27. The Last Don Of Barcelona
THE LAST DON OF BARCELONA
Alejandro
Regina rubs her forehead and drains the rum from her glass.
She sits across from me at a lacquered, oval table in one of the meeting rooms in her home. Don Rubin Caceres is going back and forth with Don Luis Alberto about the events of last evening’s dinner while Don Javier Sevilla sits quietly in his seat. Forever an observer and never a participant.
I can’t believe how long I’ve known Regina.
Sixteen years and she still hasn’t grown out of that idiosyncratic habit.
Rubbing one’s forehead in and of itself isn’t odd but it’s the way Regina does it that’s always been a dead giveaway of her emotions.
Two, sometimes three fingers rubbing horizontally across her hairline in a hard, scrubbing motion as if trying to erase signs of distress on her face or memories from her mind.
She did it all the time at seventeen and she does it now at thirty-three. I doubt she’ll ever stop.
“I spoke to my family’s contact in Peru last night. Apparently Simón Ortiz was in business with my father years ago. I assume once they found out we were moving away from narcotics, they thought my family’s territory would be ripe for the picking.” Regina says.
“It’s clear they’re after more than just territory to peddle narcotics.” I say. “They want to be here permanently.”
“Here, as in?” Don Rubin sets down his coffee.
“Barcelona. Where else?”
Regina shakes her head. “It’s more than that. Simón’s speech last night was a threat. A political coup d’état disguised as a friendly meal. He wants into the fold of this coalition for some greater purpose. I just haven’t figured out what that is yet.”
Don Javier speaks for the first time since our meeting began. “I have it on good authority the Ortizes will petition for a vote.”
“A vote?” Don Luis Alberto echoes. “A vote for what?”
“To be inducted as the thirteenth family and Simón as a thirteenth Apostle.”
I sit up in my seat. “That’s absurd. He can’t do that…can he?”
“There’s certainly precedent. We weren’t always twelve,” says Don Rubin. “I believe the last time we inducted a new Don was over thirty years ago.”
“If it comes to it, who do you think will have the majority?” Regina asks.
“It’s hard to say.” He replies. “Lopez, Garcia, and Falcón would likely be opposed. The Ortizes are eager to expand and would be encroaching too much on their territory if they did.”
“Then why aren’t they here now?” Don Luis Alberto asks.
I’m surprised when Don Javier speaks. “Because we don’t like them.”
Neither Regina nor I can help the strangled laugh that leaves us both.
“That leaves Dons Cayetano Arroyo, Samuel Villamizar, Jose Betancourt, and Fulgencio De La Vega.” Don Javier’s gaze travels around the table. “Where would they stand if it came to a vote?”
“Don Cayetano has one foot out the door. His grandson, Juame, can be persuaded.” Regina says.
“De La Vega and Betancourt are slippery foxes.” Don Luis Alberto sighs. “Always have been.”
“It doesn’t matter. We don’t need a unanimous vote, only a majority.” Don Rubin points out. “I sincerely doubt that after last night, anyone would be keen on keeping the Ortizes in the running.”
“Especially since Condesa Laura has been projectile vomiting since last night.” Regina refills her glass of rum. “Don Fulgencio isn’t pleased his wife’s mushrooms were undercooked.”
“Nor am I,” I chime in. “Dahlia was sick all morning.”
“We’ll schedule a meeting with the twelve next month to ascertain how viable this information is. I don’t distrust Don Javier or his sources but I’d rather we not be blindsided by something preventable.” She lifts a brow. “Unless there are any objections.”
The other men shake their heads.
“Shopping around for another family to maintain a perfect twelve is a mistake. We should be spending the coming years stabilizing ourselves instead of vetting strangers.” I say.
“I agree,” Don Javier concedes. “But convincing everyone else will be difficult. The other Dons are married to the idea of twelve, mistaking it as some form of protection. In their minds, they’re convinced having twelve Dons will maintain order in the city, not the Dons themselves.”
