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Either way, I make my way inside the grand door and into a large open room where those dressed in military honors line the room. They don’t move. Don’t blink.
It’s quite impressive to witness.
The place is opulent yet a bit sterile, gleaming from corner to corner with history and the money hidden from its citizens. To think those in here feast while the nation starves.
And sure, things are a bit different with the youth finding ways to survive and grow—becoming entrepreneurs while pulling their families out of the molds they’d been forced into—but the country needs more.
As people, Cubans are resilient and proud.
Fighters, and as I stand inside this room, my chest swells with emotions I didn’t expect.
I’ve always been proud of where we are from, but this moment is one I wish I could’ve shared with the generations that were lucky enough to see this. The future.
Patria y Vida.
“Mr. De Leon, President Rodriguez is waiting,” a woman says, pulling my attention away from the flag slightly swaying ahead of me. “If you’ll please follow me.”
“Of course.” Israel isn’t with me; he’s coming from another entry point with my gift in a special box. A demurely dressed woman in her thirties turns and I follow, walking past those in ceremonial uniforms while they stare straight ahead. She takes me and the four men with me toward the end of a long hall where a set of double doors awaits me. They’re wide open and with the man of the hour sitting at the head of a long conference table.
President Placido Rodriguez is a greying, pompous motherfucker with a slight beer belly to finish his look. He stands when he sees me, fixing the cuff links at his wrists before holding a hand out in a very diplomatic fashion. He’s smiling, as if he knows something I don’t, while giving the escort a nod.
The door closes and so do the pretenses, my grip tighter than his. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we both know that’s a lie.”
“Likewise, but I will insist we take a seat and talk like men.” Placido eyes my men, more specifically their faces, and his grin morphs into a smirk. “Did your parents let you off the leash to play with the big boys? How generous of them.”
“No more than your wife leaves you unsupervised so she can bend over for the gardener.” My expression is neutral, unmoved by his earlier shot. “But her private extracurricular activities are none of my business. Heck, you might enjoy being a cuckold.”
“You’re skating on thin ice, kid. I could kill you, and no one would lift a finger against me.” His old hand clenched. “This isn’t Miami.”
“I’m well aware of where I am, yet you’re the one who seems to be confused.” Opening my suit jacket, I pull out an envelope and place it atop the dark wood tabletop. “You’re surrounded by your enemies, Rodriguez. People who are waiting for the word—a reason to snap and slit your throat.”
“And you’re man enough to do so?” To his right is an ashtray and cigar inside the marked holder. The end is already cut, the sharp tool right beside it, and the president lights up. A few deep pulls and the end glows amber before it’s overshadowed by his exhaled smoke. “We both know how this will end, Ivan. It’s only a matter of time before Jaime and Dalian—”
“I didn’t know the dead could walk, much less cause harm.”
“What did you say?” The cockiness is gone and his voice shakes. Something the president tries to hide behind a cough, but it’s too late. “Where’s my nephew?”
“Morgue. In a gator's stomach.” My shrug is nonchalant. “Both are true.”
“You’re lying.”
“Are you willing to place a bet on that?”
“Hijo de—”
“Careful, old man. You’re surrounded by your enemies; one wrong move and I will give the command.” He’s nervous. Sweating a bit. “Now, would you like the proof or are you willing to take my word for it?”
“Proof.” Gritted teeth. The cigar is now back in the ashtray and wasting away. “How do I know it’s not a lie?”
“Here.” One of the men with me has my iPad, and it only takes a few clicks to open the browser and search. At once, headlines with links attached appear and I hand over the device. I don’t care if he breaks it in a moment of rage. I’ll buy another one. “Read one or several, but it won’t change the outcome.”
Rodriguez’s face changes from pallid to nearly purple as the reality of what happened to his nephew sinks in. I’ll do the same to Jaime and then him. He knows this. Yet he slams the tablet on the table so hard the screen cracks and shatters at the corner, but the image from the report on a local Miami station, a Spanish one at that, remains.
Dalian Uriel is dead.
Mauled. Unrecognizable.
“You will pay for this, cabron. From your mother to the puta you fuck, I will kill them all.”
