33. Vlad
CHAPTER 33
VLAD
The vibrant colors of the villa's inner walls greet me again as I step out of the black SUV, the bustle of staff and security instantly drowning out my thoughts of Nico. Ivan follows silently behind me as we pass through yet another security line, his eyes scanning every potential threat.
Esteban's firm handshake meets mine as soon as I'm inside the compound. There's shrewdness I've come to expect from him in his hard gaze. "Vladimir, welcome back," he greets me politely. "Everything has been arranged as discussed. And thanks to you, we know the weak spot now." Obviously, his words hint at the recent attempt on my life at this very place and the realization that even household staff could pose a risk.
"Glad to be of service," I reply with mild sarcasm.
He offers a lukewarm smile.
We both choose to move on from the subject.
"I appreciate the hospitality, Esteban," I acknowledge, my tone even. "I hope this visit proves fruitful for us both."
He and I know this is not the kind of fruitful most people mean when they say this.
With all niceties out of the way, Esteban leads me into the house, where the warmth of family life permeates the air despite the underlying tension. Staff rush about, tidying, preparing, silent anticipation hanging over their efficient movements. Unlike the last time I visited, there are signs of children here—toys, messy blankets, a Wii game still on the TV screen.
We walk along the tiled corridor, some of it seems familiar and some of it doesn't. The corridor loops and turns and Esteban gestures to a door on the right. "Your room. Your security detail is next door. The rooms are adjacent."
I nod my thanks, stepping inside the quarters.
"I will let you settle in," Esteban supplies as he starts walking away. "Dinner is at seven."
He disappears around the corner and Ivan shuts the door.
The space is well-appointed, but my focus immediately turns to security. Ivan and I methodically check each entry point, assessing vulnerabilities.
Moving to the window, I gaze out at the garden below, noting grapevines heavy with fruit. Armed men with what I recognize as my own AKs patrol the perimeter. They seem out of place in this tranquil greenery. The landscape is familiar too—I guess this room is just down the hall from the one I used during my previous stay. Where I was almost got killed.
"Looks good enough," Ivan remarks in Russian, "but I'm not taking any chances. I'll stay here tonight." He gestures at the couch.
I don't argue, knowing his loyalty and caution have kept me alive this long. As I turn from the window, my mind drifts to the purpose of this visit—finding out more about Shtyk's whereabouts.
The weight of this unfinished business sits heavy in my chest, like a constant unwanted companion. But for now, I must navigate this delicate dance of alliances and hidden agendas.
Several hours later, as the sun drops below the mountainous horizon, Esteban and I settle on the terrace. Ivan has melted into the background along with several of Esteban's men.
The table in front of us is an extravagant display, a riotous palette for both sight and scent. Vibrant platters brim with Sinaloan treasures—rich moles glazed with dark chocolate hints just shy of bitterness, steaming tamales, a variety of dips. Around us, chaos subtly simmers. Staff dart past, adjusting illumination to frame shadows against sandstone walls while three figures stoke the grill to life.
Ropes of fairy lights overhead sway against a whispering breeze, their glow bathing everyone's faces in soft golden halos.
Underneath it all drifts the smoky sonata of slow-roasted meat tangling with jalapeno-soaked salsas. And each inhale tastes of earth and fire flirting across your tongue.
For a second, I forget where I am and what happened to me in this place. And the conversation about real estate between me and the owner of this house seems like a conversation between two normal businessmen, not between people trading lives.
We are in the middle of talking currencies when Esteban's family joins us. His wife, Esmeralda, with her gentle smile and wise eyes, their teenage son, Diego, who fights to mask his curiosity with a veneer of indifference, and their shy eight-year-old daughter, Luna, clinging to her mother's skirts.
They all speak fluent English with a hint of Spanish accent, even the little girl.
We all take our seats. Glasses clink, and the clatter of cutlery mingles with soft conversation.
" Senor Solovey," Esmeralda asks at some point, "tell us about your family. I remember you have a brother?"
The mention of Sasha evokes conflicting emotions, but I share anyway. "That is correct. And please, Vlad is fine."
She nods.
"He is traveling now..." I pause, wondering if it's worth saying my brother is seeing a man. These people, their tradition, it's different. "With his partner," I finally supply. Let them assume what they want.
"Taking some time off is always great," Esmeralda says with a polite smile, nimbly cutting a piece of meat on her plate into smaller pieces.
"Our mother passed away when we were young," I say. "I don't mind supporting his crazy ideas."
The conversation goes on. Nothing too serious. Mostly safe topics around young ears.
Esteban pours us deep red wine, offering a toast to the women who have shaped us.
I gladly cheer to that, watching how Esmeralda's eyes sparkle with amusement as she shakes her head.
A figure appears on the terrace. A new face. A young man with charcoal shoulder-length hair. He's maybe eighteen or nineteen, looking a bit lost with that rebellious frown on his forehead most teenagers show when they are forced into doing something against their will.
