You know you’re in Mexico when the smell of exhaust burns your nose. As I maneuver this pickup truck through the pothole-riddled streets, I glance warily at the rundown concrete buildings doubling as bars, neon lights flashing signs for Modelo and Bud Light. I’m on my way to meet a business partner about a shipment of guns we have lined up for delivery, but this piece of shit pickup does little to disguise me in this small town in northwestern Sonora. Everyone knows everyone here, and I’m the outsider.

Men stand on street corners and hold their stare as I drive slowly through the streets, scanning the area for the building I’m meeting Navarro at. There are no building numbers to guide me. All I know is it’s a teal building with a Tecate billboard above it.

Dust kicks up from the gravel street as I turn the steering wheel quickly, finally spotting the building. Juan Santiago and Alvaro pull up in a truck next to me. They work for my father here in Mexico and will ensure my safety while I’m here. As a habit, I make note of my surroundings before I exit the truck and approach the steel door. I nod at a local who’s made it his business to let me know he’s watching me, and he turns and goes back to whatever he was tending to.

I inhale a deep, calming breath before tugging the heavy door open. Inside, it looks like any other dive bar. Tall, beat-up pub tables are scattered throughout the sparse room. A few pool tables line the wall to the left with lights flickering over them—a sign of Mexico’s still badly managed utility infrastructure.

“Estrada,” the deep voice calls out from a corner booth behind me. When I turn, I see Navarro, flanked by two women—prostitutes, I assume. Empty shot glasses and beer bottles line the table, and I can make out the red, burning light of a cigarette.

“Navarro,” I say as I approach the table. He reaches out his hand to shake mine and nods for me to take a seat across from him.

Juan Santiago takes a seat at the bar to watch us, and Alvaro stands near the entrance. They’re good. They position themselves away from each other, but where they can easily watch everything happening inside.

“Ladies, Alejandro Estrada.” Navarro introduces me with excitement in his voice.

I swallow hard and nod politely, barely containing my cringe when I see the bruises lining the inner arm of one of the women, a telltale signs that she’s a junkie. Both women are dressed provocatively and hanging on each of his arms. I feel simultaneously disgusted and sympathetic toward them, but I hide it. I hide it all, keeping my face professional, powerful; exactly the façade I need to have while I’m here, even though I’m tired of this charade.

“Navarro, thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

“Is there a problem, son?”

“No, but we need to move back the shipment and change the route of the AKs. ATF is all over my ass, and I’m sure they’ve got our route marked. They’re waiting to take this shipment out.” Cortez and his men have been everywhere. The nice thing is they make their presence known. They don’t hide. They want me and my business and they’re brazen about taking it.

He nods as he licks his lips. “We can manage that. We’ll come through Texas instead. Will take us longer to get them to you, but it’s safer, I agree. It’ll cost more, you know.” He narrows his eyes slightly, an unspoken understanding that I’ll have to pay.

I nod firmly. “I’m willing to pay. My buyers understand there will be a slight delay.”

“Then let me make a few calls. How long will you be in Mexico?” the old man asks with a raspy voice. He reminds me of my father but heavier with short graying hair and dark sullen eyes.

“Not long. Tending to a few things, then I need to get back to Phoenix.”

“How are you managing? I know things are tough right now.” He glances at a man that stands with his elbow propped on the bar. I presume it’s one of his men.

I sigh loudly, but don’t want to let on that shit is bad. Navarro knows; he’s testing me. “We’re doing good. Shipments have been coming in—”

“Of all kinds?” he interrupts me, meaning drugs, guns—humans.

“Yes.”

“Good. And you’re turning them quickly?”

He watches me closely, and I keep my face neutral. The girls giggle with each other, paying no attention to us. “We are. We never hold on to goods long. We get them out of our hands, into the buyers’. Safest way to do business.”

“Smartest way, son.” He nods, pleased. “Your father was right about you. I’m proud of you.”

Bile rises in my throat as he says this. Nothing could be further from the truth. I hate this business. I’d drive it into the fucking ground if I could. Honestly, I’m damn near tempted to, but I fake a smile and nod once again.

