL woman, like - I just can’t with you. Queer and lgbtq spaces and community has always been and is a huge part of my life. You do not know me. You don’t know my life.

Anon, get out of fanfic spaces cause we use our imaginations and clearly that’s against the rules for you.

You need a hobby. I wish you the day deserve.

[thegreenmeridian]

For Whumptober 2019, my first attempt at a Pacho fic.

@fmasha-l @elenatria @valerafan2 @potter012 @raul-eduardo-esparza @az-5-elimgarak @boisinberryjamarama

[narcolini]

in the business

amado x pacho sister!reader, 2044 words, very very mild spice

request: Pacho has a little sister and she’s been sneaking around with Amado for a while, until Pacho finally finds out, from @purplesong1028​ 

a/n: usual note about characters not real people <3 

Your head hurts, no, your brain. It aches, swells, beats at your skull like a caged animal. You hadn’t even drank that much, really. It’ll just be from the late night, or early morning, rather. You hadn’t gotten back until, well, you check the clock, half an hour ago. Eight in the morning. You could have had more of a lie in, enjoyed the queen sized bed you’d ended up in, but you wanted to at least pretend you’d been home for some portion of the night. You’d got in, wiped the smell of booze and aftershave from your skin, slipped into your bed clothes and planted yourself in the kitchen. 

It was a good plan. Was, being the key word, because now it had failed. 

The second you begin to make yourself a coffee, you hear him. Always the voice before the footsteps. How a man like that manages to shuffle about unnoticed, is beyond you. 

‘You made it home, then,’ he says, from close enough behind you to smell his deodorant. Though, it’s so generously applied, you could probably smell him across a soccer pitch.

‘Doesn’t your shift start after my brother wakes up, Navegente?’

You glance over your shoulder, catching him shrug. He’s probably been up and stalking the house since dawn. 

‘I saw you, you know,’ he says. 

You ignore him. Coffee in the cup, cream, sugar. He continues. 

‘Getting out of his car.’

‘Would you like a prize?’ You turn and step around him. ‘It’s your job to keep watch, tonto.’

You know he’s smirking, because of course he is. You don’t do him the grace of looking. ‘Thought I would warn you,’ he says, ‘it might not be me who see’s you next time.’

Except it’s always him, because he’s always fucking there. 

——

The first few times you’d seen Amado, it had been fun without consequences. Sneaking about with the Lord of the Skies, with your brother’s business partner, it was enough to make you feel like a teenager again. Irresponsible. Free. He wasn’t often in Colombia, so it made it easier to overlook the complications. Like stopping at a bar for a drink, like placing bets on a horse, it didn’t matter once you’d left again. Or rather, once he had left. The vices couldn’t follow you home if they flew back to Mexico every time. 

But then, he’d started to get worried about it, whiny, really. This time, you hadn’t even made it out of the club before he’d mentioned Pacho’s name.

‘You aren’t going to tell him?’  he asked.

‘I haven’t decided.’ You’d settled into his lap, grateful for the privacy of the booth, and brushed his hair back to consider his face. Older than yours, but handsome despite, and because of— you liked the experience that sat in his features, the knowledge in his eyes. Even when he was asking stupid questions. ’I need to work out if you’re worth keeping first,’ you’d told him. ‘No need to start a family argument over something that might be temporary.’ 

‘That’s what you’re doing?’ He laughed once. ‘What? Is this an experiment or something, mija?’

You’d hummed a yes, curling the sound up with a smile. ‘So, you better make this worthwhile, Amado. You’ve been gone a long time.’

His brows went up, surprised, but not discouraged. ‘You think I should thank you for waiting?’

You considered nodding, but then shook your head, no, at the last moment. ‘You should be grateful I did.’ There were plenty of others you could have passed your time with, he knew that. 

‘Stay with me, then. Tonight.’ His hands slid up your spine. ‘I have a hotel, a nice one.’

‘Room for two?’ You’d asked, knowing the answer, knowing your choice already.

He smiled, his voice as intoxicating as liquor, ‘Para una reina, of course.’

——

You’d fallen asleep on one of the benches by the pool. When you woke up, your cheek was so warm from the sun it could’ve been burnt, but all that had really happened, was your headache had gotten worse. 

Now, you’re back in the kitchen nursing the only fruit you can find, hoping the fresh orange could somehow revive you. It would be easier if you used the family merchandise. One line would have you awake and clear from the lingering effects of your night with Amado, but you won’t touch the stuff. You took Pacho’s word for gospel, that it isn’t worth wasting ‘that pretty nose your mother gave you’. He had met your mother, you hadn’t, so you had no choice but to believe him. You’d both been given your stark honesty from the parent you did share, after all. 

There’s no greeting when Pacho finally emerges and joins you in the breakfast space. One moment you’re alone, the next, he’s there, talking over your head while he goes about his usual routine. If you weren’t upright and chewing, you might’ve guessed you’d drifted off again.

‘You didn’t come home last night,’ he comments, passing behind you to reach the coffee machine. He isn’t dressed but wrapped in a robe, plush white, soft like a housewife’s. It’s past noon now. He’s hardly the image of sanctity himself.

‘Who’s keeping track?’ You answer and drop your head back over the chair, putting him upside-down as if he’s standing on the ceiling. ‘You didn’t have an early night either.’

‘I was working.’

Your head spins, so you return to looking at the sliced orange in front of you. The segment you're holding leaks juice into your palm and down your wrist. You watch it bead against the skin. ‘And I had plans,’ you say. Plans that had begun the moment Amado’s work had finished, the second he was available and away from meetings at last. ‘You may be older, hermano, but you aren’t Dad.’

He says nothing, but you can guess that he’s clenching his jaw, tilting his head, and thinking, yeah, lucky for you, I’m not.

‘You don’t have to watch me,’ you tell him. 

‘I try not to.’ He brings himself to the table, coffee cup and saucer held before him. When he sets them down, your stomach drops. Now is where the real interrogation begins; this is a court room, that’s his gavel, and you are, unbeknownst to him, guilty as fucking charged. ‘Navegente says you sent Raúl away. That you insisted he didn’t wait for you.’ He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he leans back in his seat, puts one leg over the other, and fusses with the tie of his robe until its laid flat on his knee. He’s taking his time on purpose. ‘Why?’ he asks.

‘What?’ You laugh. ‘You only just wake up and already you’re questioning me?’ 

He waits. You’re forced to answer just to kill the silence. 

‘I didn’t need him.’ You put the orange piece into your mouth and talk around it. ‘It was safe enough.’

‘Safe enough,’ he repeats, tutting afterward. ‘Raúl is there for a reason, hermanita.’

‘Well,’ you allow yourself a smirk, ‘do you invite Navegente to accompany you on dates?’

He squints slightly, assessing the lie, you imagine. ‘A date?’

‘Mhm. Am I supposed to ask for permission first?’ 

A pause. ‘That depends on your taste in men.’

——

‘He’ll kill us.’ 

You’d made it back to Amado’s hotel, and he was still talking about it. Still fucking agonising over it. Even when you tugged at his shirt, button by button, even when you put his hands where they should have been already: fingers spread, palms to your ass. 

‘No, he’ll kill me,’ he corrected.

‘He won’t,’ you stressed, reminding him again that it didn’t matter, wouldn’t matter, because Pacho didn’t know. ‘If it bothers you that much, I won’t even tell him I’m dating someone.’

'C’mon,’ he sighed, and attempted to sound soft despite the command, ‘get serious, eh? You think he won’t work it out? Doesn’t notice you sneaking around every time I’m in Cali, amor?’

‘Are you really that much of a coward, Amado? Why do you care so much?’

‘Para mi negocio,’ he shrugged, ‘I have to—‘

You’d rolled your eyes and pulled away before he could finish. Your hand had lingered long enough on his throat to make him reconsider the argument—you saw it on his face—but then he took your elbows and dipped his gaze to meet yours. Not in the sexy, passionate way, but in the patronising manner you hated from him. The croon of his voice just pissed you off. He only adopted it when he wanted to convince you of something, when you were meant to see him as the smarter person and comply.

‘The more we see each other, mija, the worse it gets.’

Kill me, he’d said, cut me off, he’d meant. If Pacho found out, Amado could have to kiss his supply chain goodbye.

‘You know, maybe you should tell him,’ you’d said, half-joking, ‘he’s your friend, no?’

The scoff had flown out of him. ‘Wey, I mean that little to you?’  He laughed, smile ghosting his lips as he spoke, ‘Buenos socios, sí, but good business doesn’t usually include sleeping with the sister.’

You’d walked your fingers up his chest. ‘Do I need to remind you,’ you drawled, ‘who asked who?’

——

Pacho’s nostrils flare. He taps a finger to the table, one, two, the sound sharp and irritating despite the smooth finish of his nail, three. 

‘Qué quieres, Pachito?’ You peel another segment from the orange skin and feign a sigh. ‘Dime ya, hm? I’m tired.’

