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Mumbling criss crosses the restless crowd. I let them stew in anticipation... all while I try to tear my eyes away from the photo of me and Cat. Heartache fills my heavy chest, but I push it away.
Use that pain, Angel. Let these people see that you are just as sick of all of this as they are.
“The author of this article does not answer his own headline,” I continue, waving the newspaper above my head. “Because he could not. There is only one person who can tell you where I went, and that is me...” A small cheer erupts at the back of the crowd, but I don’t stop. “There is only one person who can save this city’s soul.” I pause for effect. The air fills with anticipation. “And that is not me.”
A groan washes across the restless crowd; I can feel the air being sucked from the terrace. I let it dwindle down until it’s almost gone, then I step back in. “I cannot save this city’s soul. Not alone. There is only one person who can save this city’s soul, and it is not me... it is you!”
The crowd erupts with applause and a shiver of adrenaline works its way across my skin. I flex my singed hands—at this moment, there is no pain, only determination. “Together,” I shout through the roar. “We can uproot corruption, we can defeat evil, we can take back our country!”
The ground shakes and the shanty buildings sway as the crowd cheers and stomps and reaches for me.
I stand tall and let them release their pent-up frustrations. From what Juan has been telling me, life has been hell for these people since Dante took over.
Not only has he enacted a strict curfew, he’s also ordered the destruction of property, public executions, and extorted money from local businesses that simply can’t afford the shake down.
These people haven’t been able to fight back, and their politicians and police men have all either been bribed or threatened into subservience.
But through all that shit, Juan has made sure that a golden mythos has found root. When I was exiled, my old advisor immediately went to work. His brilliant idea? Take the public good will that I was fostering for business matters and use it to set the stage for my comeback.
He used his back-door connections to multiple newspaper agencies and promised them protection from Dante if they agreed to write favorably about me. Dante, of course, quickly caught onto this and went after the publications, but Juan helped them go underground. So, Dante banned newspapers from the slums. He halted their distribution and made it a punishable offense to be found with one.
That, of course, explains why Dante’s men didn’t recognize me when I first returned. Any mention of me among the lower tier of his organization was met with harsh penalties.
Dante may not have seen what Juan was trying to do, but Enzo Barella sure did. He tried to nip my mythos in the bud, and he mostly succeeded.
Mostly...
Dante, though, couldn’t stop newspaper distribution to the richer areas of Cali—the people who live there are too influential to accept such an overstep onto their comfort. Sure, Dante could terrorize the poor, but fuck with a CEO or banker’s morning read? That might be cause for termination.
According to Juan, Enzo Barella told Dante to allow the rich people to have their newspapers, as long as he stopped the poor from getting theirs. The poor were the real threat, they had the numbers and they had nothing to lose—out of everyone in Cali, they would be the most useful to me... if I were ever to be endeared to them.
What Enzo didn’t think of, however, sitting on his throne all the way over in America, and what Dante was too spoiled to recognize, was that while the rich and poor of Cali live separately, they do not work separately, not entirely.
The cooks and the cleaners and the nannies and the folks who come downtown to get their hands dirty also get those same hands on these newspapers, and they’re liable to bring word back to the slums.
There is hope. His name is Angel Montoya.
And now, he has returned.
Spread the fucking news.
11
Angel
“That went well.” Jesus smiles as we head back down to my underground office.
He’s right. In fact, it went far better than expected. By the end of my speech I was confident that I could count on every man woman and child in that crowd to fight for me if I asked.
But still, the little victory is spoiled.
Away from the limelight, I’m left to think only about my failures—my empire, Catalina, a child, and all the things I don’t know.
That quickly changes when my phone starts ringing.
I immediately answer. Only one person knows this number, and I haven’t heard from him in days.
“Juan?”
