Sweet Temptation

I was at home, winding down in the library when my cell rang; I didn’t need to look at the name to know who was calling me this time of night.

“Hijo,” Dad slurred as I picked up the phone.

“Pa. You should be sleeping.”

He chuckled, the same way he did whenever I told him to rest.

“So should you. It’s past one. Anyway, I am in bed. I just wanted to remind you about tomorrow. The meeting.”

I dipped my head. “Sure, no worries. Hasta mañana."

“Buenas Noches.”

Those were his last words before hanging up the phone. I looked at my Rolex and realized he was right; it was late, and not only should he be in bed, but so should I. Friday night, we had the same conversation for our meeting on Saturdays. We would have breakfast together in his sun lounge or sometimes in the garden, depending on the weather. The topics were always the same:

How much money was owed to us?

Who needed to be put in line?

What was working well?

In our business, this was a rarity. We tended to brush over anyone who fell into a category three, knowing this status could change overnight. In just a week, someone might transition to a category two, and would become an issue we needed to take care of.

I knew he had his usual shot, most likely before hitting the sack; I did the same thing. But I didn’t keep the glass by my bed. Nah, I would have it in the study and then walk up the stairs; sometimes, just that much would tire me out a little more.

The shit had been hitting the fan lately. One day, I would take over the empire, and Dad claimed he had faith in me, but at times I did question it. We both had our own teams for different reasons; he was full of old-timers just passing on their duties to their sons, whereas my team consisted of five of us who worked together to get the job done.

I would head up the stairs, strip off my suit as if it was on fire, and then plunge into my bed in my birthday suit. The same thing I did every night. I didn’t fucking worry about someone coming into my room. No one did; no one fucking dared. Not only because it was my room, but even my dad said the room freaked him out.

My room was what I pictured Hell to be like; red and black filled with my interpretation of evil. Demons didn’t consist of ugly animals with horns on their heads like the stupid movies painted them to be, no, it would be the complete opposite. Hell would have the most beautiful men and women, marveling in their fate, which was the part my room fell under. The ugliness of it all, beauty on the outside, but inside, the real cruelty. The Carcass by Agostino Venezianohas was painted on my ceiling. It reflected the evil in the world today, the cruelty of men and women against everyone they deemed to be beneath them. It symbolized my world, the darkness my family belonged to, and how we treated others. We used them, did cruel things to them to get whatever we wanted.

The walls had paintings by The Garden of Earthly Delights, a demonstration of our world today, even if it was painted in the fifteenth century. A world had succumbed to the temptations of evil and was reaping eternal damnation. The panel featured cold colors, and the nakedness of the human figures had nothing to do with erotica but highlighted the temptations man seeks. The darkness in this room was a reflection of the man who resided within it. The man who bathed naked in the bathroom and slept in this bed.

I had never seen goodness in anyone and knew I would fail to do so in the future. I closed my eyes, thinking about who will have to be killed or taught a lesson tomorrow. For now, all I could do was feel the effects of Louis XIII, my favorite liquor was taking its tow on my body. Tomorrow would be another day, not a brighter one, just another one filled with darkness.

I woke up, and it was still dark; after all, it was only five am. I had a strict schedule of waking up at the same time every day. In general, I didn’t sleep much, maybe four to five hours at the most. I headed into the shower, and I didn’t even bother to close the door. Only my housekeeper, Lourdes, lived with me, the rest of the staff start at seven. I tried not to be in the house while they were around; I couldn’t stand people cleaning around me. It fucking irritated me.

I ran the cold water, feeling the need for a pick-up. Maybe I took too much of a shot last night, but I feel a little hungover, which is a surprise because I never drank to the stage where I was drunk. Then again, I did go out for a celebration with the gang last night. We had something to be happy about, so maybe this was why I felt like shit. When I looked down, I was still fully dressed.

What the fuck?

Something must have happened because the last thing I remembered was coming up to my room after talking to Dad, and I was pretty sure, I was fucking naked; when did I get up to put clothes on?

No one would come in here, so I must be confused about how the night ended or something. Lately, I’ve been waking up and not remembering things clearly. Thinking something like this happened when it fucking didn’t.

Maybe I needed a special friend like dad advised me to do. I wasn’t like him. I didn’t use sex as a weapon, and I never felt delighted unless there was some connection with a woman. Fucking just for fucking’s sake, it didn’t work with me. The guys in our business functioned that way, but for me, it was the one thing I could never just think about regularly doing. My cousin Diego sometimes fucks three or four girls a night, but he’s young. “It’s all about pleasure, primo!” He would wink at me; if we’re at his place or someone else’s and a party is going on, he wouldn’t hesitate in picking up a girl or two.

Life’s too short; I’d heard this repeated by so many different guys, time and time again.

Maybe finding a woman should be my next move. Go out there and get someone, someone who’s not in the business. Fuck, those women are so damn demanding, always wanting this and that.

A Mexican girl would be good for the first few months, then she would mingle, and before I knew it, she would be demanding. No, I needed someone to keep me company in the bedroom when or if I needed it.