‘You don’t hide things, hermana.’

‘No,’ you agree, ‘I have no reason to.’

You see his chin drop in your peripheral. He’s back to looking at the end of his robe-belt, picking at the thread like it interests him. He pouts, lifts his shoulders slightly, sucks a tut through his teeth like he’s disappointed. ‘I wanted to give you the chance to tell me yourself.’

You pause, then force yourself to finish the mouthful. The orange sours in your throat. 

‘Navegente is less secretive than you,’ he continues. When he laughs, it forces a flush of embarrassment to your cheeks. ‘Amado?’ he says. ‘Really?’

‘Fucking chismoso,’ you curse, not bothering to hide it under your breath. You’re out in the open then, not as subtle as you thought you were, thanks to that freak with the smirk. ‘I’m an adult, Pacho.'

He shrugs, lifts a hand to show that he’s unbothered, he knows, he isn’t disputing that. 

‘So, what now?’ You laugh and it feels manic, on edge with nerves you’re trying to hide. You’d never thought this far in advance. ‘You forbid me from seeing him?’

You note something close to amusement behind his eyes. But again, he makes you wait, leaning forward to drink from his cup. Once it’s set down, he shakes his head and says, ‘No. I invited him to lunch with us.’

‘Qué?’ you balk. ‘Here?’

He nods. You feel your heart drop; through you, through the chair. It may as well have slapped onto the kitchen tile beneath. You had never wanted to tell him about your involvement with Amado, partly because it felt like a wrongdoing, like a disruption to their arrangement that could never be allowed to exist. A betrayal to your brother, too. But there was also a part of you that had liked keeping them separate, that had enjoyed having the excuse of secrecy to limit what the relationship could be. You could hardly avoid that conversation now that Pacho knows, and Amado is about to find out. 

‘Why would you do that?’ you demand. To embarrass you, to confront the both of you at once? The thought alone of the two of them in the same room as you is punishment in itself, never mind what it would actually entail. ‘No es serio, Pacho, you know how it is.’

‘Do I?’ He breathes a laugh, pushing it through his nose. Whatever the joke is, you missed it, and he has no intention of expanding. He stands at once, straight and tall over you. ‘Then you can tell him that,’ he says. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

‘Fuck.’ You sit back, hands falling limp into your lap. Fuck. 

[cregan-starks]

Leyenda | Beholden

Summary: The DEA recruits Magnussen.

Words: 2,609

Pairing: none yet, but watch out for Special Agent Breslin

Warnings: politics, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of death, mention of SA, mention of torture, mention of kidnapping, mention of violence, mention of guns, mentions of communism, Ronald Reagan, smoking, cussing, eventual enemies to friends to lovers, eventual relationship, eventual smut. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: Hi, I’m alive. First off, I’m extremely sorry for being so late with posting this. Thank you all for your support and patience! It means a lot, and I hope that my little series will live up to your expectations. Secondly, please don’t take any chapter warnings lightly, as I don’t intend to downplay and romanticize the War on Drugs and other subjects related to it. Finally, the majority of characters featured in this story is based off of their portrayals in Netflix’s Narcos shows (if you haven’t seen Narcos: Mexico, please do yourself a favor and watch it). Agents Magnussen and Bowen are both my OCs. If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.

Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes 💛 and to my sweet @artthurshelby for the GIF 🧡

Ao3 | Masterlist | Next

DECEMBER 6, 1985

AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND

          “… bodies of U.S. drug agent Enrique Camarena and Mexican pilot Alfredo Zavala being loaded in the back of a pickup, guarded by heavily-armed Mexican Federal police for the 70-mile drive from Zamora to Guadalajara. The bodies were discovered early yesterday morning by a farm worker along a well-traveled road. They had not been there 12 hours earlier. The spot they were found was just 500 yards from a ranch house, where federal police killed five members of a family on Saturday after receiving an anonymous tip Camarena could be located on the ranch. Police said the family was involved in drug trafficking. Neighbors said it was a massacre.”

          Magnussen looked up from the pictures of the 881 Lope de Vega house that she was holding – valuable evidence she now apparently had access to – her gaze settling on the woman sitting across from her. Bowen had turned her head sideways, towards the cracked window, faking distraction. She scrunched up her small nose, indicating that the smell bothered her. Magnussen rolled the culprit – a cigarette – between her fingers, defiantly, with no intention of putting it out. The smoke filled her lungs, soothing her nerves slightly. Nasty habit, Maia would have complained.

          Magnussen decided to entertain herself by studying Bowen – preventing her eyes from lingering too long, lest the agent mistook it for interest. It was merely curiosity. Bowen had deposited her beige coat on the backrest of her chair, revealing bony shoulders, and had pushed her lengthy blond hair over them, straightening her spine. The wedding band that she wore glimmered in the sunlight each time her left hand moved. Although she had picked an unfortunate shade of pink for her lipstick, Magnussen couldn’t deny that Bowen had something striking about her. Must be the DEA badge attached to her belt. The one she had undoubtedly flashed in front of Magnussen’s coworkers to signal that she was an important American who meant business.

          And it had worked, of course. Here she was, in Magnussen’s office, with an air of superiority that taunted, “You should be grateful that I accepted to meet with you,” as if she had had a choice. The presence of a DEA agent had naturally caused turbulence around the place; several of Magnussen’s overly nosy colleagues couldn’t help but glance at them, foolishly assuming that no one noticed. Who the fuck thought glass walls were a good idea?

          Bowen had come bearing gifts; specifically, a dossier as thick as Brezhnev’s eyebrows titled “CLASSIFIED” – adding to the stack of reports already present on Magnussen’s desk – which sported the seal of the U.S. Department of Justice. Uh oh. Classified, U.S., justice. Too many bad words. Whatever it is, it’s illegal.

          This time, Bowen’s hawkish stare gave away her attempts to predict Magnussen’s suppressed reactions. Evidently, subtlety wasn’t among her strong suits. This is a fucking interview. For a job Magnussen neither knew about, nor applied for, let alone wanted. And why had they sent Bowen, of all people? They barely knew each other. Magnussen wasn’t going to give in – not so easily, anyway. She wanted answers, and if they wanted her, they would have to do better than this.

          Magnussen set aside the disturbing photos, attention shifting to the file titled “OPERATION LEYENDA.” She pulled out a list of names, some of which were crossed out.

           MIGUEL ÁNGEL FÉLIX GALLARDO

           JUAN JOSÉ ESPARRAGOZA MORENO

           SERGIO ESPINO VERDIN

           HUMBERTO ÁLVAREZ MACHAÍN

           RUBÉN ZUNO ARCE

           JUAN RAMÓN MATTA-BALLESTEROS

           RENÉ VERDUGO URQUÍDEZ

           RAÚL LÓPEZ ÁLVAREZ

           JESÚS FÉLIX GUTIÉRREZ

           JUAN JOSÉ BERNABÉ RAMIREZ

           JAVIER VÁSQUEZ VELASCO

          Upon closer inspection, she recognized most of them as drug traffickers or DFS agents. Or both. One question remained: what did all of this have to do with her? Magnussen took a drag from her cigarette, then tapped it against the rim of the ashtray on the desk, to drop the ashes. Alright, I’ll bite.

          ‘What’s Operation Leyenda?’, she queried, impartially.

          Bowen cleared her throat, relieved that the silent treatment had finally ended, and rested her elbows on the wooden surface.

          ‘It’s a task force we set up a few months ago. They’re gathering evidence to bring indictments against those responsible for what happened to Kiki,’ recited Bowen like a diligent student, as if she had practiced the speech in front of her mirror, at home.

          Magnussen’s brows furrowed while she leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

          ‘Mexico City said the Camarena case is closed,’ she recalled, running her free hand over her thigh, to smooth the fabric of her navy-blue suit pants, ‘I haven’t heard anything about Operation Leyenda on the news. The American embassy hasn’t said anything, either… Now that I think about it, neither has the DOJ.’

          ‘My, you’re observant,’ commented Bowen, dryly.

          ‘The classified part kinda gave it away,’ surmised Magnussen before smoking some more, ‘The operation’s illegal, and these agents are vigilantes.’

          ‘Administrator Lawn sees it as a taking off the gloves type of thing. The Mexican government isn’t big on transparency and justice, so, we’re giving them a… little push.’

          The faint smile that formed on Magnussen’s face didn’t reach her eyes. Bowen’s excuse reminded her of Porfirio Díaz’s lament, “Poor Mexico. So far from God, and so close to the United States.”

          ‘Anyway,’ continued the agent, ‘One of the agents recently got transferred to the States, and there’s a vacant spot on the team.’

          ‘Uh huh,’ deadpanned Magnussen, watching Bowen, suspiciously.

          She’s trying to recruit me for an illegal operation and preaching about transparency in the same breath.

