“The muthafucka is still alive!” I toss a copy of the Playa Times at Salazar. “Look at the fucking picture and tell me that isn’t him.” Salazar picks up the newspaper and squints at the image. “I don’t know, boss. I mean, I guess it sort of looks like him.” “It’s him.” I survived a stroke, and I’m now confined to this fucking wheelchair—the shit has slowed me down. After I saw the Vazquezes’ boat explode on the water, my body turned on me. My empire has suffered, too. I lost most of my good men ...at my daughter’s birthday massacre. Most of the rest were pilfered by the Sinaloa and Zetas cartels. Now I’m left with just a handful of loyal men. Then again, after Julian Arias’s betrayal, maybe there’s no such thing as loyalty. “Have it checked out. If it’s him—bring me back his head.” “You got it, boss.” Salazar grabs the paper and races to carry out my orders. Once alone, I exhale and then knock down that pinprick of hope growing within me. I can’t afford to get my hopes up again.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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