"This is a wasteof time," Rafael said, nose wrinkling at the warehouse's stench of piss and fear. My son pressed closer to me, his eleven-year-old dignity warring with disgust. "I don't need a companion."
"You need something." I kept my voice neutral, but my patience had worn thin. In the six months since his mother's death, Rafael had become a ghost haunting his own life. Finding Gabriel face-down in the pool just three days after we'd buried his mother had shattered something fundamental in my son. Books and silence had become his only refuge, and every therapist in São Paulo had failed. Now we stood in José's warehouse at the docks, my last desperate attempt dressed up as paternal concern.
"Ambassador Olivera!" José's gold tooth caught the harsh fluorescents as he waddled toward us, arms spread wide like we were old friends. "You honor my humble establishment."
His establishment was anything but humble. The man ran half the child trafficking through Rio's ports, though he preferred to call it "private adoption services." The concrete walls sweated in the afternoon heat, and somewhere in the darkness, a child whimpered.
"You said you had something special." I pulled out my handkerchief, dabbing at the sweat beading on my forehead.
"Sí, sí! Very special. Perfect for your son." José's gaze slithered over Rafael, who straightened under the scrutiny. "The age you specified. Fully trained, very obedient. Not like the street rats, you understand? This one, we've had him for years. Civilized him."
Rafael frowned at the word ‘civilized’.
"Bring him," I said.
José barked orders in Portuguese. Chains rattled in the darkness, followed by shuffling feet. Two men emerged, and between them…
The boy couldn't have weighed more than forty pounds. Seven, maybe eight years old, dressed in clean but ill-fitting clothes that made him look like a doll someone had tried to dress up. They'd bleached his hair white, probably to deal with lice, giving him an otherworldly appearance. But it was the leather muzzle strapped across his lower face that gave me pause.
"He’s muzzled like a dog." Rafael's voice carried a thread of interest, the first I'd heard in months.
José laughed. "A precaution, young sir. Sometimes he forgets his training. But watch!" He snapped his fingers. "Ajoelhar!"
The boy dropped to his knees instantly, eyes fixed on the ground.
"Stand." José's command brought him back up. "Turn around."
The boy rotated slowly, displaying himself like livestock. The chains connecting his wrists to a collar around his neck clinked softly. Everything about him screamed control, conditioning, broken will.
But his eyes… They still held a streak of defiance.
I'd seen that look before, in board rooms and back alleys, in men who survived by becoming whatever their environment demanded. This boy wasn't broken; he was waiting.
"Can he speak?" I asked.
"Oh yes! Very smart. Knows Portuguese, some English." José puffed up with pride. "Show them your English, menino."
"Hello," the boy said through the muzzle, muffled but clear. "Nice to meet you."
Rafael stepped forward, and everything changed.
The boy's entire body went rigid. His nostrils flared behind the leather, and his eyes locked onto my son with an intensity that made José's men step back.
Rafael moved closer. "What's your name?"
The boy didn't answer. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.
"His name is whatever you want," José said quickly, sensing the sale slipping. "We call him Capeta."
“Capeta?” Rafael gave José a sharp glance. “He’s a boy, not a devil or a dog.”
"Take off the muzzle," I said.
José's face paled. "Senhor, I don't think—"
I pulled out my wallet, fingering the bills inside. "Unless you've been lying about how well-trained he is?"
Greed won over caution. José nodded to his men. "Slowly, eh? And you, Capeta. You be good, eh?"
