Back to roots
1261 Words
Several years passed, and Carlos became a ghost of vengeance, a man whose name sent shivers down spines and whose actions echoed through the streets.
His pain had forged an empire, and his wrath had made it unassailable. Tijuana belonged to him, and nothing would ever challenge that again.
He was unstoppable. However, a seemingly seamless business transaction with Pablo, the leader of bloodline mafia, at an excluded warehouse would soon change everything.
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The warehouse loomed in the shadows of Tijuana’s industrial district, its rusted metal exterior glinting faintly under the dim moonlight. Carlos adjusted his jacket and scanned the surrounding area. His men stood silent, their eyes alert, hands resting lightly on concealed weapons.
Fernando gave him a firm nod. “Just a routine deal,” Fernando murmured, though the tightness in his voice betrayed his unease.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of oil and mildew. Pablo’s gang lounged around makeshift tables, their movements deliberate, their eyes predatory.
Carlos stepped forward, his every motion a declaration of control. His sharp gaze never left Pablo, who lounged on a rickety chair at a wooden table.
“Pablo,” he greeted, his tone sharp.
Pablo smirked, “Carlos. Fernando. You’ve made quite a name for yourselves.”
They exchanged pleasantries, but tension crackled beneath the surface. The deal was simple: money for shipment. Or at least, it should have been.
Pablo’s men lined the walls, their hands resting near concealed weapons, Fernando stood a step behind Carlos, his muscles taut and eyes scanning the room for sudden movements.
“Let’s make this quick,” Carlos said, his tone cold and businesslike. “You have our shipment?” Pablo smirked, his fingers drumming lazily on the table. “I do, but first, I want to renegotiate.” Fernando’s brow furrowed. “That wasn’t part of the agreement,” he said, his voice low and threatening. Before Carlos could respond, a gunshot shattered the tense silence.
Chaos erupted. Pablo’s men pulled out weapons and opened fire without warning. Their bullets ricocheted
off metal and concrete.
Carlos dived for cover, pain searing through his abdomen as a bullet tore into him. He clutched his stomach, stumbling back as blood seeped through his fingers.
Fernando shouted orders, his voice cutting through the cacophony. “Carlos!” Fernando shouted, firing back as he ducked behind a crate.
Their men returned fire, forcing Pablo’s gang to retreat momentarily. Fernando grabbed Carlos, slinging one of his arms over his shoulder. “We’re getting out of here. Now!”
“Fall back! Fall back!” Fernando commanded in a ragging voice.
Two of their men assisted in dragging Carlos to the car, blood pooling beneath him as the car sped through Tijuana’s darkened streets, tyres screeching at every sharp turn.
Carlos lay in the backseat, his face pale, his breathing shallow. Blood soaked the cloth Fernando had pressed against his stomach.
The ride back to Fernando’s mansion was a blur of agony for Carlos, his breaths shallow, his vision swimming. Fernando worked feverishly, his hands slick with blood as he pressed the cloth against the wound. “Stay with me, Hermano” he urged, his voice trembling.
In the dim light of Fernando’s mansion, the air was heavy with desperation. Fernando worked tirelessly, his hands slippery with Carlos’s blood as he tried to stop the bleeding.
Carlos’s lips curled into a weak smile, “It’s not looking good, is it?”
Fernando didn’t respond; his jaw clenched as he focused on Carlos’s wound.
Carlos groaned, his hand fumbling for Fernando’s wrist. “It’s over,” he rasped, “You know it.” “Don’t say that!” Fernando barked, but his voice cracked.
Carlos’s grip on Fernando’s wrist tightened. “Promise me,” he gasped, his voice weak, “Promise me you’ll
take care of Isabella.”
Fernando’s chest tightened. “I promise,” he responded faintly.
Fernando’s eyes filled with tears as Carlos reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver pendant, its surface etched with intricate designs. “Give this to her. Tell her.... Tell her I loved her very much”
Carlos’s hand went limp, the pendant slipping from his grasp as his body stilled. Fernando crumpled to the floor, clutching his friend’s lifeless body; a guttural cry escaped his throat as grief consumed him.
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A few weeks later, in Bogotá, Colombia. Veronica sat at her desk, her hands trembling as she read the letter from Fernando.
Veronica,
I write to you with a heavy heart. Carlos is gone. He died in my arms after a shootout. His last words
were that I care for and protect Isabella. I humbly request full custody of her to honour his final wish. I promise to love and protect her as if she were my own.
Best Regards, Fernando Martinez
Veronica’s chest tightened with grief, but anger flared in her heart. “Ridiculous! How dare he ask to take Isabella away?” She muttered. She folded the letter and tucked it into a drawer, refusing to reply.
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A month passed. The sun cast long shadows across Veronica’s home when a knock echoed through the quiet house. Isabella, now thirteen, answered the door cautiously.
A tall man with sharp features and piercing eyes stood on the doorstep. Behind him were two other men, they were all dressed in black suit. Their presence imposing.
“Hello, niña,” Fernando said, his voice soft yet unfamiliar. He gazed at Isabella in amazement, flashing a smile.
Isabella stared at him, her brown eyes widening. Something about the stern man and his companions unnerved her. She quickly shut the door and ran to fetch Veronica.
“Who’s at the door?” Veronica asked, her voice laced with curiosity. “Some suspicious strangers,” Isabella whispered nervously.
When Veronica opened the door to check, her expression darkened. “What are you doing here?” she hissed, stepping outside and closing the door behind her.
“I came to see Isabella,” Fernando said, “I promised Carlos....”
“Keep your promises to yourself,” Veronica snapped, cutting him off. “She’s my responsibility now, and she doesn’t need you, so leave!” she angrily said to him.
Isabella watched them through the window as they conversed, curiosity gnawing at her. “Auntie, who was that strange man?” Isabella asked Veronica when they were having dinner. “No one important,” Veronica replied, brushing the question aside.
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A week later, Veronica misplaced her favourite earrings. Isabella offered to help search for it and, in her rummaging, stumbled upon the letter Fernando had written to Veronica.
Her hands trembling as she read it. Tears streamed down her face as the truth of her father’s death sank in. Fernando had written to take her away.
When Veronica found Isabella crying, her face softened. “Isabella! Baby what’s wrong?” she asked calmly. Wordlessly, Isabella held up the letter. Veronica’s heart sank.
“I was going to tell you,” she began, but Isabella cut her off.
“You lied to me. Why didn’t you tell me my Papá was alive?” she asked.
Veronica sighed heavily, “I was trying to protect you.”
“I want to meet Fernando Martinez,” Isabella said, her voice firm.
“That’s not happening! Not at all!” Veronica replied sharply
Their argument escalated until Veronica slapped her niece in a fit of frustration.
Isabella’s eyes burned with anger as she stormed out of the room. Veronica instantly felt remorseful
overreacting.
- Writer