“Thank you.” It’s all I can say right now without showing how sick I feel.

“So, let me call you tomorrow after I make a few calls.”

“Sounds good.” I reach across the table and offer the man my hand once more, a sign of respect and thanks.

He’s doing me a huge favor, and he didn’t have to. I slide out of the booth, feeling every eye on me as I approach the exit. I can’t help but wonder who works for whom, or who is a lookout for other organizations and how fast word will spread that I’m in town. Being at the top of the Estrada Cartel and running the show, I’m a target. The head they want severed and delivered to our rivals, and, if delivered, I’m the body that would bring our organization down.

It’s dark when I start the truck and head back toward my dad’s ranch on the outskirts of town. Juan Santiago and Alvaro are following closely behind me. We’re a little over an hour from the border, but it feels like the heart of Central Mexico. I drive cautiously down the bumpy street, careful not to hit stray dogs or call attention to my vehicle. The drive to the ranch takes about twenty minutes, and I’m happy to see the security Dad has in place is still there. It’s more of a compound than a ranch. With high stucco walls and decorative wrought iron that doubles as security fencing, it stands out in a town where dilapidated houses are the norm.

I pull up to the gate and roll down my window. Rogelio sweeps the truck before letting me through with a curt nod, and I park the truck next to my SUV, stepping down onto the cobblestone driveway. Rogelio stands outside the gate with a semi-automatic rifle propped on his shoulder as the gates slowly close. Small landscape lights illuminate the palm trees in the front yard. The landscape is manicured to perfection, another thing my dad set in place, even from jail.

Even with him in Federal custody, life in Mexico seems to continue as if he’s a free man. No one misses a beat. The house is tidy and his housekeeper keeps food in the fridge and the pantry. Security is tight, and the Mexican contingency of his business is still operating as usual. I haven’t been here in years, but everything is exactly the same, a testament to my father’s high standards.

My mobile phone rings. It’s my father’s defense attorney, Jefferson Whitley.

“Mr. Whitley,” I answer.

“Mr. Estrada. Is now a good time to talk?”

“It is.”

“Good. I just wanted to update you on a few things. I have good news and bad news. The good news is, I may be able to get your father released until trial. We’re asking for a reduced bail amount, and the hearing is scheduled for next week. The bad news is, you’re still going to have to come up with at least half a million to make that happen.”

“It’s not a problem,” I respond. We have millions of dollars in a clean bank account if we need it.

“Good, then I’ll keep you posted. I think it’s best if you steer clear of the hearing.”

“Yes, sir.” I’m not sure if I’m more stressed or relieved that my father will be out of prison soon.

The phone clicks, and he’s gone. I’m sure that call will cost me two hundred and fifty dollars. I grumble under my breath as I take a moment to check for other messages and texts. My finger hovers over Emilia’s name. I just want to hear her voice, to see if she’ll speak with me, but then the front door swings open and Rogelio enters with another man.

“Alejandro. This is Fernando. You two have never met. He’s taking over for me out front for the evening. I’ll be back in the morning.”

I shake Fernando’s hand.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Fernando responds before closing the door.

I spend some time reacquainting myself with the ranch. I haven’t been here since I was a kid. After my mom died, I never came to Mexico. We used to vacation at this house while my dad was here for business. I have such bittersweet memories of this house and being here as a family when I was young.

The doors to my dad’s office are open, and I step inside. A large, hand-carved wooden desk takes up the center of the room. A laptop sits on the desk with its screen closed, and bookshelves line an entire wall. Dispersed amongst books are small, decorative items and a few framed pictures. One large frame holds a picture of my mom. Her long, dark hair is swept back over her shoulders, her head tipped back in laughter, and her hand over her heart. A smile tugs at my lips at the pure joy emanating from her face, but that smile quickly disappears as I remember that it was this business that took her from me—from my family. If I really think about it, this business that has given our family its wealth and reputation has also taken everything. My mother is dead, my father in jail, our family torn apart. I have nothing. Except…

Emilia…

I sit down at the desk, open the laptop, and enter the password that pulls up contact names, addresses, business information, and financials. Long ago, my father and I agreed on a password in the event that one of us would be incapacitated. Another reality of this life.

