1

 

Esai Molinero was a powerful man. Plucked as a child from the streets of Mexico City by legendary drug lord Alejandro Diaz-Garcia, he had been raised in a restored seventeenth-century mansion in the countryside of Veracruz province, and educated and groomed for the family business alongside Alejandro’s three sons. Upon Alejandro’s death, Esai dismissed ceremony and took control, assassinating each legitimate heir one by one, and establishing himself as sole head of the cartel before his twenty-fifth birthday.

“Which was unfortunate,” he confessed to Gabriel Flores, his confidant and one of very few people he completely trusted, “I truly thought of them as brothers.”

“Yes, I’m sure they sensed the depth of your love,” a wry smirk crept over Gabriel’s rugged features. “Especially with the barrel of your gun jammed against their temples.”

Esai shrugged, unconcerned. “I did what I had to do. Any one of my ‘brothers’ would have done the same.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“Yes, I’m certain, because we all had the same teacher: a cut-throat, manipulative bastard who knew only one way — his.”

Esai replaced Alejandro’s band of soldiers with an army of his own, recruiting only the most cunning and streetwise to do his bidding.

He acquired Armando Perez from an orphanage in Cordoba, a burly young man with little conscience, cultivated for the sole purpose of providing protection, an essential commodity for a man of Esai’s position.

He found Javier Cabrera wandering the streets of Xalapa, a young boy with the dark hair and honey-colored complexion of his deceased mother, yet possessing a pair of sharp green eyes that betrayed both his mixed-blood heritage and exceptional intellect. Although he considered each of his acquisitions invaluable, Esai had invested the most in Javier, ensuring that he received the finest education decades of ill-gotten gains could provide, as well as advanced lessons in language, decorum, and other social graces.

“So, this is what the cartel was missing,” Gabriel remarked as he scrutinized the immaculately attired young man recently returned from academia lounging next to Armando on the terrace. “An overeducated, multilingual huérfano who not only speaks well, but dances well too.”

Esai countered Gabriel’s cynicism self-righteously. “There’s something special about him. He will prove very useful one day.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Gabriel humored him. “Who in our line of work wouldn’t benefit from such a suave hombre?”

“You are patronizing me, Gabriel?”

“No, I’m simply saying that you must be anticipating a more refined group of clientele than those we’ve dealt with in the past.”

Esai was hard to predict, as each facet of his personality seemed contradictory. One side presented a striking, generous, compassionate man with an uncharacteristic soft spot for noble causes — one who funded orphanages, supported the homeless, tithed heavily to the church, and often served as principal financial patron for worthy charities.

The other revealed a vicious, murderous, ruthless monster notoriously given to executing or maiming for the simplest indiscretions as the mood struck.

“It must be an odd place in which to find oneself,” Gabriel commented dryly, “to be so feared, yet so adored. Although I might remind you, even you can’t buy your way into heaven.”

“So they say,” Esai responded lightly, firing up a cigar as he leaned back in his chair, gripping it with his teeth as he flashed a smile, “but I see no harm in trying.”

Overall, he was hard to resist: charming, handsome, free with money, showering those closest to him with the fruits of his extravagance, ranging from cars to homes to the finest of jewels. He never lacked female companionship, given freely or not, although most were more than willing.

Esai Molinero got what he wanted when he wanted it, with no exception.

 

 

2

 

For Abigail Christensen, the trip to Mexico had been a godsend. The youngest of four children born into a large family of old money, she entered a world already expecting great things of her. She was christened at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, enrolled in dance lessons at the age of two and piano lessons by age four, followed by a multitude of other lessons required of her social station. As a result, she reflected someone who was cultured, well-mannered, and poised, and had spent her entire life trying to conform, striving to please a family she knew she never could.

The first stop on her road to independence had been four years previously when she walked away from a lifetime of dancing and the potential of a promising career, forfeiting it all to pursue photography, something she truly loved. 

The second was her adamant refusal to take her relationship with Andrew Zeller to the next level. As in the most clichéd fairy tale, their parents had plotted their union since their respective births, elated at the prospect of combining two American dynasties. Intentionally thrown together at every feasible occasion, Abby and Andrew dated off and on, finding undeniable physical attraction but little else in common. Andrew didn’t share Abby’s passionate sense of adventure, and Abby didn’t share his desire to get married and live a life that closely mimicked her parents’, so she opted to end their excruciatingly overextended romance following her graduation from NYU.