          ‘Obviously, your name came up. Multiple times. Many of my superiors are quite eager to work with you. Edward Heath and James Kuykendall even put in a good word for you.’

          Oh, look at the Americans – doing charity work for free.

          ‘What’s with the crossed-out names?’, asked Magnussen, cutting to the chase, referring to the list of criminals.

          ‘They were arrested,’ replied Bowen, after hesitating for a split second.

          Or killed, Magnussen read between the lines, feeling beads of sweat gather at the nape of her neck. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, rubbing her left earring, the sharp edge of the crescent moon digging into her thumb.

          ‘Why does the DEA want me?’, she inquired, at last.

          Magnussen didn’t know how to best break it to the anti-drug Jehovah’s Witnesses that she didn’t think that narcotics were an actual problem.

          Bowen glared at her, reluctant to engage.

          ‘Indulge me, Audrey,’ teased Magnussen, offering the sweetest false smile she could manage.

          ‘Well, you knew Kiki personally–’

          ‘That’s funny,’ interrupted Magnussen, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray, ‘Jaime Kuykendall was taken off the case for being too emotionally attached. Got transferred to El Paso.’

          ‘You talked with him?’, questioned Bowen, expression fatigued.

          ‘We keep in touch,’ disclosed Magnussen, flatly, drumming her black, manicured nails against the desk, ‘So, why does the DEA want me?’

          The agent let out a long sigh, shaking her head in disbelief.

          ‘You graduated two universities, you speak six languages, you have some experience in Mexico and with the DEA,’ listed Bowen, ‘You’re a smart, resourceful, and ambitious kid. That enough or do you need more?’

          I doubt that you have more. And I was in Mexico completing my master’s degree, not shooting guns and illegally kidnapping government officials, but whatever. Small difference. Magnussen hummed thoughtfully, visibly unimpressed, then countered:

          ‘I’m also a foreign woman raised in a communist regime. I turn twenty-four in a couple of weeks. You’re telling me that your superiors are willing to overlook that?’, she emphasized, doubtful, ‘As flattering as this proposal is, I don’t think that my safety was taken into consideration. What if someone finds out about what we’re doing? There’ll be consequences, and you can’t even guarantee diplomatic immunity.’

          ‘It won’t come to that,’ assured Bowen, almost kindly, maintaining her calm, ‘And you won’t be on your own. Your partners will have your back.’

          Magnussen scoffed dismissively, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s patronizing me.

          ‘I guess hiring me is somewhat convenient,’ she admitted, bitterly, ‘My age, gender, nationality, and lack of experience are all reasons to pay me less. D.C. is more preoccupied with communists, anyway. Reagan probably mentions them in his sleep.’

          ‘Let me get this straight,’ snapped Bowen, tone acid, ‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong with what happened to Kiki? You don’t think he deserves justice?’

          ‘I think he deserves better than cheap propaganda and political agendas,’ corrected Magnussen, coldly, ‘You’ve all turned him into a martyr.’

          ‘The cartel turned him into a martyr,’ argued Bowen, tapping her index finger against the table, ‘And cheap propaganda? It’s easy for you to sit there and judge what you don’t know, but you clearly want honesty, so, here.’

          The agent retrieved a file from the dossier and handed it to Magnussen, who accepted it cautiously. While she skimmed over a Forensics report, Bowen explained, occasionally pausing whenever her voice wavered:

          ‘The press wasn’t given every detail of the investigation… Camarena was tortured by Sergio Verdin. Ex DFS. He beat him, electrocuted him, burned him, used a power drill on him. They fractured his ribs and jaw in multiple places, cracked his skull, sodomized him with a tire iron… Doctor Machaín kept Kiki awake during the whole thing. Injected adrenaline into his heart. After 36 hours, Camarena fell into a coma. That’s when they killed him… A month later, the bodies were found near a ranch in Zamora. Owned by a former PRI member. Ugly divorce. Zavala didn’t have any signs of torture. He allegedly died from asphyxiation... The MFJP destroyed a lot of the evidence.’

          Magnussen refused to tear her gaze away from the crumpled-up pieces of paper by the trash can in the corner of the office. She listened to the distant sound of traffic slipping through the window. The information hadn’t come as a surprise. Magnussen wasn’t naïve. Death was familiar; a looming presence everywhere she went. She knew that entering the room where Camarena had been tortured required leaving her soul at the door. Magnussen had heard what had happened to Kiki, even spoken to Mika about it. Yet tears stung her eyes all the same, threatening to fall. She bit the inside of her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to regain control of her breathing. She wasn’t allowed to cry in front of these people. Her tears were hers and hers alone.

          Once she fought the lump in her throat, Magnussen swallowed, finally gathering the courage to look at the DEA agent.

          ‘Mexico City must’ve been in on it,’ she theorized, absent-mindedly tugging at the sleeve of her white shirt, ‘They’re trying to cover up the tracks that lead to them. They gave you the perfect scapegoats – Quintero and Fonseca – but that’s as far as they’ll go.’

          Bowen nodded in agreement, combing her hair with her fingers.

          ‘The former commander of the DFS disappeared after he resigned, a few years ago. It’s a miracle our guys bagged Zuno… He owns the house at Lope de Vega,’ she clarified, regarding Magnussen’s puzzled expression, ‘President Echeverría’s brother-in-law. He’s awaiting trial in the States.’

          ‘No shit,’ said Magnussen, half impressed.

          ‘We suspect Félix Gallardo went underground,’ confessed the agent, frustrated, nails scratching the back of her hand, ‘Calderoni was sent to arrest him. You know him?’

          Magnussen huffed, irked by Audrey’s cockiness. Is she gonna ask if Luke Skywalker’s a Jedi, too?

          ‘Everyone and their mother do,’ she sassed, arching an eyebrow, ‘The Eliot Ness of the MFJP.’

          ‘Well, the Thin Man got away under… suspicious circumstances. The most incorruptible cop in Mexico returned empty-handed.’

          ‘The one that got away,’ quipped Magnussen, instinctively glancing at the clock on the wall, ‘Gallardo’s at the top of the pyramid. He built the system. If the PRI hasn’t given him up, he’s probably still in the party’s good graces… or has leverage over them. Either way, they’re protecting themselves by protecting him.’

          ‘So,’ shrugged Bowen, expectant, ‘How do we catch him?’

          ‘I don’t know,’ answered Magnussen, genuinely, ‘He was always two steps ahead of your agents in Guadalajara… What I do know is that the cartel has been blessed by the powers that be from the beginning. They wouldn’t act alone. The burning of the marijuana field in Chihuahua angered the cartel, and rightfully so – they lost a lot of money – but it also spooked the Mexican government. They thought Kiki knew something that represented a threat to them.’

          ‘That’s why you would be an asset to Leyenda,’ encouraged Bowen, hopeful, nearly pleading.

          Magnussen rolled her eyes, internally sighing in exasperation. Jesus fucking Christ. Something about their desperation seeded doubt within her. She refused to believe that they had run out of candidates for the job. Magnussen, on the other hand, had run out of patience.

          ‘Why?’, she demanded, blood boiling, ‘So you can parade me around as your rehabilitated communist girl? No, thanks. You’ve done this dozens of times. Immigrants, alcohol, the mafia, the Japanese, black people, communists, and now drugs. You’ll eventually grow bored of drugs and find a new enemy to wage war against – or you’ll create one. Where does it fucking end, Audrey? I’m not gonna kill people for Uncle Sam and your fragile patriotism.’

          ‘Then don’t do it for Uncle Sam,’ reasoned Bowen, composed, ‘Don’t do it for Reagan or the DEA. Do it for Kiki.’

          Magnussen hesitated, clenching her teeth, forcefully enough to shatter. The memory of Kiki’s tragedy was raw, further tearing into an open wound that hadn’t had the chance to heal. Kiki had been a good person, but he had died a cruel, unfair death. Some of his killers still walked free. Kiki had filled voids for her, had done what others failed to do. He had been a parental figure to her. Didn’t she owe it to him? Wasn’t bringing these criminals to justice the least that she could do? For widowing Mika and leaving three innocent boys fatherless?

          Returning to Mexico implied a tremendous risk and it didn’t even guarantee a success – or survival. They were up against the system and, although it had been backed into a corner, the danger hadn’t gone away. Clawed and fanged, the system was capable of regeneration, despite the blows it had received. It was an intricate game of chess, and the stakes were immense. Every move counted.

          If the DEA don’t take my life, they’ll take my soul. No matter what she did, it seemed that Magnussen would inevitably lose her soul. What difference did it make if it were to the cartel or to the DEA? The only thing she could do was grab fear by the hand and step forward. Do something. If I don’t, no one will.

          ‘Alright,’ conceded Magnussen, somber, ‘I’ll join the task force.’

          Bowen offered her a large grin, flashing her pearly whites.