The screen comes to life and folders populate the screen. I spend the next hour doing spreadsheets, moving money in and out of bank accounts, and sending out emails. While the goods we’re moving are illegal, we operate like a legitimate business. And as I sit here, I feel much more at home. This is where I belong, behind the desk, not running shipments of heroin, weed, guns, and setting up transportation routes for smuggling people into the country. I run the business. I have no business wielding a gun and running drugs.

An hour later, and I’m still scrolling through endless files, saving the ones I don’t have at home to a flash drive. There’s a light knock on the door, and a young woman peeks her head inside.

“Mr. Estrada. I’m Esperanza, your father’s housekeeper. May I bring you anything to eat or drink?” She looks barely eighteen, her hair pulled into a ponytail and her dark brown eyes doe-eyed and innocent. I hate when my father hires young girls. I hope her involvement here doesn’t get her killed.

I shake my head. “No thank you.”

“I’ll have breakfast ready for you in the morning. If you need anything, I’ll be in the back house.” She closes the door, and it’s then that I remember a small living quarter behind the house.

I spin in my father’s office chair and open French doors that look out onto the spacious back yard. A large pool spans the majority of the yard, surrounded by lush landscaping and lights. You’d never know this little oasis was inside a compound on the edge of a poor, desolate Mexican town.

Through the pool lights and the glow of the landscaping lights, I barely make out the small stucco house, Esperanza’s quarters. It must’ve been recently built, as it looks like a fairly new structure. Also, it wasn’t there when I was a child. The pool has been refinished and expanded. It used to be a small circle in the ground. My mom and brother and I would play for hours in the water, the humid air and scorching sun never deterring us. I smile as I glance toward the corner of the patio where my mom would always lie in a lounge chair, watching us boys roughhouse in the water.

Swallowing hard, I step outside and sit down on one of the plush lounge chairs scattered around the perimeter of the pool. I lace my fingers behind my head and lie back to stare at the dark sky full of stars. Even with a few scattered clouds, the moon is bright and the sky is clear. A far cry from the brown, smog-covered skies of Phoenix. Many things are so different from Phoenix—it’s a slower pace of life here. I appreciate the relaxed nature of Mexico. I wonder what Emilia’s doing right now. As twisted as it sounds, I almost wish she was packing her bags and leaving. She deserves better than this—better than me.

As much as I try to relish in the good memories of this house, of Mexico, I can’t. I’m unsettled here. This house is where the business began, the business that stole my mother and tore my family apart. The evil started here.

A light flickers in Esperanza’s quarters, illuminating the windows. The side of the house facing the pool is a sliding glass door and there are no window coverings. From here, I can see it’s a studio set-up; to the right is a full-sized bed, a small nightstand, and three-drawer chest. To the left is a small door that leads to a bathroom, and there’s a small kitchen. A loveseat and bookshelf complete the place, and the walls are bare, only a few personal belongings on top of the chest of drawers.

I know I should move, give the girl her privacy, but seeing her reminds me of Emilia.

Esperanza unbuttons her uniform dress, and it slides down her body to the floor. She wears nothing under her dress and her tan skin is on full display. Her breasts hang heavy, and a shock of dark hair stands out between her legs. She lies nude on the loveseat and rests her head on the armrest. Watching her does nothing for me. Emilia is the only woman who has an effect on me. Emilia. God, I miss her.

I hear the latch on the side gate click, and I immediately reach for my gun, which is tucked behind me. I sit still, waiting, listening to the rocks crunch under heavy footsteps as they draw closer. A dark form moves behind the shrubbery and heads toward Esperanza’s door, coming into view. Rogelio.

Blowing out a silent breath, I push myself up and decide to call it a night. I have no desire to see Rogelio and Esperanza get each other off. I lock the patio doors behind me and find my way to the spare bedroom where I’ll stay. Decorated in traditional Mexican flair, the hand carved furniture sits prominently in the room. Exhausted, I lie down on the bed and close my eyes, but not before checking my phone to see if Emilia has reached out.