"I want you to meet someone, Vlad," Esteban says and gestures for the young man to come closer. " Ven acá, mijo. Siéntate. Come algo de comida ."
He approaches the table and takes an empty chair.
"This is Axel," Esteban supplies. "My nephew." He turns to the youngster who hasn't uttered a single word yet and mutters something in Spanish. By the tone, it's clear Esteban is chastising the boy, Axel.
"Hello," Axel mumbles after his uncle is finished scolding him. He then grabs an empty plate and loads it with some food and digs in quietly.
"We apologize for his behavior," Esmeralda says.
"Teenagers," her husband adds. "If you know what I mean."
As the evening grows late and the sky above us is inky black, Esteban's family has long since left the table, including Axel. The remnants of our meal are being cleared away by staff.
In the distance, I spot Esteban's son, his face a study in concentration as one of the cooks patiently guides his hands over the grill. The boy's mother and sister sit on a nearby bench, their heads bowed together in quiet conversation.
Esteban's gaze lingers on them. I notice a softness in his eyes I've rarely seen in our world of brutal realities. He catches me watching and chuckles ruefully.
"Everything we do, Vlad," he muses, "it's all for them, isn't it? The sacrifices, the blood on our hands..."
I nod slowly, considering his words. "How do you ensure their safety, with them so close?"
Esteban sighs, swirling the wine in his glass. "I don't. They spend more and more time in the States now. I have a house in Los Angeles where they can live without the constant shadow of our business."
"And you're okay with that? Being apart from them?" I ask.
He meets my gaze. "You ask me that when you've kept your own brother away all your life."
"Correct."
A sad smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "When you truly love someone, Vladimir, sometimes you have to let them go. To sacrifice your own wants for the life they deserve."
His words strike a chord within me, a bittersweet truth I've long buried. I think of my own mother, the price she paid for my father's ambitions. The price I'm still paying.
Esteban rises from the table, his demeanor shifting. "Walk with me, Vlad. I think it's time we discuss the real reason for your visit."
I stand, Ivan falling into step behind us as we navigate the villa's winding paths. The garden we stride through is a lush oasis with the sweet scent of jasmine mingling in the air.
I realize we're heading away from the main house and toward the edge of the garden, where a vehicle waits. Ivan tenses, his hand drifting toward his concealed weapon.
Esteban notices and offers an explanation, "Faster that way then by foot, my friend. We have much to discuss, and I thought perhaps a change of venue would be appropriate. Besides, the person we need to talk to isn't here."
I exchange a glance with Ivan, a silent communication honed over years of working together. He nods almost imperceptibly, and we approach the vehicle.
The door swings open and with a deep breath, I climb inside.
* * *
The room is a box made up of cement walls, brutal in contrast to the comfort of the villa we left a few minutes ago. The air here is heavy with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid tang of fear. In the center, a man sits bound to a chair, his head lolling forward, face obscured by a curtain of matted hair.
Four guards are posted in each corner of the room, armed with AKs and machetes.
Esteban steps forward, his polished shoes clicking against the dirty concrete floor. "Our guest here has been reluctant to share what he knows." His voice is calm, almost conversational, but there's an undercurrent of menace there that sets even my nerves on edge.
I approach slowly, taking in the man's battered form, the cuts and bruises that stain his skin. He's still breathing, but each ragged inhale seems to cost him.
"And what exactly does he know that he doesn't what to share with us?" I keep my tone even too, but my gaze is sharp as I meet Esteban's eyes.
It's a game now, cruel and deadly.
"He was overheard in a bar, drunk and running his mouth about a man with an accent holed up in La Alianza's location in Guanajuato." Esteban shrugs, a fluid motion that belies the tension in the room. "But since then, he's been less than forthcoming."
I nod, turning my attention back to the prisoner.
Ivan steps forward, his presence, as always, a solid reassurance. He's ready to do my dirty deeds, but today I feel like sullying my hands. The trail has gotten hot again and I will be the one to get this mute asshole talking.
I shrug off my jacket, handing it to Ivan without looking, my focus entirely on the man before me.
As I roll up my sleeves I feel a sense of calm settle over me. This is familiar territory—this the dance of pain and persuasion.
I crouch down, bringing myself to eye level with the prisoner. Up close, the damage is even more apparent, his skin a mottled canvas of purple and red.
"Let's start with a name," I say softly, my voice a velvet threat in the stillness of the room. "Yours, and then the other party. The one that you obtained that information from."
Next to me, Esteban translates.
The man's breath hitches, a small, piteous sound that echoes in the silence. He lifts his head slowly, his gaze meeting mine, and in that moment, I see the flicker of recognition and that undeniable spark of defiance. If he hasn't spoken under the torture of the cartel people, then getting him to talk to me won't be easy.
But then again, nothing worth doing ever is. Shtyk is out there, and one way or another, I will find him.
I steel myself, pushing aside the memories of my mother, the ache of loss that never quite fades. This is for her, for the justice she deserves.