“I believe in having twelve.” Don Luis Alberto chimes in. “Perhaps not right now but within the next decade, yes. We have always been twelve.”
“Not always,” I interject. “Not always.”
The table falls silent. In the early decades of my grandfather’s reign over the city, the current system operated similarly to the Five Families of New York with heads of every family and one Don to rule them all.
Abuelo was called the Don of Barcelona up until my early childhood.
By then, the drug epidemic had ended and with it, two decades of killing, succession wars, and instability.
Out of it came a new rule of law for organized crime in the city.
A system of Twelve Families and twelve Dons with an honor code to be followed by the letter.
“The city flourished under a different system before this one.”
“Alejo,” Regina looks at me. “You’re talking about a completely different world.
Our fathers weren’t even born yet. This city isn’t the same as it was when Salazar and Gaspar were coming up.
Not politically, socially, and most certainly not economically.
Which isn’t taking into account technological advancements in the last sixty years. To survive we have to evolve.”
“This is evolution.” I argue. “We can find a new way to be. An opportunity to—”
“We?” she echoes. “There is no we. Alejandro, you’re on your way out. Whatever future we come up with, you will not be a part of it.”
“So you expect me to be a silent figurehead at this table for the next decade?”
“I expect you to sit and advise. Not dole out orders.” She hits back hotly.
“You aren’t ‘the Don’ anymore. Not really.
In a few years the entirety of your enterprise will be fully legitimate.
What you need to do is focus on decentralizing your family’s shipping business from the Port of Barcelona.
And after, slowly reintegrating your territory into the city grid so the rest of us can decide what to do with it. ”
“Is this it then? Am I to have no say in the future of a city my grandfather built—”
“Salazar didn’t do it alone. He had my grandfather too.”
“Adoptive grandfather—”
She slams her hand down on the table.
The room falls deathly quiet.
Whatever anger I felt sizzling through my chest dissipates the moment I realize my mistake. Shame burns through me just as quickly.
“Regina…I’m—”
Don Javier stands and interrupts me. “Thank you for inviting me. I’ll take my leave now.”
Dons Luis Alberto and Rubin understand when an out has been given to them. All three men leave the room and a chill settles in the air. I get up and walk over to her side of the table.
“Regina,” I place a hand on her arm. “I’m so—”
She yanks her arm away. “Do not ever question the legitimacy of my rule over this family again.”
I take a moment to collect my thoughts. “I didn’t mean—”
“Of course you didn’t. Men never think before they speak.” Her jaw tightens. “Gaspar and Gregorio may not have been my blood but they were mine. They loved me. You of all people should understand that. I am as much a Sandoval as Antonio is a Narvaez. Being adopted makes no difference.”
“My cousin Anthony is a Narvaez, yes,” I tell her. “But he isn’t inheriting the entirety of my family’s business.”
“Well, there’s no one else but me. Monse is unfit and Armando wants nothing to do with this. He wants to marry his university sweetheart and live a normal life, something I will not deprive him of.”
Armando is the youngest of the four Sandoval children and the only biological sibling Regina and Sandro shared.
Technically, he should be the current head of his family but he was still a teenager when Sandro died.
Regina had been the one running their family operation and it didn’t make sense to pull him in when he was still so young.
“Not only am I not a Sandoval by blood but I’m also a woman.
If you of all people question my place at this table, I won’t have a leg to stand on,” she says, her voice full of anguish.
“You want me to be your heir? To take over your place in this organization when you’re fully legitimate? Then defend me.”
“All right, all right,” I take her hand in mine and press a chaste kiss against her knuckles. “Forgive me. I’m sorry.”
She glares at me. “Does your wife forgive you this easily?”
“Yes.” I reply.
The corner of her mouth twitches as she yanks her hand away. “Liar.”
I chuckle softly as she gathers up her things and barrels into me on her way to the door, causing me to lose my balance and crash into the credenza.
“Ow, Regina.”
“I trust you can show yourself out.”