Negative.

Sleep hasn’t come easily these last few months, and tonight is no different. In between bouts of restlessness, I find rare minutes of sleep. But those moments come apart in a burst of gunfire and screaming. I yank my gun from the nightstand and throw open the closet door. My dad keeps weapons in every closet, every drawer, and in hidden compartments behind pictures throughout the house. I lift the rifle from its hook and fling the bedroom door open, sticking close to the wall, the rifle butting into my arm. If someone aims at me, I’ll fucking shoot them.

I hear multiple voices, male, shouting near the front of the house, and the front door wide fucking open. When I see that the men yelling are all mine, I relax and approach. Rogelio and Fernando are spewing at each other in Spanish, and while I understand what they’re saying, I tell them to shut up in English. Everyone stills, and all eyes turn to me.

Rogelio runs his hand through his hair and glances at the ground, looking angry and somewhat ashamed. A man lies on the ground in a pool of blood.

“What the fuck happened?” I yell.

“He jumped the wall. We shot.”

“Jesus Christ.” I rake my hands up and down my face. I’ve seen more blood in the last three days than I’ve seen in the last three years. “Who is it?”

“Not sure. No ID.”

I come closer, studying the dead man, but step back quickly to avoid stepping in the blood that has pooled around him. “Is he armed?”

“Negative,” Rogelio says, teeth gritted.

“Fuck. It’s probably some kid…” My voice trails off. Shit, shit. Some innocent kid got shot on my family property simply because of this fucking business…

“Boss. Orders are if anyone comes over that wall or through that gate uninvited…Shoot.” Rogelio stands stiffly.

A muscle moves in my jaw. “Whose orders?”

“Your father’s.”

“And where is he?” I bark at the men.

“In the States,” Rogelio sneers.

“Where in the motherfucking States?” I’m about to fucking lose it. I can’t stand this anymore.

“Arizona.”

“Don’t fucking get smart with me. His ass is in a federal prison,” I seethe. “I’m running the show, and my orders are do not fucking shoot anyone until we’ve identified them as a threat. Do you understand?”

Rogelio narrows his eyes, clearly agitated with me. He gestures toward Fernando to follow him and begins walking away.

“And, Rogelio.” I glare at him. “No fucking the staff.”

He blinks in shock that I would know, but he nods briskly. “I’ll take care of this.” Rogelio kicks the foot of the dead man at our feet, and I turn around, heading back inside.

Esperanza is in the kitchen, wringing her hands together. “Is everything okay?” she asks in a hushed voice.

“Yes.” Obviously, that’s a lie. I’m standing in the hallway with a fucking rifle and a handgun, and there’s a dead man on the front lawn.

“I’ll have breakfast ready in a few minutes. I didn’t expect you up this early.” Her voice is timid and shaky.

Her demeanor would normally soften me if it weren’t for how out of it I am. “I didn’t plan to be up this early. I’m going to shower; no hurry on the food.”

She smiles at me as I walk away. Securing the rifle back in the closet, I bring my handgun with me to the bathroom, hiding it under a hand towel on the counter. Turning on the shower, I strip and leave my clothes in a pile on the floor. As steam fills the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I stare and I stare at that man. I barely recognize him anymore. I’m disgusted, ashamed. Who am I?

Stepping into the hot shower, I let the water burn my skin just so I’ll feel something—anything. The scalding water reminds me of Emilia. Her gaze, her touch, her presence burns me in a way I’ve never felt.

It makes me feel.

She makes me feel.

Everything about her burns through the evil exterior of who I really am, and she sees the good in me. She gives me hope at a life outside of this, even though I know the reality—there is no hope. She’s selfless and sweet and everything I’ve ever desired.

I punch the tile wall in frustration, gasping at the pain in my hand, even though the pain in me hurts more. This fucking world I live in has taken everything important from me.

My past, my present, and any hope for a future.