Dad told me once, he knew how to get someone for my needs. I would talk to him about it in the meeting; I had to get going for now. I was not too fond of tardiness and had to get there on time. Even if no one respected punctuality in my family, I did with all the passion in the world. I looked up at the antique clock that chimed in my bathroom. I had a fucking clock everywhere. Time was money; both things I couldn’t afford to lose.

In the room at one of our hideouts, I sat alone, consumed with grief and anger. We didn’t have many across the city, and we preferred them to be out of sight, but in Chicago, it was pretty hard to have hideouts in a city full of apartment blocks. So, we used one of the businesses we owned for cleaning money. The typical crap every mob king had, from restaurants to men’s clothing stores. A casino could have been added to the list, but then the damn feds would be on it like leeches. We preferred restaurants because there was nothing more satisfying than beating the crap out of someone and then having a good meal afterward.

As much as I tried to erase the picture which kept flashing in my mind, I couldn’t even if a whole week had passed by, it still felt like yesterday. No amount of food, time, or drink could ever get rid of it. I stood as if a shot of lightning was being directed at the chair. I recalled Pa’s lifeless body lying in his bed. The man I loved more than myself was dead, and I didn’t know or even care if I would ever feel the same way ever again.

Today marked one week.

One week since the day I lost him. I couldn’t remember the last time someone in our family had died of natural causes; it was rarely heard of in our business, our lives were always fucking under threat. I’d sent many to their grave without blinking an eye. I’d had others try the same thing on me, and didn’t hesitate in repaying the favor.

Booze.

Sex.

Women.

These vices made everything we did bearable, as we played Russian roulette with our lives; it was clear we would cross the line one day and miss. The day I found Pa dead, it changed everything for me. I felt numb as I reflected on it, as I had every fucking day since then.

Could I have done something differently?

If I’d known something was up, then somewhere along the line, I could have stopped it. The million-dollar question that must run through everyone’s mind when they lose a loved one.

I was born with a gun in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other. My Mexican grandpa raised me and any time we snuck across the border into the States, it felt like a fucking luxury.

Now, it felt like a necessity, which didn’t sit too well with me at the best of times. When Wall Street crashed, my family and the rest of them chipped in to save America’s fucking economy. We weren’t known as criminals then, but saviors.

When it suits them, we’re criminals so much so that their president is talking about building a damn wall to divide us. They should build the fucking wall and see how long they last without our sucio dinero. Our money’s so fucking dirty when they need it to help them survive the economic crisis banging on their doors. The politicians and even bankers come and beg us for dough; they’re interested in keeping us in the country, but the rest of the time, they treat us like we’re animals. As if we’re the ones who should be locked up in cages and thrown into the ocean.

Pa always said we had to scratch their backs because one day, they’d scratch ours. It was a fucking joke because, at times, it felt as if they were scratching ours and leaving fucking scars.

There was no break-in to the house, no sign anything was up, apart from one little detail. Pa wasn’t up at six. Sometimes, he got up a little later… six-ten or so… but by six-thirty, I gathered something was up.

So, I went in to check on him. I knocked on his door. Nothing. “Pa! Despierta!” I laughed as I thought about him having a little too much to drink, and needing a little sunlight to come into the room. This would wake him up for sure, I thought as I drew the curtains. My eyes glanced back, and he was peacefully sleeping in his bed. Or so I believed…

It wasn’t until I looked at him closely, while he was sleeping in his bed. I froze, not wanting to disturb him. But something looked off. He was so still and pale, unlike his usual tanned complexion, so I leaned closer to him, intending to kiss his forehead. His skin was cold. I gasped, rocking back on my heels.

He wasn’t breathing.

I threw back the covers, but they stuck to his body.

Gagging, I stumbled backward. Someone had carved him up like a fucking butcher.

My Pa.

The paramedics and police turned up; they were too late. The fucking pigs laughed, and I even overheard them, saying someone saved a few thousand people by killing Pa.

What few thousand people?

We killed, sure, but they were killing innocents, politicians putting families on the poverty line, but we were the animals. And no one’s innocent in this world.

No one.

I told them to put Pa in the fridge. He wouldn’t be buried, and he couldn’t be put to rest until I found out who killed him. I would put everything to the side. Nothing was more important than seeing justice served.

Juan, my right-hand man, a former boxer, walked into the room and said, “Listo, jefe.” His eyes were dark, and he had no hair. He shaved it a long time ago when he started to go bald. It made him appear a lot younger than his years.

“It’s time, Juan. Time to learn what the mark knows.”

Juan narrowed his eyes and nodded in agreement.

“Someone, somewhere, knows who did this to Pa, and I won’t rest until I find them.” No fucking sleeping, eating, or anything which could be deemed as a luxury. I could still feel Pa’s cold body against mine. Someone did this to him. Forensics said most of it was done when he was alive. I’d make whoever did it pay, and anyone involved suffer the same fate.

I sprung up with a spurge of energy, ready to beat the shit out of the mark. “Let’s see what he knows.”

Juan nodded, and I deliberated about the number of times I’d done this in my life. The figure was nowhere near how many times I’d done it this week already. I stopped counting after the fifth. I needed to find Pa’s killer, and most of all, I needed to make them pay.