          ‘I’m really glad,’ she gushed, reaching for Magnussen’s hands, and squeezing them briefly. Upon releasing them, she presented Magnussen with a file, watching her, almost giddily, jesting, ‘I think it’s time for you to meet your partners.’

          There were nine members in total, all of them men – three Americans, the rest Mexicans. Their résumés had a small, black-and-white photograph attached. After flicking through the pages with their work and experience, Magnussen surveyed their appearance. I’ll be the youngest one, she realized.

          ‘He’s cute,’ she declared, pointing at the man with a well-groomed mustache and dark, medium-length curls.

          ‘Special Agent Breslin,’ noted Bowen, smirking in amusement, ‘He’s in charge of the operation.’

          ‘Of course, he is,’ snickered Magnussen, mirroring her smirk.

          ‘So,’ began Audrey, grabbing a pen, ‘Let’s discuss the details of your transfer.’

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic @agirllovespancakes @artthurshelby @buttercup--bee @captn-andor @cleastrnge @frodo-sam @itssmashedavo @maevesdarling @maevemills @maharani-radha @miawallace @mitchi-c @moonlight-prose @nicolettegreen @operator-sero @pascalisthepunkest @queenofthefaceless @revolution-starter @tisbeautifulfreedom

END THE WAR ON DRUGS: Equity Organization & Drug Policy Alliance

READ MORE: Camarena case, PRI, DFS, MFJP

[purplesong1028]

A Forest Tale

Chapter 3: Body and Soul

Fantasy, AU, !Fox Pacho, !Shapeshifter Pacho

Rating: General Audience

Paring: Chepe/Pacho

Words: 2,919

They drive out of downtown Cali and back into the mountains, with a dozen bags of new human clothes on the backseat. Pacho peeks at them from the rear mirror. Do humans need so many clothes because they can get dirty, or because they want to look good? If someone already looks great, do they need fewer pieces of clothing, or will they want more?

Chepe takes another turn deep into an area of thick forest. It’s unbelievable how fast the car can go. If he were to come to this area as a fox, it’d take him days, but it takes less than 30 minutes with a car.

“Remember the thing I told you earlier?”

“Sure, which one? I remember everything.” He knows humans can forget a lot of things, but he doesn’t. In fact, his powers make him unable to forget.

“We were supposed to go somewhere else, before the whole clothes issue came up.”

“Right, you need me to do something with my magic?”

“Yeah, and here we are!”

They pull over next to a dirty, old building, and the guards give him a slightly suspicious glance as they open the heavy metal door for Chepe. This building feels very different from Chepe’s house: dark, chilly, with an unpleasant smell of blood and mold. Pacho carefully keeps his distance from the wall, so his new human clothes don’t get tainted.

“Come, this way!” Chepe leads him downstairs. “So this mind thing that you do, how does it work exactly? Can you just read someone’s brain?”

“Not exactly.” Pacho tries to find the correct terms. Sometimes there’s simply no human words to explain what he can or cannot do. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking right now, every second, as it happens. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah that’s fine, I don’t need you to do that. What about someone’s past? Can you tell?” They make a few more turns, stopping in front of a rusted door by the end of a narrow corridor.

“The entire past? I can, but it would take days for me to tell you someone’s life.”

“No, not the entire past!” Chepe laughs frustratedly. “You see, I need to ask this guy some questions, yeah? I just need to know if he’s telling the truth.”

“Oh! Then yes, that’s very easy to do.”

“Excelente!” Chepe opens the large lock and pushes the door open.

Inside the dark cell is a man tied up to a chair. His clothes are ripped, stained with dirt and dry blood. His face is all bruised up and swollen; the right eye barely opens as he looks at them.

“Come on then! Show me your magic.”

“Did you do this to him because he didn’t tell you the truth?” Pacho turns to look at Chepe in genuine surprise— the same person who made him breakfast and took him shopping just a few hours ago.

Chepe holds his stare in a candid yet slightly amused expression. “Is that a problem?”

“I mean, is this usually what humans do to other humans when they aren’t honest? That’s…a bit strange.”

“Oh, no! We lie all the time, but this situation is a bit more complicated.” Chepe locks the rusty door again behind them. “Look, you said you wanted to try alcohol later, right? We have all the time for questions then. How about we just finish up here, so we can skip to the good part, hm?”

Pacho doesn’t really like that tone. He can’t say exactly why, but he’s seen how humans speak to their young children, and weirdly, Chepe reminds him of that right now.

“Ok, you just want him to answer your questions truthfully. That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“Do you need him alive after that?”

That seems to take Chepe by surprise for a brief moment. “Why? Whatever you do, does it kill him?”

“No, but if you don’t need him alive, can I eat his soul afterwards?”

“What?! Wait you…what?” The way Chepe shouts his words is almost identical to yesterday, when Pacho first turned into a human.

“Right. You know I don’t need to eat food, and I get my energy in other ways, sí?” Pacho can’t help but smile as he explains. It’s very interesting, because every single person they have interacted with today seems to hold some respect, and even fear for Chepe, but he doesn’t see why. He doesn’t find him that scary at all.

“Basically, human’s soul is a great source of energy, if I can have it.”

“Um…sure, help yourself, I guess.” Chepe shrugs, still looking a bit shocked at the new discovery. “Only after he speaks.”

“Of course.”

Pacho walks over to the man, who’s silently staring up at him, more confused than terrified. Right, he and Chepe just had the soul eating conversation right in front of him.

Well, it doesn’t matter now. He locks their eyes. “Relax, this doesn’t hurt.”

He loves eyes. Doesn’t matter what they look like: blue or dark, tiny or large. They’re beautiful little round doors leading directly to the minds behind them, and minds… Minds are the most fascinating thing about humans.

Pacho doesn’t know how exactly he does it, and he can’t explain or teach it even if he wanted to. It’s like he’s simultaneously at two places: standing right in front of the man in this room, but also inside of his brain, surrounded by all his memories, thoughts and emotions.

“I’m in. Ask whatever you want.”

*

“The fire at our warehouse three days ago, you started it, right?”

“Yes.”

There’s silence. The man isn’t saying anything more because that was a yes or no question, and he already answered. Pacho looks over at Chepe, who’s staring right back at him, and that’s when he realizes Chepe’s actually waiting for him to confirm before asking more questions.

“It’s the truth.” He says. He knows it’s the truth, but he’s not really digging into this person’s past memories to find the answer himself. All he does is to put the mind to a state of complete relaxation and vulnerability, so the person is incapable of lying.

“Who gave you the order?”

“La Quica.” Out of curiosity, Pacho takes a look at La Quica as the thought passes him. Nothing interesting, just a young man with curly hair.

“Did La Quica tell you why?”

“You fucking know why.” The man sneers, also unable to hide any true emotions. “We had a deal! LA is Medellín’s territory, and you assholes didn’t keep your hands out of it. That’s fucking disrespect.”

”Disrespect, hmm?” Chepe also snorts. “So what was that fire, a warning?”

“A lesson.”

“A lesson, I see.” Chepe slowly walks towards the prisoner, and Pacho spares a glance just to make sure he’s still securely tied to the chair —— pure hatred and rage are consuming this man, and sometimes a human’s body has incredible potential when their mind is overtaken by emotions. Pacho’s capable of physically overpowering any human, but only when he’s also grounded in reality. When he’s inside people’s minds, there’s very little his body can do.

“Are there any more lessons planned?”

“That depends on you guys. Patrón said Gilberto should know the right thing to do.”

Who’s this patrón? Pacho searches through his mind, and it seems like this person hasn’t really met the patrón face to face that many times, but it sure came up a lot in conversations he had with other people. From what he could gather, it looks like a middle aged overweight man. He’s about to search for the name, when Chepe calls out to him.

“That’s all I need to know. He’s all yours.”

“Thank you!” Pacho says, both with his physical body and inside the person’s mind, which freaks the prisoner out, but it doesn’t matter, once he takes the soul, it will be all over.

He takes a deep breath, can’t help but feel a bit overexcited. This is going to be his first human soul. He’s heard so much about it, how it’s supposed to be the most wonderful feeling in the world when the pure energy is extracted and consumed, melting into their own magic… He considered just trying it on some random human, when he first gained full power a few months ago, but there was never a good opportunity. It’d be super weird if he just possessed someone on the street, and let that person drop dead a minute later.

But this, a prisoner already weakened and injured, likely not going to live anyway, is the perfect opportunity.

Pacho reaches out with his own energy, wide into the realm of consciousness, and starts consuming. Wow…it feels like everything he’s imagined, but better, more powerful. He can perceive everything about this man’s life at the same time, yet each detail is crystal clear. He is absorbing someone, and every essence of this person’s existence now belongs to him, until the mind is left with nothing but absolute blankness.

He stays inside the empty mind for a while to calm himself down, and then slowly exits the dead place, opening his eyes again inside his own body.

