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The old man was curled on the floor, trembling from the impact of the blow.
Rafaelo didn’t think.
He just acted.
As the guard was about to strike the man again, Raf put himself in between the two of them, using his own foot to parry that of the guard.
“What…” the guard mumbled in dismay, the rebellious act no doubt stunning him.
“Leave him alone,” Rafaelo gritted out in Spanish. “Or at least pick on a worthy opponent.”
“And you think you’re a worthy opponent?” He laughed.
Raf didn’t answer, merely looking back and giving the old man a silent nod to retreat.
His bones ached, and he moved slowly, but he did what Rafaelo wanted and got out of the area of conflict.
“Try me.” Rafaelo lifted his chin up, his eyes glinting dangerously.
He’d had enough of their bullying and inhumane treatment.
“You’re a fool.” The guard shook his head, as slowly five other guards joined him, lining behind him to show their support.
They smirked at Rafaelo, knowing he wouldn’t be able to take them all.
“You’re the fool. What do you think el señor is going to do when he finds out you’ve touched his women? Or that you’re beating down people and decreasing their value? It’s a known fact that some of the people here are held up for ransom, but you don’t know which, do you? You just treat them all the same. And I doubt the ransom will be as big if they’ve been harmed in any way,” Raf spoke confidently.
If there was one thing he could depend on, it was money.
If the master was losing money in any way due to how the guards were acting, then of course he would be interested in what was happening.
Raf was well aware that words like justice or kindness had no place in their vocabulary, so he didn’t even try.
No, he went straight to the business.
All around, people stopped eating, inching their way forward as they listened raptly to the exchange. Raf knew that some spoke Spanish, while others didn’t. But that didn’t stop them from understanding the body language and the hostile stand-off between him and the guards.
More than anything, to his surprise, a few other men came forward at his back, just as the guards had done.
“He’s right. We demand proper treatment!” another man added, both in Spanish and English.
“Hear, hear,” the guard laughed. “Hedemands.”
More people came behind Raf, all sporting determined expressions on their faces, and Raf realized he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten sick of being mistreated.
When the guards saw the continuously increasing numbers, their features darkened as a few reached for their weapons.
“Wait,” Raf said, extending his hand to stop the men behind him. “We only want a fair treatment. And that means no stealing food, no random beatings and no more bullying,” he said as he addressed the guards.
They all stared at him as if he’d grown a second head before they burst into laughter.
“I should remind you that you’re aslave, chico. Know your fucking place.”
The man barely said the last word before he was on Raf, his fist raised and ready for attack.
Rafaelo might have eschewed the mafioso lessons of his childhood, but his sense of self-preservation was ever present as he parried the blow, using his own fist to strike at the guard.
He was a poor fighter. He knew that, but somehow the cheering from behind spurred him on, leading him to fight from an instinct he didn’t know he possessed.
