Chapter Eight #2
It started as it does, running drugs, robbing and pillaging. Violence. I saw it as an experiment in sociology.
In the beginning, it was hard. But it got easier, and quicker than you’d think. Because I knew there was a purpose to all of this. A goal I was driving toward.
I would play this part for as long as I had to.
When Ocho introduced me to Arturo, he referred to me as El Marfil. That was my name, and from that moment on, no one called me anything else.
I’d officially become The Ivory.
He told them I was a second cousin or something, ensuring that they trusted me, because I was family, but also that they’d have no reason to connect me to my parents.
Still, it was mentioned on occasion. Arturo would say things like, Sebastían was a good man, and, He didn’t deserve what he got.
Quite honestly, it would send me into a fit of rage, but I wouldn’t let them see it. I kept my emotions bottled up tight, and inevitably that was what made me one of Arturo Alvarez’s most trusted, and youngest, hitmen.
For years, I worked for him, studied him and learned from him. He became my mentor, and I think my uncle was beginning to grow jealous of that too.
And so, when I was twenty-six, Tío Ocho came to me and told me that it was time.
Time to kill Arturo Alvarez, and take control of the cartel.
In my uncle’s eyes, once Arturo was out of the way, he would become the new Jefe. After all, he’d been in the business longer, he was older. Arturo’s men knew him and trusted him—or so he thought.
He was the obvious choice, and he felt that Arturo’s men would fall in line and accept this.
My uncle’s downfall always was his inability to see through a human being’s exterior.
To this day, I’m convinced that he had a true narcissistic personality, because he could never seem to fathom a world outside of himself.
As far as he was concerned, the only way to rule was to make your subjects into you.
The problem with that is, if you’re a narcissistic sociopath, then you wind up with a crew who wants to kill you and steal all your stuff—as they’ve seen you do.
And for all the times over the years when I’ve questioned my own level of narcissism, because I know it’s there—I’m not delusional—I still know with full certainty that the reason I became the unlikely heir to this throne is that I never stopped viewing it from a psychology standpoint.
Getting inside someone’s brain and poking at the places where they are the weakest will always get you more control than being a stubborn, trigger-happy blowhard.
I said what I said.
Arturo and his family were set to be in Medellin for the weekend.
As was standard, he brought along his security team, two large, dead-eyed men I used to call Robot Uno and Robot Dos.
We were set to meet him there, to conduct some business on his behalf, then meet up with him at his home afterward to let him know it was done.
It was myself, Pablo—this older guy who’s been working with my uncle for a while—and Max. Maximil was younger than me, and had only been around for a couple of years, but I’d vouched for him with Arturo because he was smart, and loyal.
Loyal to whom we’ll find out shortly.
The business meeting went off without a hitch. I secured a Peruvian connection, all by myself, and then we went out to celebrate.
The next day, the three of us went to Arturo’s home to give him the good news.
And I killed him, and his wife, Acacia. In front of their children.
In the moment, I made sure that Arturo knew why this was happening. But it wasn’t the reason you might think…
When we returned to Bogota, I met Ocho at a bar where he was getting drunk. Celebrating the fact that he was the new head of the cartel.
“You did good, boy!” He’d cheered and sloshed, grabbing me by the chin until I chuckled. Eyeing him closely. “You secured a place at the head table. Now Medellin will be mine, and we’re going to be rich.”
He ordered us a round of tequila, lifting his glass. “To money, power, and cutting down anyone who stands in the way of it.”
I clinked my glass on his, but I didn’t sip. I watched him slugging his back.
“To la casa Blanco,” I hummed softly.
“Que?” He slurred, patting me hard on the back. “Bien. I’m glad you got your revenge, Marfil. You deserved it. That puta deserved to pay.”
“Verdad.” I cocked my head. “There truly is nothing sweeter than revenge.”
He nodded, barely listening to me. Smiling and laughing like an idiot.
Celebrating his accomplishments.
“You know, Arturo told me something once,” I said, motioning with a swirl of my finger.
The bartender dropped off the bottle, and I poured us another round.
Ocho peeked at me. “He said, ‘Love makes you weak.’ I wasn’t sure if he was speaking from experience, or if he was just sharing pearls of wisdom… Like my father used to.”
He was staring at me.
“But then the more I thought about it, the more I found it to be true. Love… gets you killed.” I locked eyes with my uncle. “It will be your ultimate ruin.”
His forehead lined. “Que pasa? Why are you saying this?”
“Because.” I lifted a shoulder in a bored shrug. “That is more or less what happened to my father.” He looked confused, so I went on, “He wasn’t killed because of his job, or because he wronged someone.” I leaned in.” He was killed because he fell in love…”
“How can you say that??”
“Tu sabes, tío,” I hummed. “Love is like any other riches people kill for. It’s a weakness, leverage. And my father died because he fell in love with someone you wanted for yourself.”
In that moment, I saw it in his eyes.
He knew that I knew.
Arturo Alvarez hadn’t killed my parents. He did.
“Because you were jealous,” I whispered.
Ocho jumped up from his seat, wobbling a bit. He was barely on his feet and my men were in motion, closing and locking the door to the bar, surrounding him, and taking his pistol.
“You little shit,” he growled, backing up, while I advanced on him.
Slowly, regarding him with every bit of hatred in my heart for the man who’d murdered my parents.
Thought it was contained. I harnessed it, like an unwavering power that only grew stronger with every step. “You think you’re so smart…”
“I know I’m smart,” I sighed. “And you, Tío Ocho, are not. You’re pathetic, and stupid, and fucking dead.”
Lunging at him, I grabbed him by the collar, shoving him back against the door. “This is what comes of blood for blood, Ocho. Sangre por sangre.”
I reached into my pocket, pulling out the knife I’d taken from Arturo Alvarez… A bird in barbed wire, carved into ivory… Beside the initials AA.
There was fury in my veins.
Whipping it open at my side, I brought the blade up to my uncle’s throat. He was shaking, eyes wide, shining fear, but with a dash of rage. As if he wanted nothing more than to find a way to kill me for this.
He never would, but still, I liked the look. It enlivened me.
It reminded me of the boy in the closet… Arturo’s son, whom I’d left alive with the murdered corpses of his parents. Tearful green eyes blinking up at me, likely too young to understand what he was feeling in that moment. But Uncle Ocho understood it…
It’s the need for vengeance. To tip the scales back in your favor.
Slanting my head and lifting a brow, I murmured, “Long live the King.”
Then I plunged the knife into his throat.
I stabbed him seven more times after that… Ocho.
I thought it was funny.
With my last remaining connection to my parents lying dead on the floor, I brushed a white strand of hair from my face and breathed, “Get this cleaned up.”
And that was it.
After all, there can only be one king.
Me. I’d taken hold of this kingdom.
My empire… Digno de el nombre Ivory.