*

“That was fucking unbelievable!” He turns to Chepe, unable to hide his immense exhilaration. “I wish I could show you how it feels!”

But Chepe’s reaction doesn’t match his excitement at all, and he’s just silently staring with a complicated expression. It looks like a mix of many emotions, but mainly just shock and some caution. He could have gone into Chepe’s mind as well to figure out the other emotions, but Chepe did tell him not to do that earlier.

“What? What is it?” He looks down and sees his own hands and arms, now covered in a layer of soft golden glow, like sunlight is attached to his skin. “Oh, interesting! How long has it been like that?”

“Not long, a few seconds.” Chepe glances at the lifeless body. “What exactly did you do in there?”

“It’s hard to explain.” He answers honestly. “I took his soul. I can just do that, like you can’t really explain how humans swallow food, right?”

“Right, and does that make you stronger or?”

“It does, but one soul won’t really make a difference.” He feels his own power inside, just to confirm the conclusion. “But say if I take 50, I’ll definitely become a lot stronger.”

“50,” Chepe repeats, like he’s convincing himself of this reality, “and you can do that to anyone.”

“Anyone.”

“Yeah, I need some fucking fresh air.”

“But quality also matters.” Pacho catches up, “A soul is a soul, but this one wasn’t that good.”

“No surprise there!” Chepe says sarcastically. “God would certainly agree with you on that.”

Pacho has heard humans talking about a God, and from the contexts, it seems like they are referring to some sort of higher power, but that doesn’t exist, right? He hasn’t met one creature that’s more powerful than his kind.

“It’s not because he wasn’t a good person, if that’s what you mean.” They make the same turns as they came in earlier, until the heavy metal door appears at the end of a narrow corridor, and he stops talking when he sees the guards. He can get into the details later.

The guards open the door for them, and sunlight shines through, blindingly bright, inviting them to step outside, back into the warm, lively world.

“Well, if you haven’t figured it out, none of us are good people here.” Chepe continues, once they’re far enough from the guards.

“I think that’s quite clear.” Pacho thinks about the man they just killed as they walk back to the car. “But it’s alright! Your good and bad are human standards, and they don’t matter to me.”

Chepe closes the car door, harder than necessary. “They should, if you’re pretending to be one!”

“I’ll try to pretend better?”

“No, that’s not…” Chepe runs a hand down his face. “Look, I know you think you can do anything because of your powers and whatever, but it’s really more complicated than that, alright?”

“I know that. That’s why we’re fascinated by humans in the first place, remember?”

Chepe rolls his eyes in pure frustration, but doesn’t say anything more. Pacho watches him turning the key, and the car starts moving again.

“I don’t get it.” He turns to the human, who’s now focused on the road. “I only did what you asked.”

The road is empty and they’re the only car here, but Chepe only spares him a brief glance, and it gives him a strange new human feeling, like sourness spreading in his chest.

“It’s not your fault, ok? You didn’t do anything wrong, as long as you don’t start eating the souls of random people.”

“No! Of course not.” He’s not sure if that’s a joke, but it puts a smile back on his face. “But if you are killing anyone else, I’ll take them.”

Chepe laughs at that, loud and genuine.

“So? Are we good?” He asks, just to make sure, because he’s still having trouble understanding the whole thing. Do human emotions always change this fast, for no apparent reason? He wishes he could just get into Chepe’s brain, and it’d be so much easier.

“Let me ask you this.” Chepe doesn’t answer his question, and instead gives him a new one. “What if I tell you to do something without letting you get anything in return? Say if I ask you to burn someone to death, so you won’t be able to get their soul.”

“I don’t see why you can’t do that yourself, but yeah, I don’t mind doing it.”

“Without getting anything for yourself?”

“You’re still introducing the human world to me, right?” He turns to Chepe. The afternoon sunlight is on their left side at the moment, directly shining through the window on the driver's side, making him squint a little. “The food, the clothes, and many other things I hope. That’s what I’m getting in return, for myself.”

Chepe looks genuinely amused, but it’s mixed with disbelief. “For that, you will do whatever I tell you?”

Pacho’s first instinct is to say yes. It was his own offer, and whatever Chepe might want him to do, it should be effortless for him, so what’s the problem? But still, he stops himself from answering immediately, and takes a bit more time to consider possibilities. Maybe he’s missing something crucial, because Chepe’s tone makes the question sound more like a challenge or bait, like he’s expecting Pacho to say no.

“I will do what I’m able to, as long as it doesn’t hurt me.” He ends up saying. “But I don’t think you can, or want to hurt me.”

“What makes you think I don’t want to? Didn’t I just tell you none of us are good people here?”

“I think…you’re not good to some other humans.” Pacho tries to put his thoughts into words. The language isn’t the challenge, but explaining what’s happening in his own mind can be such a sticky thing, so much more difficult than reading someone else’s. “But you’ve been good to me. That’s what matters.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Chepe shakes his head, laughing in an almost defeated manner. “Alright, guess we can leave it at that.”

*

They are quiet for the rest of the drive. It’s clear that Chepe doesn’t want to continue the conversation, at least not on the same topic, so Pacho turns his attention to outside, observing the fast moving scenery.

They get back to the house, and a guard greets Chepe with a wary expression. “I’m very sorry, patrón. We couldn’t find your fox.”

“What?” It takes Chepe a brief moment to remember his own order this morning. “Oh right, that’s fine. It probably ran back to the woods, just leave it be.”

The guard nods, eyes widening in surprise, and hurries to leave the room.

“Can I ask you something?” Pacho calls out before the human can walk away.

Chepe turns back around, leaning on a large wooden shell full of human artworks and crafts. “Usually you just ask.”

That’s right, but this question feels different, more personal. “You don’t torture animals when you hunt, so how comes that you torture your own kind?”

“That’s a fucking good question.” Chepe chuckles, looking truly impressed. “I’m not sure you’ll understand the answer though, even if I tell you.”

“I’ll try.”

“You will, but not today.” Chepe reaches up and claps a hand on his shoulder. “I need to go prepare for a meeting later. Why don’t you go look around the house, try on your new clothes or something, I’ll be back before dinner.”

He only registers half of the words. All his attention immediately goes to the left shoulder where Chepe’s palm is. The contact makes him instinctively tense up.

“What’s wrong now?” Chepe quickly drops his hand. “You can’t be touched?”

“No, I can.” He shakes himself out of it. “That was just the first time I physically touched a human.”

“Wait, really?! Didn’t you live 500 years?”

“When I’m also in my human form, I mean. It feels different for some reason.” He covers his shoulder, still feeling the residual sensation from the brief contact. “Don’t worry, I’ll get used to the human body.”

Many different emotions flash across Chepe’s face: awkwardness, confusion, and something new, something he really can’t decipher.

“Right, ok. I’ll see you later then.”

Guess they’ll leave it at that.

@ashlingiswriting @yourlocalspacewitxch @mandaloria314 @drabbles-mc @cherixrosa @cheesybadgers @cositapreciosa @criatividad-e @alreadywritten @narcolini @mon-capuccino @amane-otaku @sikkui

[hausofmamadas]

PACHO Y MIGUEL | An enemies to lovers hatestory for the ages

✷✷✷ PT 1 ✷✷✷

Salud a mi gente! This little gif dump is the first of two or maybe three sksks for my df (dear friend) @purplesong1028 and her Pacho/Miguel fanfic, A Perfect Storm. Feel free to gaze at these thurstily and then go read the entire fic. It’s one of those where like it should make no sense? Except like it fully fucking does?? A testament to @purplesong1028’s skills, si me sienten.

From Narcos: Mexico, Season 2, episode 1 - Salva el Tigre

᪥

᪥

It’s funny too bc I never would’ve put these two together but like now, I can’t unsee them. Like I never noticed how much Miguel actually, genuinely legit looks like he’s checking out Pacho appreciating mans for the snack that he is por supuesto until the pair was like incepted into my mind. It’s almost like a funhouse mirror where if you turn off the subtitles so you can ignore the canonically antagonistic dialogue, which is anywhere from one of those passive agressive, Real-World, reality TV type of confessionals, to a full-on Untucked brawl with these two pettiest of queens duking it out and just watch them interact, the looks of hate? somehow? Turn into like?? looks of ….longing to hate-fuck instead?? It makes no sense except it fully does. So, if any of that along with Pacho being cool, quippy, and clever and Miguel being hilariously neurotic, becoming undone by his own internalized homophobia and machismo sounds like your thing, fíjatela en chinga, enserio mis cabrones

═

taglist(have some gifs): @ashlingnarcos @cherixrosa @narcolini @cositapreciosa @purplesong1028 @criatividad-e @tinylittleobsessions @cigarettesaftersunset @artemiseamoon @narcos-narcosmx @thesolotomyhan @mandaloria314 @bellinitini @narcosmx @alreadywritten @drabbles-mc @complete-nonsequitur @narcosmx @dashavau

[ashlingnarcos]

Carrillo and Pacho for your random pairing challenge, just because I can’t imagine it at all but it’ll be so hot😆

@purplesong1028: 💛sorry for the wait!

Pacho’s new to the Cali cartel and looking to take out a mid-level enemy, and with this being one of his first missions afield, he wants to prove himself to Gilberto and Miguel and Chepe. He’s young, Medellín is new territory to him, and he’s ready for adventure.

Carrillo’s commanding his own unit for the first time, and as the oldest son of a fearsome Santanderean general, he wants to prove himself, so he’s going off the books with a friend to rustle up some information. He’s young, Medellín is new territory to him, and he’s ready for adventure.

They are, of course, hunting the same man.

Carrillo doesn’t know that yet.

Gay bar, dancing. Carrillo sticks out like a sore thumb; the man can’t dance. But he’s convincing enough in the manner of a guy new to it all that he’s generally accepted as a harmless buffoon, rather than some type of threat.

The guy goes into a back room. Carrillo simply follows the man after a few seconds, looking like he knows what he’s doing for the first time in a while. He has the guy’s hands zip tied and hauls him towards the door, intending to take him to a hideout for questioning. There’s a scraping sound, and he catches a glimpse of someone following him, but isn’t able to see in time before the person darts behind a door, so he just focuses on getting out of there faster.

Right outside the back door, someone knocks the gun out of his hands and goes after him with a knife. Swift savage slashes, he’s blocking it with his forearms, and finally pins the man down and breaks his arm.

In the meantime, Carrillo’s buddy has pulled up in their getaway car and is wrestling the captive into it: let’s go, let’s go. Carrillo runs—it will only take a couple seconds—

Mistake.

From over Carrillo’s left shoulder come two whistling shots; he watches his captive’s head explode into a bloody mess, then his friend’s. Turns.

The man is smiling, his right arm hanging at a bad angle, his left hand steady on the gun. He can shoot nearly as well with his left hand as he can with his right. He can do most anything.

And Carrillo, who had not recognized him earlier, sees that smile and remembers—this man, earlier, he had danced with this man and thought nothing of him. This man had even introduced himself: Pacho. Something bursts in Carrillo’s gut—shame, probably, he thinks.

He does not know it, but when they danced, Pacho didn’t know who Carrillo was, didn’t care, and neither of them were particularly interested in each other, only in staying close to the target. He’ll never know it. In this moment, Carrillo only thinks that Pacho must have known all along and all along been grinning at him, on the inside, much as he’s grinning now, with a raw animal satisfaction.

It’s shame, isn’t it. This man’s hands on his hips. It’s.

At the time, it had been nothing, but now, knowing the man as an enemy, it’s no longer that simple.

Carrillo stands up straight, holds himself still. His arms are ribboned in blood from the knife fight; his blood drips onto the back alley dirt. Friday night in Medellín is never quiet, but for some reason he can’t hear it.

The smile melts off Pacho’s face, and he raises the gun again, quite deliberately. The bullet nicks Carrillo’s head; barely any blood. He didn’t flinch. Pacho appears to consider this.

It’s too long a distance to run. Any other man, and Carrillo would be charging full tilt at him right now, more than willing to take a few bullets scattered across his chest, his stomach, just for that brief shining moment he’d have with his hands around the throat—but he knows, now, that Pacho would have him down easily as blinking, headshot inevitable. So he stands there, and Pacho considers him, and then Pacho shoots.

Carrillo’s on the ground. Silent, still. Biting down so hard on nothing that he all but fractures his own jaw. It was a bullet through the arm—his right arm. Now they match, though not quite. A bullet’s worse than a clean break. And that’s not counting the two bodies in the car. But Carrillo himself isn’t dead, and he isn’t going to die anytime soon, either. He looks up.

Pacho is gone.

Medellín is too big a city; the night sky above is completely starless.

Carrillo looks again. Pacho is still gone.

[nerryend]

Pacho×Javier

[thatwhorethatyouadore]

A Different Man (Pacho Herrera x Reader) Pt. 1

AN: As you all know, Pacho is the flamboyant gay godfather of the Cali Cartel, and one of the most powerful men in the cocaine business. But what would happen when he was confronted by his past? Before the business, before the negotiations, before tearing people apart with motorcycles... A sort of realistic AU that in the beginning, before Pacho came out, he was married to a woman (reader), and even had a child with her... but later abandons them both after she finds out a secret of his... Ten years later, now a kingpin, Pacho Herrera hopes to come to closing terms with the reader and his past... but it won’t go as smoothly as he thinks.

—

It was awkward, going into a place filled with guards to the brim and an extravagant house that put all other billionaires to shame. She had never lived this way with him before, even after they had their son together. They used to live paycheck to paycheck, and though her parents helped her family out tremendously, she was always the one to insist that they make their own doing. He was a jeweler, and she was a simple 9th grade history teacher. One may think they’d make sufficient money, but the place that they lived in, costs were exorbitant. So they had no time for luxuries…

She never remembered any red flags of him trafficking. Perhaps he’d stay a little later in the night for work, but she always recounted waking up in the morning with him beside her in her bed. He was always up before her, either looking up at the sky or watching her sleep, and she always opened her eyes to see his brown ones looking into her own. She smiled, and they would kiss, and then she would go to their son’s room to check on him. Afterwards, she’d leave, and he would take care of their son for the first part of the day. Then, when she came back, he would leave to do his night job, and the cycle would repeat for days on end.

But on one of those days, that would change entirely.

It was their anniversary that day. She remembered that clearly. They had been together for 3 or 4 years, and their son, Alejandro (Ali for short), had just turned one. In those past months, Pacho had seemed more withdrawn and less social as he used to be, and when confronting him about this, he always brushed her off. It definitely put a strain on their marriage, but she hoped that perhaps the little surprise she’d make for him would lighten his day. She sent Ali to her parents’ house for the day, hoping to just have the time between the two of them to rekindle that fire they once had.

She didn’t remember exactly how it came to be, but she ended up in a bar… Oh, that’s right. He didn’t even show up. Even when he told her through the phone that he would be home soon to celebrate. Frustrated, she had gotten a cab and went to the nearest bar, hoping to at least ease her anger with a few drinks. Then she could go back home, fall asleep, and forget about their anniversary, as he obviously did.

But then she saw it. A scene that would never be erased from her mind, and all she saw soon after were tears clouding her eyes.

Pacho was there. And not only him, but a man. They were dancing with each other, obviously intoxicated, until the man captured Pacho’s lips with his own. Everybody, including them, were too drunk on their own to notice this happening… except her. It was only a small peck, but it was enough for her to realize that after all these days, he wasn’t working late -- but having an affair with a man.

He was horrified when she called out his name. She left him, and soon he was following her on her feet. She could recall the shouts that left her mouth, the anger in her heart. He tried to placate the situation, but it was far too late.

She went to her parents’ house that night. And the next morning, she had packed her things, told him good riddance, and left. Apparently he’d forgotten all about her, because after that, he never once tried to call her family’s home. Perhaps he was too ashamed, too mortified to even see his own son.

That was years ago; hell, though it was a nightmare then, it had become a blur of the past in her mind. She had gotten her own apartment, and from there her and her son moved into it. And with what was happening, she even applied for a position as a Spanish teacher in the United States, hoping to get away from all the violence occurring in Colombia. But all the memories flooded back when she saw the smile of her old lover, the same eyes that gazed into her soul as they would when they made love back then. He walked up to her, his arms spread as if he was hoping to hug her like an old friend, a smile on his face. She didn’t reciprocate that same warmness he was giving her, and he took note of this, nodding as his smile fell and he sunk back into the chair he got up from. She sat down quietly, and the server came to ask what she wanted to drink; she told them wine. A bottle of it. If he wanted to talk to her so desperately, she would need to drink to ignore the emotions flooding over her.

“You look good,” he said, his sunglasses hanging from the front of his shirt. “As beautiful as I always remembered you to be.”

She didn’t respond. She only looked at him, wanting him to feel some sort of shame or guiltiness. It wasn’t him even cheating on her that made her angry about the past; it was the lie that he kept from her throughout their entire relationship, and afterwards, abandoning her and their young child. She didn’t want to be his friend, and she most certainly didn’t want to be associated with one of Cali’s kingpins. “What do you want, Pacho?”

He leaned forward, his eyes still sinking her in as he smiled softly. “How are you these days?”

“I’m not here to rebuild a friendship with you. I came here because you asked me to.”

“But you still came,” he pointed out.

“I can leave if it’s not important.”

He laughed, taking a long sip of the daiquiri in his hand. He shook the glass slowly, seeming to ponder. “Can’t I catch up with my late wife?”

“I don’t want to catch up with you, Pacho. You’ve already made us suffer enough.”

She saw the hurt in his eyes, and though he said nothing, the pain seemed to have transferred to her as well. But only his eyes showed the slightest hint of emotion. He took a deep breath. “I haven’t forgotten. You both are still the most important people in my life.”

“We both know that’s bullshit,” She said coolly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have abandoned us like we were nothing.”

“And I’m sorry for that,” he responded. His hand was on the table, and she saw that familiar golden ring around his finger. It wasn’t their marriage ring, but a ring she had given him on his birthday so long ago. It was all she could afford, and yet he was so happy to have gotten it. He noticed her looking at the ring on his finger, and he smiled, looking down at it as well. “I wear it often,” he said. “And my wedding ring. Depending on the occasion,” He added, letting a small laugh out.

“Why did you keep them?” She said, and it was more in a curious tone than it was irritated.

“Because it’s a reminder of us. And when we were in love.”

She turned away and scoffed, “You never loved me, Francisco.”

Francisco was his first name, and a strike of nostalgia seemed to hit his eyes when she said it. Nobody had called him that for a very long time, she’d wager. “But I did,” he stated, and she had to take a sip of her wine after that sentence. “Not with your body…”

Her eyes met his. She knew exactly what he meant.

“But with you.” Her hands were starting to become clammy, her heart pounding in her chest. For some reason, in her gut, she knew he was telling the truth with those words. Words from his heart. “The times we were together made me… made me feel something.”

For once, she didn’t filter what she said. Her subconscious had taken over her conscious. “You’re gay, Pacho,” she stated bluntly.

A few of the men turned to look at them, and Pacho didn’t break his gaze from her. It was a widely known fact that he was gay; he told the whole world about it. But that didn’t mean he appreciated the venom in her tone when she said it. “Yes,” He said. “Yes I am.”

“Then how is it possible-...”

“I loved you as a person, not as a partner. Does that make more sense?” He said, and she could feel the tension from him, as if she was already supposed to know. But she didn’t. His voice lowered, continuing, “Do you hate me because of it?”

“I don’t hate you because you’re gay, Pacho,” she said. “I don’t hate you at all.” There was a pause between them. Then, “I don’t want anything to do with you because you’ve changed.”

“Changed?” He said, his voice still calm. Though his eyes told her that he was taken aback by this presumption. “How?”

She shook her head, grabbing her purse. Opening it, he eyed what she was pulling out. Not that it could be anything dangerous, that is; they’ve already checked her bag before she even stepped foot into the property. Nonetheless, he seemed to have a keen interest in what she was going to grab.

He soon saw her place some money on the table, and his eyes narrowed at her. “What are you doing?”

She stood up, grabbing her bag. “I’m leaving.”

He scoffed, but she didn’t care. She turned around to the door, only to be stopped by two men that were armed with guns. She was shocked, and when this happened, Pacho stood up himself. She looked back, noticing the smug countenance on his face. “You always want to have the last word, don’t you?” He began to walk towards her, and she swallowed the hard lump in her throat. When he came too close for comfort, she tried to look away, but his hand went under her chin and turned her face to look directly at his. “It’s cute how you think you can just walk away from me again. A lot has changed in these years, my dear…” He leaned closer to her, almost lowering his voice to a whisper, “And I’m not done talking to you yet.”

She tried as hard as she could to seem courageous, not pushing him away nor getting closer. The air felt stagnant as she traced her words out carefully. “You’re not the man I used to know.”

“And you’re not the woman I used to know. But we all change, don’t we?”

“No…” She said, shaking her head slowly. “But you aren’t the man I fell in love with when we got married. You’re not the man that used to love me as a person, or however you put it… You… You’ve changed. You’re a complete monster.”

He was amusingly surprised by the words. “A monster?” He asked in a more innocent tone. “Bold words you’re using to a kingpin of the Cali, don’t you think?”

“And what are you going to do?” She said, the confidence growing within her. “Rip me apart with motorcycles the way you did with Claudio Salazar? Or put a bullet in my head?”

He seemed disgruntled with the mention of Claudio. “Don’t mention that asshole Salazar, sweetheart. He’s not as innocent as he seems.”

“You quartered him like he was some sort of meat.”

“And now he is!” He said enthusiastically, spreading his hands. “Meat for the fishes, is he not? I’m giving back to Mother Nature!”

“You sick man…” She started, and, slipping between his grasp and the bodyguard behind him, she tried to run.

However, his hand had caught her forearm before she could bolt, and effortlessly dragged and pushed her to the side of the wall. His body caged hers so she couldn’t leave. He took out the gun from his pocket and placed it under her chin, making her finally stop struggling and stood catatonically. “Are you stupid? What did I say about trying to run away from me?” He asked, his other forearm pushing against her chest and nearly brushing atop her breasts. The gun dug into her skin, and every breath she took it felt as though it sunk in deeper.

“What do you want?” She said, exasperated. She’d be damned if she said she wasn’t horrified that he’d kill her at that moment.

He tsked at her, his other hand that didn’t hold the revolver came up to cup her face. “Why are you so cold to me, hm? Are you that upset that I didn’t like the feeling of your pussy?”

She knew he was taunting her, trying to make her struggle against him -- it seemed as if he was having fun with it. But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. It took two players to play this game. “No. You’re just one of many men, Pacho… And many of them would disagree.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, and she saw the glimmer in his eyes. “Is that so?” He asked, and his face got closer to hers. “Then tell me, my love… Did they fuck you like I did? Did they make you scream their name like I did?” His voice then got lower, “Did you ever let them put a baby into you… like I did?”

She shook her head, seething with rage. “No.”

“Then you should thank me. Many women would dream of carrying my child.”

“I’m thankful that you gave me this child. Not because of your arrogance that you were the one to father him… but because he’s the best boy I could’ve asked for.”

A small, honest smile formed on his face as his hold on her lightened. She felt that she could breathe more easily now, the air less stagnant as the tension dissipated. “I want to see him.”

She scoffed at the notion. “Why now, all of a sudden? You couldn’t make that decision ten years ago?”

“Things have been hard,” he said, slowly walking back to where he sat. His hand motioned to the table, as if ordering her to sit back down. When she didn’t move, he sighed, tapping his fingers on the table. “I appreciate your consideration, but the wine will cost a thousand times more than that excuse of money you put on the table. All of which I’ll be paying. So be a kind guest and finish it.”

“I didn’t know guests are supposed to follow their host’s orders,” She responded. “Or be forced to have dinner.”

“Do you really want to test my patience?” His voice had a mixture of impatience and frustration within it. “We can sit and talk about our son, but I’m still going to see him. Whether you permit it or not.”

“Not in this place, you aren’t,” She said quietly, almost indistinguishable. She knew she didn’t have a say on the matter, but the desperation in her voice was tangible. “If you want to see your son… it won’t be here.”

He eyed her suspiciously; “Then where?”

She didn’t want to, but she knew that at the end of the day, she didn’t have a choice. She could either maneuver the situation to her favor, or she could resist, but she knew the latter wouldn’t turn out successful. As much as she didn’t want to, when Pacho Herrera wanted something, you had to give it to him.

But in what way was up to her.

[queenielacy]

Imagine: Elias is Gilberto’s son.

He’s the youngest of Gilberto’s children, born to his first wife...or was it his second wife? It really didn’t matter, Gilberto didn’t differentiate based on their maternal lineage. He differentiated them based on their intellect, their wit, their resourcefulness and that made Elias his favorite child. He had a brilliant mind, graduated top of his class at the young age of 15. He went to the best University in Colombia and at twenty years old, he was in his second year of law school.

That surprised everyone. They were sure Gilberto would use the boy’s brains to build his empire, to expand and make even more money, but Gilberto was determined to keep Elias away from his life of crime. Gilberto decided that his favorite child would go down the straight and narrow path. He would become a lawyer, and help others stay out of trouble. If he was great at his craft, maybe he could become the district attorney. After that, the sky was the limit. He could go on to be a judge or go down the political path and become a congressman. Gilbert knew his baby could do anything, but he had to keep him out of trouble. That meant keeping him away from the thugs that looked at him with lustful eyes.

Elias came out as gay when he was 16 and Gilberto was fine with it. He never had an issue with homosexuals. Gilberto was never deeply religious and honestly didn’t care who other people fucked...but he did care who Elias fucked. Due to his position of power, Elias could live openly and didn’t have to worry about being attacked or hurt. That meant the other men that were gay or bisexual tried to seduce his son. He’d be damn if he would allow anyone his business to seduce his son. His son would commit to a nice young man, maybe a fellow lawyer or doctor. He wouldn’t be with a drug dealer, he wouldn’t be corrupted but Elias had other plans.

Elias looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He was dressed tight white jeans that hugged his behind and a tight white shirt. His hair was perfectly coiffed and his shoes shined. Once he was satisfied with his reflection, he went over to his dresser. He picked up his cologne bottle and sprayed some on. He grabbed the thin gold chain and placed it around his neck before grabbing his gold watch and bracelet. He placed them on before going over to the door and opening it. He could hear the band playing music in the backyard and conversations taking place. He smiled as he started down the staircase to join the rest of the party.

“Ah, there is my son!” Gilberto exclaimed as Elias came into the crowded foyer. Elias smiled as he dad grabbed him. He introduced him to some of his friend and Elias smiled and expressed pleasantries. Elias looked around the room and frowned.

“Where is Mr. Herrera?” Elias asked as he turned back to his father.

“He’ll be here soon. You know how Pacho is, he likes to make an entrance.” Gilberto said before going back to his conversation with his friend. Elias nodded. He really hoped Pacho would come tonight. Elias found the older man extremely attractive and had been cozying up to him and his lover, Manuel, for a while now. He wanted them and he was determined to have them.

The rumble of motorcycles brought Elias out of his thoughts. It was unusual because he didn’t think any of his father’s friends rode motorcycles. He looked toward the front door and waited for the riders to walk in. It didn’t take long for the door to open and people to file in. He smiled as he saw Mr. Herrera, Pacho, and Manuel walk in flanked by Pacho’s other sicarios. Elias smiled as he slipped away from his father and moved toward them. The Godfather was so suave as he walked in to the party, dressed to the nines in his leather jacket and perfect silk shirt. There wasn’t a hair out of place and Elias didn’t expect anything less from the man.

“Mr. Herrera, I’m happy you made it.” Elias greeted him as he sauntered up to the Cali Godfather. “Manuel, it’s nice to see you as well.” He added.

Pacho smirked as he looked the young man up and down. Pacho couldn’t deny it, Elias was extremely sexy. He would love to have the boy on his arm and in his bed. He had many fantasies about him and Manuel and how good they would look together, but he knew better than to approach Elias in that way. Gilberto made it very clear that his young son was off limits to him and the others within the Cartel. He respected Gilberto too much to go against his wishes. The older man was the only one to give him a chance, not even Gilberto’s brother originally wanted him to hold a high position within the Cartel. Gilberto stuck out his neck for him and he wouldn’t let the man down. He’d control his hormones no matter how hard it may be.   

“Pacho!” Gilberto exclaimed as he walked over to them. “I am glad you are here, please have fun. No business tonight, okay? This is party. I don’t want to see you huddled up with Chepe or my brother talking business.” He said with a chuckle. “I expect to see you drunk.” He joked.

Pacho smiled. “It will be a fun night.” He said as he turned away from Elias and looked at Gilberto.

“Elias.” Gilberto started. “Take them outside, get them something to eat.” He said before he was pulled away by his fourth wife, or was it his third wife?

Elias nodded before taking Pacho and Manuel’s hands. “Come on.” He said and then led the men outside to the backyard. It was decorated with fairy lights and candles. Flowers were placed in the middle of the tables and waiters moved around bring food and drinks to the party goers. Elias led them to an empty table and had them sit down before calling for items to be brought over. Elias slipped onto the seat between the two and smirked.

“It’s been a while.” Elias stated and Pacho nodded.

“It has.” Pacho added. He purposely stayed away from the young man. He didn’t trust himself to stay around him for too long.

“I would say you two have been avoiding me.” He smirked.

“Never.” Manuel spoke up. “We have just been really busy. We love to see your beautiful face.” He spoke and Elias chuckled as he moved to press against Manuel. Pacho watched as the two flirted with one another. Manuel was a bit looser than him, but Manuel knew the rules. It wouldn’t go beyond flirting. The two looked beautiful together. Elias blushed as Manuel whispered something to him before pressing his hand against Manuel’s thigh. The trio didn’t even notice that the workers brought over food and alcohol.

Pacho tore his eyes away from two before his emotions got the better of him. He grabbed a piece of fruit and bit into it. He noticed the music change and Elias gasped.

“I love this song.” He said and then stood up. “Come on, let’s dance.” He said and grabbed Manuel’s hand. Manuel looked over at Pacho and Pacho nodded. He was sure Gilberto wouldn’t care about a dance. Besides, he didn’t see the older man around. Manuel got up and followed Elias to the dance floor and the two started to dance. Manuel kept a bit of distance between the two, but the dance was still a sensual one. Pacho could feel the desire stirring inside of him as the two moved. He knew he should fight off this desire, but he told himself he would allow himself this one indulgence.

He saw Elias whisper something to Manuel and the notice the two starting to slip away. He raised his eyebrow at this. What did Elias say? Manuel knew better than this, but he couldn’t blame the man for getting caught up in his spell. “Fuck…” He cursed under his breath. He had to go save Manuel from making a mistake. At least, that’s what he was telling himself.

Pacho got up and pushed his way through the crowd of dancers and partygoers. He looked around and saw a Manuel’s backside before disappearing around the corner. He slowly followed the couple, making sure to not draw any attention to himself. He rounded the corner to the other section of the grand estate. He was blocked off from the other partygoers. He stepped over the barrier and continued walking. He rounded another corner and found Manuel and Elias sitting inside and beautiful white gazebo. Elias was sitting on Manuel’s lap, laughing about something. Pacho slowly approached the couple, trying to step softly, but Elias still heard him.

Elias smiled as he looked over at Pacho. “I told you he would follow.” Manuel said as he watched Pacho approach them.

“Manuel…” Pacho trailed off, giving Manuel a pointed look.

“Come sit.” Elias said and patted the place next to Manuel. Pacho went against his better judgement and sat down next to Manuel. Elias smiled as he slung an arm around Manuel. “I’ve been waiting to get this close to both of you. I’m glad I have you now.” He said before turning to Manuel. He leaned in and gave Manuel a kiss on the lips. Manuel gave in and kissed the younger man back. Pacho watched the two kiss and immediately felt his pants growing tighter. This sight was better than he ever imagined. The two slowly kissed, Manuel’s tongue pushing inside of Elias’ mouth. Elias let out a little moan before pulling back. He smirked before looking at Pacho. He reached up and grabbed Pacho by his silk shirt. He pulled Pacho close and Pacho allowed the younger man to guide him forward. Elias pressed his lips to Pacho and Pacho also gave in, kissing Elias softly at first and allowing Elias to control the kiss. Pacho let out a low growl before placing his hands on both sides of Elias’ face, deepening the kiss. He forced his tongue inside of Elias’ mouth as he roughly kissed him. Elias let out a whimper as his hands slid down Pacho’s tone torso. Pacho could hear Manuel swear beside him as he watched. The kiss was better than any of his dreams and fantasies. The younger man’s lips were perfect. He could get used to this, waking up to his kisses in the morning and kissing Elias goodnight...but he couldn’t have this.

Pacho pulled away slowly, causing Elias to whimper. The younger man chased Pacho’s lips but Pacho stopped him. “No, I...We can’t do this.” Pacho whispered before pulling away.

“Pacho, why?” Elias questioned. “...Is it me?” He asked, questioning if the man found him desirable.

“No, God no.” Pacho answered. The tent in his pants showed how much he desired Elias. “I made a promise to your father and I respect him too much to go back on that.” Pacho said before standing up. “Come on, Manuel.”

Elias frowned as Manuel gently coaxed him off his lap and placed him on the bench. He watched the two men walk out of the gazebo and disappear around the corner. He huffed before getting up. He walked through the yard and back into the house. He went over to the front door and noticed the motorcycles were gone.

Elias turned around and went back into the house, walking around the estate until he found his father. “I need to talk to you.” Elias rudely interrupted the conversation Gilberto was having. Gilberto excused himself before following Elias into an empty room. He closed the door behind him. “What do you need since you rudely interrupted me?” Gilberto asked his son.

“You told Pacho to stay away from me?” Elias questioned and Gilberto sighed.

“I told them all to stay away from you.” Gilberto answered and Elias scoffed.

“Why would yo-.”

“Why would I?” Gilberto started, cutting Elias off. “You can’t be serious. These are not good people. I will not allow them to corrupt you.”

“Corrupt me?” Elias questioned.

“Yes, they will corrupt you!” Gilberto yelled.

“I’m already corrupted by being your son!” Elias yelled and Gilberto’s face soften. “I may not be in the business but everyone knows I’m your son and everyone knows what you really do, so I’m guilty by association. I’ll get a law degree and I’ll be on the straight and narrow, but I’ll never be clean!” Elias yelled.

Gilberto sighed before moving closer to Elias. He patted his son’s cheek. “You’ll thank me for this one day, you’ll see.” Gilberto said, doubling down on his decision. “Those relationships always end in heartbreak.”

“Maybe so.” Elias answered. “But you raised a strong boy, I can handle the pain.” He said before pushing past his father and leaving the room. Gilberto sighed. He was sure his son would understand later. He just needed time to think. He would come to the right conclusion, at least he hoped.

I am probably going to write a part 2 to this. I liked this ‘verse more than I thought I would. I could go in a couple different directions...maybe I will write multiple parts that go down different paths. Thank you for reading!