Alana was on it.
Two horrible days later, while Luisa and I had hunkered down in Mazatlán, I was approached by the coroner. He had bad news. Alana’s remains were found among the wreckage. They ran her through DNA testing and it was a match. They were one hundred percent certain that my sister was dead. And the police had no idea who was behind it. Even when they were paid handsomely by me, they still couldn’t come up with any leads, and the police down in Jalisco, where Alana had lived, were worthless as well.
I didn’t feel anything at first.
I remembered Luisa gripping my hand.
The breath being knocked out of me.
But it was all rather fitting. I recall thinking, this figures. Because it did. Violence, the cartel way of life, had taken my parents from me. My sister Beatriz. My sister Violetta, who I saw explode in a car bomb before my very eyes. Now Alana. The only Bernal left was her twin, Marguerite, who chose to stay as far away from me as possible, who wanted to forget that I was her brother. She lived in New York and had cut all ties with me, not only for her own safety, but because she wanted to pretend I didn’t exist. My only family left hated me.
I hated me. Because this had all been my fault. Each death was on my head. From the years as the right-hand man to Travis Raines and his cartel, to overthrowing him, to starting my own, and then to overtaking Salvador Reyes, up, up, up to the top. They all died because I kept climbing.
Family is everything. That is the creed in this country. But that creed gets others killed. And it slowly kills you. Your family is the first thing you’ll lose. Your soul will be the last.
Luckily, I didn’t have much of either anymore.
I had Luisa, of course. She had become my family, my confidante, my lover, my friend. She had become everything to me, in bed and outside of it. But she was a weakness, my weakness. She was what they would go after next, the last thing I could possibly lose.
Unless I lost her first.
I was keeping her safe, as safe as I could, as safe as anyone could. I had all of Sinaloa under my finger, which meant the police and the military. Guards were outside my door, my compound was patrolled, the hills were watched … I had eyes everywhere. Radios, cell phones, everything was monitored with what the local military had. If anyone was coming, we knew about it.
In reality there were few to fear. America wouldn’t touch me, not after I had informed on Salvador to the DEA. I had the Juarez plaza and unity with Nuevo Laredo. After I seized Tijuana, which was still my plan, I would control everything except the Gulf. They were not true Sinaloans, not like me, not like the real narco royalty. They were who I had to watch, my only real threat in the end. And they had tried before, only to be thwarted in the process.
But keeping Luisa safe from others also meant keeping her away from me. I couldn’t let what happened last night happen again. She couldn’t be my own victim. I knew I was hurting her by pushing her away, by keeping her at a distance. But it was for her own good, and mine.
I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I knew I wasn’t myself. I woke up with this deep-seated need to maim and hurt. To fuck. To make others suffer, as I suffered.
And I knew I had to use this anger, sharpen it like a knife. It would be greater than any weapon.
The only way through was up. To the top. Until I had all of Mexico. Until I was unstoppable.
Until there was nothing left to fear.
***
There was a knock at my office door. I didn’t have to ask who it was. It was always Este. Luisa never bothered to knock anymore. She never bothered at all.
“Come in,” I said, my voice sounding more tired than I’d like. I didn’t want Este to think I wasn’t on top of the game. He didn’t need to know about my dreams, the sleepless nights. It had been a long day, though, and I supposed I was allowed to look like I’d been working at my desk from dawn until dusk.
The door opened and he stepped in. As usual he looked like a fucking moron in his board shorts and wife-beater. Flip-flops on his feet, like a damn Californian cartoon.
“Lose a bet?” I asked as I briefly looked him over.
“You used that line last week,” he said, sitting down across from me on the other side of the desk. He kicked off his flip-flops and crossed his legs at the ankles. My lip curled in disgust, the thought of his dirty feet on my sheepskin rug.
“I’ll try to be more original next time,” I said dryly, putting my agenda away. I folded my hands in front of me and gave him a pointed look. “Have we found him yet?”
A slow, crooked smile spread across his face. It told me everything I needed to know.