THE CASH BOX Chapter 8

THE CASH BOX

Chapter 8: The Pig

 The sun hung low over Houston as Raymond pulled into Jorge's driveway, the weight of Lorenzo's words still heavy in his chest. The smell of frying plantains and simmering black beans greeted him as he stepped inside, the familiar warmth of Jorge's home wrapping around him like an old blanket.  

"Raymond!" Jorge called from the kitchen. "Just in time. Help Nelson set the table."  

The dining room was alive with movement - Vanni arranging flowers in a chipped vase, Sebastian scowling as he folded napkins, Nelson carefully counting out forks. Raymond grabbed a stack of plates, their ceramic edges worn smooth from years of use.  

As he set the table, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Lorenzo: "You in or out?"  

Raymond's fingers hovered over the screen. He glanced at Jorge humming in the kitchen, at Nelson's earnest face as he concentrated on placing each utensil just right. The smell of garlic and cumin filled the air, so different from the sterile scent of Lorenzo's world.  

His thumb moved before he could second-guess himself: "In."  

The response took hours to come. Through Jorge's blessing over the meal, through three helpings of ropa vieja, through Nelson's excited retelling of his school day. It wasn't until Raymond was washing dishes that his phone finally vibrated again.  

"Meet me tomorrow. 8 AM. Don't be late."  

Raymond dried his hands on a dish towel, the words burning in his pocket. He looked up to find Sebastian watching him from the doorway, his dark eyes unreadable.  

"Problem?" Raymond asked, hanging the towel neatly.  

Sebastian's jaw worked silently before he spat out, "Just don't drag my grandfather into whatever shit you're doing." He turned on his heel and left before Raymond could respond.  

The night stretched long and restless. Raymond lay awake listening to the house settle around him - the creak of floorboards as Jorge checked on the children, the distant hum of traffic on the freeway, the occasional siren wailing through the Houston streets. Each sound seemed to pull him further from sleep, drawing him toward the morning and whatever waited with Lorenzo.  

Midnight found Raymond kneeling in Sacred Heart Catholic Church, though he hadn't prayed since juvie. The scent of lemon polish and old incense clung to the confessional booth.  

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." His whisper stuck to the wood. "I think I'm about to do something unforgivable."  

The priest's silhouette shifted behind the screen. "Violence?"  

"Worse." Raymond pressed his forehead against the grille. "I know it's wrong. But I'll do it anyway."  

A long silence. Then: "Then why confess?"  

When dawn finally came, Raymond dressed quietly in the pale light filtering through his window. He paused at Nelson's door, watching the boy sleep peacefully, his small hands curled around a worn teddy bear. The sight lodged something sharp in Raymond's throat.  

The kitchen light was already on when he came downstairs. Jorge stood at the stove, scrambling eggs in his usual methodical way. He didn't turn around as Raymond entered.  

"You're up early," Jorge observed, his voice carefully neutral.  

Raymond poured himself coffee, the rich aroma filling the silence between them. "Got a new job. Starting today."  

Jorge's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "That so? What kind of work?"  

The lie came easily. "Construction. Good pay."  

The eggs sizzled in the pan. Jorge nodded slowly. "Be careful out there, mijo. The sun's hot this time of year."  

Raymond studied the older man's profile - the deep lines around his eyes, the gray peppering his temples. Jorge knew. Of course he knew. But he wouldn't push. That wasn't his way.  

"I will," Raymond promised, though they both knew it wasn't the heat he needed to worry about.  

The eggs were perfect, as always. Raymond ate quickly, the silence between them comfortable despite everything. When he stood to leave, Jorge caught his wrist with surprising strength.  

"Whatever path you choose," he said quietly, "remember you always have a home here."  

Raymond nodded, the words sticking in his throat. He left before he could say something he'd regret.  

The sun hadn't fully risen when Raymond slipped out of Jorge's house, the screen door creaking behind him. He wasn't going to work—not the meat-packing plant, not the gas station nor the construction job. Today, he was Lorenzo's segundo. His right hand. His shadow.  

Lorenzo was waiting in the parking lot of a taco truck, leaning against his black Escalade, already halfway through a cigarette. He grinned when he saw Raymond, tossing him a grease-stained paper bag.  

"Breakfast of champions, cabrón," Lorenzo said. "Egg and chorizo. Just like the old days."  

Raymond unwrapped the taco, the smell of fried meat and salsa hitting him like nostalgia. "Thought you'd be eating gold flakes by now."  

Lorenzo laughed, slapping him on the back. "Gold's for saving, pendejo. Not for shitting out."  

They ate in silence for a minute, the only sound the sizzle of the grill and the distant hum of Houston waking up. Then Lorenzo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded toward the car.  

"Let's go. First day on the job, and I got you doing the most important work of all."  

"What's that?"  

Lorenzo grinned. "Waiting."  

The Escalade rolled through the streets, the tinted windows shielding them from the morning glare. Raymond watched the city blur past—the strip malls, the pawn shops, the endless construction. Houston was always building, always tearing itself apart and putting itself back together.  

Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You ever hear the saying, 'Hurry up and wait'?"  

Raymond grunted. "Sounds like the army."  

"Nah, hermano. It's the game. You rush to get in position, then you sit. And sit. And sit some more. Until the moment's right." He glanced at Raymond. "Patience is power."  

Raymond didn't answer. Patience had never been his strong suit.  

Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the wheel, eyes scanning the road.  

"So anyway, lemme tell you all about waiting," he said. "It's an art, hermano. You ever watch a pig before slaughter? Just standing there, dumb and happy, not knowing it's already dead?"  