Her mother had been distraught. “Oh, Abigail. How could you?” she wailed. “How could you break up with Andrew? You were so good together.”

Abby regarded her exaggerated display with an impatient roll of her eyes. “The only things about us that were good together, Mother, were our financial statements. You should be happy we ended it before it went any farther. We have absolutely nothing in common.”

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t have been successfully married. Common interests aren’t everything, Abigail.”

“And what is, Mother? Money? Do you truly believe that marrying for money would work out any better for me than it has for you?”

“I did not bring you into this world to address me in that manner.”

“No, you didn’t. You brought me into this world to live a life you had all picked out for me, a life with no deviation allowed — exact specifications only, please — and a life I could never live, although God knows I’ve tried. After finally realizing that nothing I do will ever please you, I’ve decided to just stop trying.”

Glyniss sank onto the edge of the divan, her ankles automatically crossing, and her posture ramrod stiff, indicating her disappointment with a heavy sigh. “I simply don’t understand where I went wrong with you — or with Jonathan.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Mother. Johnny and I are just natural screw-ups. At least you still have Billy and Tommy.”

“Yes, I do thank God every day that your older siblings are such overachievers.”

 

The trip to Mexico was her latest act of rebellion, her breaking free of all expectations, and the start of living life the way she wanted. Three weeks of total abandon spent in places she wanted to see, traveling from region to region on her time frame, lingering a few hours in one town and a few days in another.

Despite her symbolic emancipation, her father had insisted that she bring Jonathan along since, “he’s not doing anything anyway,” and Jonathan had been more than happy to oblige.

They spent the first week as tourists in the Yucatan, sightseeing in Merida, languishing on the beach in Cozumel, and drinking tequila as they watched the sunset in Cancun. The second week, however, was different.

“If I only wanted pictures of tourist spots, I’d buy postcards,” she said, ignoring Jonathan’s grumbling as she insisted they leave Cancun for Mexico City. “I want to photograph real Mexico: real people, real cities, real landscapes.”

“Which sounds real boring,” Jonathan sighed as he loaded their bags into the rented Jeep. “Could we at least go to Acapulco first? We could fly over for a couple days and then do the real Mexico.”

Abby’s condescending look answered before she did. “No.”

“Fine. Will there be real bars in these real places?”

“Real cantinas.”

“Whatever. All I’m asking, Abby, is will I be able to get a real drink? That’s all I want to know.”

“I imagine that’s a real possibility.”

After leaving Mexico City, they traveled Highway 150 toward Veracruz, taking small detours for Abby’s real people/places/landscapes along the way, ending up in a small municipality near the coast by midweek.

“Aguas Cristalinas — this place looks good to me,” Jonathan commented as they pulled into town, road weary and ready to plant his feet in one spot for a few days. “Think it’ll be real enough for ya?”

Abby gazed out the window, taking in the architecture and large open-air market in the center of town, noting with pleasure the lack of touristy feel. “This might work,” she said, smiling as she continued her visual inventory. “In fact, this might work out fine.”

They checked into a three-story hotel down the street from the open-air market and to Jonathan’s delight, across the road from a popular watering hole. 

“My new home away from home,” he declared as he made a beeline for the entry, his arms outstretched, feigning a hug as he planted a kiss on its brightly painted facade. “Rafe’s Cantina — love ya, babe.”

Abby liked Aguas Cristalinas, and Jonathan loved Rafe’s, where they spent almost every afternoon after Abby finished her daily exploration of the area, enjoying the festive atmosphere and a few cold beers before staggering to one of the local cafés for dinner.

They lingered in Aguas Cristalinas for the remainder of the second week and well into the third before Abby decided to extend their trip. “I’d really like to hang here a bit longer,” she told Jonathan over a dinner of authentic cuisine. “Is that all right with you?”

“Sure, why not?” Jonathan shrugged, flashing an irresistible smile as he leaned back in his chair and took a long swig of his Dos Equis. “I’m not doing anything else anyway.”