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I arrive at the cantina and push through the swinging doors. My contact is waiting in the back corner booth. I slide into the seat across from him.
He is in his 50s, face leathered from years working tequila ranches. I know I can rely on his knowledge of the land and industry.
"Hola, Stefano," he greets me. His Spanish is rapid, idioms I don't fully grasp. I'm grateful for the translator Luca insisted on accompanying me.
We exchange pleasantries before getting to business. He spreads a map on the table, pointing out regions ripe for cultivation. His local connections will prove invaluable. As we talk, a mariachi band strikes up a tune, the trilling guitars and soulful voices filling the cantina.
I glance around at the patrons - weathered farmers, laughing children, lovers dancing.
This place may be foreign, but the people are the same. My purpose is renewed. I will honor these simple dreams that rest at the heart of us all - home, family, land to call your own. Dreams my ancestors held when they too were strangers in a new world.
I nod along as he explains the intricacies of running a tequila operation - irrigation, soil conditions, harvesting methods. My mind whirs, already visualizing the potential.
The mariachi band transitions into a slower number, a woman's voice rising in a haunting lament.
"Una pena,"he murmurs. A sadness.
I sense the grief woven into the melody, yet also hope.
I think of Luca, the only family I have since mine were killed. The sacrifices we make in the New York Cartel in service of a greater purpose: to protect people who have no one to turn to.
He orders us two shots of añejo tequila, its caramel hue like liquid gold in the dim cantina light. We toast "to new ventures."
The liquor burns smoothly down my throat.
I see it now - acres of azure agave blanketing the valley, modest casitas where workers can raise their children, a distillery churning out the finest tequila north of Jalisco.
But then, he tells me the deal.
Don Herrera gets 30% of all revenue and there's no way Luca Conti will stand for that. I get up and walk right out.
Chapter 3
Isabella
Aweekhaspassedsince the funeral, and I still feel like every ounce of energy has been sapped out of me. Someone knocks on my door.
“Come in,” I state flatly.
Alejandro enters and puts forth a silver tray. On it lies a note, calligraphed, with my name on it. He leaves.
I sigh and for a brief moment, think of discarding it. It must be another condolence note. But I remember what my father would want. He would want me to thank each person. I pick up the letter opener with our family name engraved on it and slice it open. I pull out a thin, small card.
On it, in beautiful cursive, are two words. “You’re next!”
I gasp and the note falls to the ground. I pick up the intercom and call the security desk. “Call the police,” I whisper. “Right now.”
The investigators and police arrive shortly. My heart has not stopped racing since I have received the message. Juanita ushers them into the formal sitting room and I look at my private security. They remain in the corner while Juanita leaves. I don’t want to be left alone for a single moment.
“Gentlemen,” I say, passing them the note.
The lead investigator clears his throat. He passes the note around. They scrutinize it.
“As you can see,” I say, “I’ve been threatened.”
“Well, yes,” the investigator says. “We will have it checked for fingerprints, but we doubt anything will show up.”
“Clearly, it’s from the people who murdered my father,” I say.