Raymond chewed slowly. "Like the puerco waits to turn into chorizo?"  

Lorenzo snapped his fingers. "Exacto. That's us right now. We're the butchers, not the pigs. But you gotta wait for the right moment to swing the knife."  

Raymond stared out the window. He knew about waiting. Waiting in jail cells. Waiting for meals. Waiting for life to start.  

Lorenzo's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, smirked, and gunned the engine.  

"Now we go."  

They pulled into the lot of an abandoned warehouse, the chain-link fence sagging under its own rust. Lorenzo killed the engine and leaned back. "Now we wait."  

Lorenzo's phone buzzed after a short quiet moment.  

"Now we go."  

The warehouse was hidden in plain sight—just another nondescript building in Houston's industrial district, its rusted metal siding and cracked pavement giving no hint of the fortune inside. Lorenzo led Raymond through a side door, past two armed guards who nodded in silent recognition. The air inside was cool, dry, the hum of industrial dehumidifiers filling the space.  

Then Raymond saw it.  

A massive vault, thick steel gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Lorenzo punched in a code, twisted the wheel, and the door groaned open. Inside, gold bars were stacked neatly on metal shelves, their surfaces catching the light like fire. Coins filled wooden crates, spilling over in careless abundance.  

Raymond's breath caught. "This is..."  

"Worth a lot of money," Lorenzo said, running a hand over a stack of bars. He turned to Raymond, his expression unreadable. "This is what power looks like, Ray. Not cash. Not drugs. Gold. It doesn't rot. It doesn't lose value. And it doesn't answer to the government."  

Raymond swallowed hard. "How'd you get all this?"  

Lorenzo smirked. "By being smarter than everyone else."  

Lorenzo's "office" was a back room in the Tex-Mex steakhouse, decorated with a fake plant, a leather couch, and a framed photo of Trump shaking hands with a younger Lorenzo.  

Raymond sat across from him, bored out of his skull.  

"This the job?" Raymond asked. "Sitting around?"  

Lorenzo leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Carnal, 90% of this business is waiting. Waiting for calls. Waiting for deals. Waiting for the right moment to move." He gestured to the phone on the desk. "Gold's patient. You gotta be too."  

Raymond snorted. "Sounds like a pyramid scheme with better suits."  

Lorenzo grinned. "Nah, man. Pyramid schemes are for white people. This? This is capitalism."  

The phone rang. Lorenzo answered, his voice smooth. "Yeah?"  

A pause. Then his grin widened.  

"We got it."  

He noticed Raymond looking around. Lorenzo's office was cluttered with maps, burner phones, and a whiteboard covered in scribbled names—DEA agents, cartel lieutenants, rival dealers.  

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.  

"You ever heard of the DEA selling drugs back to the cartels?"  

Raymond frowned. "That's a conspiracy theory."  

Lorenzo laughed. "No, mijo. That's business." He tapped the whiteboard. "See, the DEA seizes fentanyl shipments. But instead of destroying it? They auction it off—to me. I buy it cheap, repackage it, sell it to the cartels at a markup. They get their product back, the DEA gets their cut, and I?" He grinned. "I get rich."  

Raymond's stomach twisted. "You're playing both sides."  

"I'm playing the side," Lorenzo corrected. "The winning side."  

Lorenzo's "we got it" turned out to be three kilos of gold bars, smuggled in a shipment of auto parts from Mexico. The seller was a twitchy norteño named Chuy, who kept adjusting his belt like he expected to be frisked.  

Raymond watched as Lorenzo slid a briefcase across the table. Chuy opened it, counted the cash, then nodded to his bodyguard—a slab of muscle with a shotgun slung over his shoulder. The bodyguard tossed a duffel bag onto the table.  

Lorenzo unzipped it, glided his fingers over the gold, then suddenly froze.  

"This isn't 24 karat," he said softly.  

Chuy paled. "Qué? Of course it is—"  

Lorenzo flipped a bar over, revealing a tiny stamp: 22k.  

A beat of silence. Then Lorenzo sighed, like a disappointed teacher.  

"Raymond."  

Raymond knew what that meant.  

He broke Chuy's nose with the butt of his pistol before the man could blink.  

Back at the steakhouse, Lorenzo was in a philosophical mood.  

"You ever notice," he mused, "how pigs scream when the time finally comes when they're slaughtered? Like they know." He sliced into his ribeye, bloody juice pooling on the plate. "People are the same. They know when they're beat."  

Raymond thought of Chuy's whimpers, Nelson's bloody fist. "So what's the lesson?"  

Lorenzo pointed his knife at him. "Never be the pig. Be the knife. Be the hand holding it." He leaned in. "Or better yet—be the guy who owns the whole damn slaughterhouse."  

A text buzzed on Lorenzo's phone. He read it, then smirked.  

"Speaking of slaughterhouses... We got a problem to fix."  

The "problem" was a rival dealer named Tavo, who'd been skimming from Lorenzo's fentanyl shipments. They found him in a dingy apartment near Gulfton, counting cash on a folding table.  

Tavo looked up, resigned, as they kicked in the door. "Ya sé por qué vinieron."  

Lorenzo tutted. "Then you know how this ends."  

Raymond expected another beating. Instead, Lorenzo pulled out a Ziploc bag of white powder and tossed it on the table.  

"You like product so much?" Lorenzo said. "Eat it."  

Tavo's hands shook as he scooped a handful into his mouth.  

Lorenzo made him finish the whole bag.  

Raymond vomited in the alley afterward, his throat burning. