Chapter 18 – Matías
I stand in my office, staring at the map pinned to the wall.
A sprawling web of red circles, strings connecting locations, surveillance photos secured with metal pins.
The heartbeat of my operation, laid bare.
Some men play chess to keep their minds sharp.
I hunt. It has always been my game, the one thing I have never failed at.
My fingers trace the latest mark—one I made less than an hour ago. Bogotá. A shipment dock Matías Castillo should have no business with. And yet, it’s here, tied to the mess unraveling before me. There’s a destination, a mark on the board, but no fucking plan yet. That has never stopped me before.
Across the room, Arturo leans against the desk, arms crossed.
He hasn’t spoken in the past few minutes, just watching me the way he always does—like he’s assessing the man in front of him, weighing what remains of the one who came before.
He doesn’t need to ask what’s going through my head. He already knows.
Eventually, he exhales, shifting his stance. “You don’t even have a full name, Mat.”
I smirk, but there’s nothing light about it. “I don’t need a full name.”
This is who I am to the Arias cartel, how I’ve been useful and earned respect over the years.
Before they made me take my brother’s place, this was all I did.
Track, corner, eliminate. They trusted me with this before they trusted me with anything else—because I am so fucking good at it.
My brother was the face, the leader. I was the knife in the dark, the one who took care of things before they became problems.
The man I used to be didn’t concern himself with weaknesses like patience, restraint, or hesitation. He didn’t entertain softness. He didn’t care about who got caught in the crossfire. That man has been lurking beneath my skin, waiting.
The Noa of two weeks ago would have feared him. The Noa of now should, too.
Arturo watches me carefully, like he can see that man rising to the surface again.
Maybe he can. Maybe it’s too fucking obvious.
Maybe it’s written in the tension coiling through my frame, in the sharp edge creeping into my tone, in the way my grip tightens on the pin between my fingers before I drive it into the map, piercing Bogotá like a kill shot.
“I’ll find him,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
Arturo doesn’t doubt it. He never has. That isn’t the question lingering between us.
The real question—the one he won’t ask outright—is whether I’ll stop once I do.
The warehouse hums with activity, dense with the sour odor of oil and sweat.
This isn’t a place for men in polished suits or silver-tongued negotiators.
This is the foundation. The marrow of the Castillo operation.
Where money is counted in bricks of powder and power is measured in the weight of a loaded clip.
Men work in a constant rhythm, assembling shipments, inspecting crates.
In one corner, a rifle is stripped down and cleaned with the reverence of a priest preparing an altar.
Nearby, a table is covered in razor blades and neat rows of cocaine.
No hesitation. No wasted motion. This is the grind, the blood and bone of the business.
I navigate through the chaos, staying vigilant and on edge. The men don’t stop working, but they feel me moving through them. They adjust their posture. They lower their voices. They make sure to stay out of my path.
They know better than to meet my eyes when I’m like this.
Arturo walks beside me, silent. He doesn’t need to say a word. He knows exactly why we’re here. Knows the names I’m hunting. And he knows that tonight, nothing will matter more than the answer I’m about to extract.
The informants are waiting near the back. Five of them, each more desperate than the last. They’re the type of men who survive not by holding a gun, but by knowing when to whisper and when to shut the fuck up.
I stop in front of them, letting the silence spread, thick and stifling. The nearest one shifts his weight.
I watch them for a beat longer before I say, “I need a name.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, the tension spikes. No hesitation. No second chances. They know what happens to men who hesitate.
One of them—a weaselly-looking bastard with a twitch under his eye—licks his lips. “I heard about a guy,” he says, voice tight. “Worked security for Don Beltrán’s operations before the takeover. Never made it onto the new payroll.”
My pulse kicks up. I don’t move. “Where?”
His throat bobs. “Somewhere in Veracruz. Might’ve switched names. Might be dead.”
I don’t blink. “Then find out.”
He nods too fast, hands twitching at his sides. I watch him, waiting for the moment fear tips into obedience. It doesn’t take long. He’ll get me what I need.
They always do.
Arturo leans against the warehouse wall, arms folded, his gaze locked onto me like he’s taking the measure of a man standing too close to the edge.
He’s been watching me like this all night; it’s unwavering.
Watching the way I move, the way my fingers twitch when I’m not holding a gun, the way my jaw clenches every time another name leads to another dead end.
“You’re acting like a man who wants to burn a city down,” he says finally, voice even, unreadable.
I roll my neck, exhaling through my nose. Tension coils in my muscles, tight and fraying. “Maybe I fucking do, Ardi.”
He studies me, assessing his words, choosing them carefully. “For a dead man?”
A sharp smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Death would be too kind. Death would mean an end. I want suffering. I want every breath that bastard takes to taste like regret. I want him looking over his shoulder for the rest of his miserable fucking life.
“To set an example,” I suggest.
Ardi doesn’t argue. But I see it—the concern, the edge of hesitation. He doesn’t say it, but it hangs in the air between us.
He thinks I’m losing control.
Maybe I fucking am.
Two hours later, my phone buzzes against the polished surface of my desk. I don’t check the number. I already know who it is.
I swipe to answer, bringing the phone to my ear.
A voice on the other end, steady and efficient. “Got a location.”
My fingers tighten around the device. “Go on.”
“Small bar outside Veracruz. Off the main roads. Quiet.” A beat of delay, then a soft rustling. “Sending you a photo now.”
My phone vibrates again, a second notification flashing on the screen.
I lower the device, tapping the message open.
The image is grainy, pulled from surveillance footage, but the man’s face is clear enough.
Light eyes, unremarkable features, a forgettable face that’s managed to carve its way into my fucking world.
He’s sitting at a bar, his body angled away from the camera. A drink in front of him, half-finished. He looks…comfortable. Like a man with nothing to fucking hide.
I stare at the image for a long time. Long enough that my pulse stutters to a brutal thud inside my skull.
This motherfucker had his hands on Noa. He’s the one whose child she carries?
My mind offers me the image before I can stop it: his fingers tracing down her back, his mouth pressing against her skin. I picture his hands gripping her hips, pressing into the soft curves of her body.
I imagine breaking every bone in those fucking hands.
Cutting them off at the wrist. Watching as the reality of it dawns on him—what he took, what he touched, what he thought belonged to him.
A sick heat unfurls in my chest, curling like a serpent around my ribs, feeding on itself.
My free hand swipes across my mouth. I exhale once, sharp, forcing my pulse to steady. I roll my shoulders back, feel the tension crack at the base of my neck, but it doesn’t lessen. Doesn’t shift.
This isn’t rage.
Rage is wild, consuming, uncontrollable. My rage, I’ve already spent on her. This? This is the frigid post mortem. This is focus. This is clarity.
I lift the phone back to my ear.
“Bring him to me.”