Maelstrom

Chapter 34: Family Ties

The druglord looked thinner in person than in the pictures I had studied, older, but the force of his presence was unmistakable.

Right behind Castillo came his second son, Tomás – only a couple of years younger than me, he had already been involved in the family's business interests for years, but unlike his younger brother, Alejandro, Tomás had managed to keep his nose completely clean. Drawn more to the logistics and negotiations of the drug trade than to the intimidation and enforcement angles that so enamored Alejandro, he provided solid, dispassionate support for both his father and his older brother, Ángel, the Castillo family's crown prince.

The presence of both Castillo and Tomás meant that Ivan's status in New York had changed dramatically in the last two weeks, when the murderous youngest of the brood had stayed for only half an hour before turning the meeting over to an upper-level dealer and enforcer sent carry out a hit. I realized that the warm glow I was feeling was pride – pride that Ivan was becoming a force to be reckoned with in the city. I quashed the fucked-up feeling with alarm.

He switched to Spanish for his guests' benefit. "Señor Castillo, Tomás, bienvenidos," Ivan said, moving to shake the younger man's hand. "Gracias por reunirse a esta hora tan avanzada. (Thank you for meeting at this late hour.)"

"Gracias, Señor Alkaev. Me llame Hector, por favor. (Thank you, Mr Alkaev. Call me Hector, please.)"

"Ivan," he returned, both gracious and confident. "Por favor, se sienten. (Please, sit down.)"

Both men came into the balcony, trailed by their security guard. All three noted my presence at the bar, Tomás with a bit more interest than his father, but nothing like the attention thrown my way at the last meeting. I gave the men what I hoped was a vacuous smile. Ivan gestured to me and I quickly poured three generous shots of Casa Dragones and carried them to the table.

I was careful to serve the Castillo patriarch first, followed by his son, bringing Ivan his drink last. He let his fingers brush mine as I handed him the glass and gave me a quick wink. I rolled my eyes and smiled at him, careful to keep my body between him and the criminals at my back for our little exchange. I placed a bowl of lime wedges on the coffee table before retreating to the box's bar.

"Salud," Ivan toasted. His guests raised their glasses back to him and slowly sipped the premium tequila.

"Ahora," Ivan began. "Tengo entendido que usted ha hablado con Juan Pablo. (Now, I understand that you have spoken to Juan Pablo.)"

Hector Castillo hesitated and looked significantly in my direction. Ivan followed his gaze.

"Usted no necesita preocuparse de esa mujer," he assured them. "Ella es leal, y – más importante – no habla una palabra de español. (You don't need to worry about that woman. She's loyal, and – more importantly – doesn't speak a word of Spanish.)"

And just like that, I was reduced to a fly on the wall in a meeting that the NYPD OCCB, the DEA, the FBI, possibly the CIA, and probably countless cartel competitors that went by intimidating nicknames rather than acronyms, would give their eye teeth to be party to. I knew DiMarco would cream his pants – or shit bricks – if he knew he had someone placed in this room tonight.

I watched and listened as the men performed an awkward courtship dance around each other: Castillo pretended that while he knew that Morales had tried to kill Ivan, and that Ivan had killed the thug in return, that Morales's actions were not ordered by the family and his murderous intentions were, in fact, completely unknown to Castillo himself. Ivan, for his part, pretended to believe him. Neither party put much effort into making their performances credible; these were simply the motions they had to go through before moving on to business.