Chapter 25 #2
Ernesto sees it’s a Colombian phone number, and even though it doesn’t have a name attached to the contact, he can guess what this means.
He knows I don’t issue threats I won’t follow through on.
He tries to spit on me, but his mouth is so dry he produces next to no spittle.
I step aside in time, and Alejandro swings a baseball bat that strikes Ernesto’s kidneys.
The man howls in pain and twirls on the hook.
He must have forgotten my cousin was behind him.
Joaquin has his own bat that he jams into Ernesto’s lower abdomen.
“It’ll be your huevo next time.”
He only has one nut left after what Tía Luciana had done to him.
Joaquin taps the baseball bat against his open palm.
Cliché threatening move, but effective, nonetheless.
I tap my phone screen and make it a video call.
Immediately, it’s answered with the camera facing toward the front steps of a high school.
It’s only a couple minutes before kids pour out of the front door.
I recognize Flora’s cousin since he’s a near replica of Ernesto. It also means he looks a lot like Flora. The guy’s hanging out with friends, but eventually he’s one of the last left. He’s looking around, waiting for his chauffeur to show up. He’d be waiting forever if that’s how he was leaving.
“Leave him!”
Ernesto jerks forward as though he can actually get me to obey as he yells. His fingers open and close uselessly with his arms strung up over his head.
“Then answer me.”
“I can’t.”
I tsk and shake my head. “Won’t is more like it. Take him.”
Men rush out of the van where the video is being shot.
I force Ernesto to watch his grandson being kidnapped.
They scoop up Pedro and toss him into the back.
We hear the doors slam as the man holding the phone turns the camera toward Pedro.
It only takes a few moments before my guys strip the young man down to his tighty-whities.
Definitely not a good look if he ever wants to get laid.
“Tell me now, Ernesto.”
“I can’t.”
“Still the wrong answer.”
I speak to the guy on the phone and give the order.
Only seconds later, we’re watching arms and hands move through the air with socks filled with bars of soap or coins.
They’re wailing down on Pedro, who’s crying like a little bitch begging for my men to stop.
Wouldn’t surprise me if he cries for his mamá.
“Wait, wait. Maybe I know something.”
“Maybe?”
Sarcasm drips from that one word as I put up my hand in front of the camera. A voice barks an order, and the beating stops.
“I didn’t ask Humberto questions, but there was definitely someone from New York involved. I met another Latino man at a restaurant. He gave me a deposit to convince me to get Florencia to work for Humberto. I didn’t ask who he was or who sent him.”
“Was there any hint of an accent or a dialect?”
There’re tons of dialects throughout Latin America.
People estimate there are somewhere between six and fifteen varieties of Spanish spoken in Colombia alone.
If it were someone other than Ernesto, they might have a difficult time telling me whether it was a fellow Colombian.
But he’d know if it were a homegrown rival. Ernesto shakes his head.
“Maybe Guatemalan or Mexican, even Costa Rican.”
At least that rules out Cubans. We had some problems with them a few years ago.
They got involved in a sex trafficking ring, and one of their leaders set his sights on Maria Mancinelli.
Fucking idiot he was. He went after the most untouchable woman in the underworld.
She’s a don’s niece, a consigliere’s daughter, an underboss and capo dei capi’s sister, and wife to one of the seniormost capos in the world.
It wasn’t just the Mancinelli family. This same ring of traffickers also scooped up a woman who became Misha Andreyev’s sister-in-law. Misha is Maksim Kutsenko’s cousin. Maksim is the bratva’s pakhan. Their equivalent to a jefe.
It was one of the rare times any of the other three families saw a more humane side of us. Tres J’s took care of the Cuban and made sure Maria could see a doctor when she needed it.
Shitty trip down memory lane. I force my mind back to the present as I continue interrogating Ernesto.
“That money we intercepted here in New York. Do you have any new thoughts on who it could be from?”
“Probably the same person who sent the nameless man I met in the restaurant.”
“That’s not enough to go off of.”
I look down at my phone and dip my chin. The beating recommences, and Ernesto watches in horror as one of my guys uses pliers to pull out two of his grandson’s teeth. Blood streams from the young man’s mouth as he whimpers. A wet puddle forms on the front of Pedro’s underwear.
“I know nothing more. Please stop! Stop! Don’t hurt him anymore. It’s not his fault. He has nothing to do with this.”
I don’t give any orders, so my men continue to work Pedro over. Ernesto witnesses one of my men stick bamboo shoots under his grandson’s fingernails. Then, using the same pliers that took out a couple of teeth, the guy inches off a fingernail, making it as excruciating as he possibly can.
“I think it’s the O’Rourkes.”
Ernesto’s outburst surprises me, but I refuse to allow my expression to show it. I wonder if this is payback for our involvement in the demise of a mob leader in Albany. Javier’s fiancée—my childhood neighbor Madeline—lived in Upstate for years and wound up involved with the mob leader.
I know the O’Rourkes feel no loyalty to the O’Sheehans, but they do feel some obligation since the O’Sheehans are the O’Rourkes’ vassals. It could be retribution and retaliation for that, or it could be something entirely different.
“All right, let him go. Keep an eye on him, though.”
The camera spins to show the two back doors of the van opening, and two of my men push Pedro onto the street before the van moves. The doors close as they drive away. I spit in Ernesto’s face to prove I can.
“You should’ve cared about Flora as much as you did Pedro.”
I drive my fist into his mouth. As much as I’d love to throat punch him, I’m unconvinced I won’t have more to ask him later. Instead, I have another call to make.