Of Lust and Love

2. El Patrón

Palermo, Mexico City
Twenty-four Hours Earlier

At twenty-seven, he was ready to die. Revenge was bittersweet yet he had accomplished what he had set out to do, his one goal when he found out he was among the living.

For years, he had suffered in torment. The dreams. Their cries. His father's dead eyes blurred by tears and blood.

He carried them all. Sanity was a privilege. Long had his been gone.

The demons crave blood. Plaguing him. Whispering. Tempting.

He had served his purpose. He had killed them all. No regrets. No remorse.

He didn't know why they had to save him. Dying would have given him peace.

"Urg!" His loud growl reverberated in the four corners of his room. He was alone. So alone. Months had passed since he almost died from saving a friend and it was getting harder and harder to recover. He wished they left him to die. He would have found peace then.

Those voices again. Like swarming bees. He would do anything for peace to find him. Anything. Distractions didn't work.

Women. He tried fucking them. Taking and discarding them. After a year. He stopped. He couldn't bear their whining. And it just wouldn't work. They were a temporary relief. But he felt ashamed of his actions. SHE wouldn't approve. They wouldn't approve.

Killing. He tried killing his enemies and traitors, as brutally as possible. Bathing in their blood. It still didn't work.

Since his last kiss with death, he locked himself in his room. Shunning everyone.

His organization kept him busy. The empire his father left him was the only thing preventing him from ending his life.

Their people banked on his success. In his direction for their future. Many of those came from poor barrios all over Mexico. His father took them in and gave them a secure and better life.

He would do anything to live up to his father's legacy.

Deep in the darkness of the night, his wound throbbing, he gritted his teeth. "Puta!" Cursing the pain, he stalked to his liquor cabinet, pouring himself a hefty amount of aged brandy.

The grandfather clock had struck midnight. His full fleshy lips thinned.

No sleep for him. Work it is then.

***

It had been a week since his return from The Americas, and a ton of paperwork had piled on his desk.

He had no second in command. No secretary and no able-bodied men capable of helping him run his lucrative empire.

Those around him these days were his underbosses and his hardened private army. Though he knew they could be trusted, he became overly cautious. Remembering about what happened to his former second-in-command, a blood cousin. No. He didn't fear for himself. He feared for his people. Those who depended on him and his leadership.

Maybe he should call a very trusted friend of his late father. He required the old man's expertise.

Dawn was approaching and his time spent on work had not done much damage to the huge pile on his desk. His deep brown eyes were bloodshot and there was a constant frown marring his forehead.

Fuck! I need help.

Resigning to the inevitable, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed a familiar number.

It rang five times before his call was answered by a gruff sleepy voice.

"You better have a fucking good reason for calling me..."