"Let's begin," I whisper, extending a hand over to Ivan. "And I mean talking." A knife is placed into my palm.
The man's jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing in a wordless challenge. Esteban steps forward, his voice low and controlled as he translates my words.
" Comencemos a hablar ."
The informant remains quiet, his gaze still locked on mine as I press the sharp edge of the blade to his neck right above his collarbone.
"You have something I want," I murmur. I lean in closer, the blade pressing harder now, a thin line of red blooming across his skin. "Information. About a certain man in Guanajuato."
Esteban's voice follows, a smooth echo of my own. " Tienes información que él necesita. Sobre un ruso en particular ."
The man's breath comes faster, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. But still, he says nothing.
"Fine, be it your way." I remove the knife from his neck, flicking it in front of his face. "This, here—" clink, clink "—was nothing. For the purpose of comparison."
Esteban translates.
Meanwhile, I straighten, my attention shifting to the fire pit in the back of the room. "There are other ways to loosen a tongue," I muse. "Ways to make even the most loyal man sing like a bird."
Esteban translates, his words a low, ominous rumble. " Hay formas de hacerte hablar. Formas de hacer que hasta el hombre más leal cante como un pájaro. "
I move to the fire, selecting a long, thin metal rod. The tip starts glowing red-hot as I hold it over the flames, the heat palpable even from a distance.
"I will ask you one more time." I turn back to the prisoner. "How did you obtain the info you supposedly possess?"
The man's fixated on the glowing metal. I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow, the tremble in his limbs.
Slowly, deliberately, I stride over to stand in front of him and lower the rod to his thigh. With a tip of my chin and two words only, I order Ivan to remove his pants. He tears a hole in them immediately with both hands, leaving the man completely exposed. The only reason his balls aren't on display is thanks to his underwear.
I bring the searing heat closer and closer to his skin.
The acrid scent of singed hair fills the air as I get it within half an inch of his limb. The prisoner lets out a choked, desperate sound.
"You're on the verge of losing the most valuable possession you have."
" No, no, por favor— "
I pause, the metal a hairsbreadth from the middle of his thigh. "I need information," I repeat, my voice a cold, unyielding demand. "Tell me where you heard what you heard." Then I move my hand higher and press up the rod to his balls.
A squeal fills the room.
I try not think about a life I'm ruining because the man I'm looking for ruined way more lives. I know Hell is waiting for me. But since I'm already bound for it, I might, as well, do what I must.
The prisoner's resolve shatters. He screams sentences now, words tumbling out in a frantic rush of Spanish. I remove the rod from his body and glance at Esteban, who nods, his expression grim.
The smell of charred skin permeates the air inside.
"He says the Russian man you're after—called Shtyk—is indeed in Guanajuato," Esteban translates. "At a compound on the outskirts of the city."
The man continues to wail and spout words, saliva dripping down his chin.
"The compound is heavily guarded," Esteban continues. "He says it's impossible to get inside or get the man out unless Shtyk leaves, which he never does."
The man's chest heaves, gasps of pain coming out. " No sé nada más, lo juro . I swear, that's all I know," he adds in broken English at the end.
"How do you know this?" I ask. "Who told you?"
Esteban repeats the question in Spanish.
The man shakes his head. " Un hombre, " he stammers. "A man who worked there, at the compound in Guanajuato. That's all I know, I swear it… all I know."
I exchange a glance with Esteban, a silent communication passing between us. This is far from over. I need a proper lead to follow.
"What's his name?" I press on. "This man who worked there."
Esteban translates, and the prisoner hesitates. I can see the calculation in his eyes, the desperate attempt to find a way out of this situation. Thing is even if we let him go, he'll probably be dead within a day anyway. Once you're on the cartel's radar, there is no escape, not from this room, not from the consequences of his loyalty.
"Gabriel," the prisoner finally chokes out.
"What's his last name?"
" No sé… no sé. "
"He doesn't know his last name," Esteban translates, but that much I understood already.
"Where did he see that man, how long ago?"
The prisoner answers in quick succession. Two weeks ago. A small cantina. He gives a name too. Roughly fifty kilometers from the aforementioned compound. He doesn't know if Gabriel still works there. When they spoke, Gabriel was on vacation.
Tired of this, I set the metal rod aside and scan the captive bastard in the chair. The air feels heavy, charged with death. And the man is on his last breath. He won't survive this.
Still, a name is good. It's not much, but it's a start. A thread to pull, a path to follow.
"I think we're done here," I tell Esteban quietly.
"You have what you need?"
I nod and head for the entrance, Ivan's shadow behind me.
"Have your people look for this Gabriel. Start with that cantina and keep on working outward. We gotta find a way into that place."
"We will do as you say, Vladimir," Esteban replies. And this time his face is serious. Not a hint of that slimy smile.
I will have my vengeance, even if it means descending into the darkest depths of this unforgiving world. Even if it means losing myself, my humanity, completely.