Contd
Elijah Vega.
The Don sits on his Spartan-style chair, hair pulled into that tight bun he only wears when s**t’s about to hit the fan. I know this ritual too well. He only ever does that when he needs a clear view to discipline us. When I, Rodrigo and Sergio f****d up as kids, he’d line us up.
And when it reached my turn, he’d let go of the belt because with me, pain didn’t work. So, he changed tactics. He used words, trying to chip away at my stubbornness because breaking my bones wouldn’t get him anywhere. My father and I? We have no warmth. I could sit here and tell stories about that man until the world ends, and it still wouldn't scratch the surface.
First time I ever spoke to him, I was ten. My mother loves to remind me how I stayed silent from the time I was a toddler unt
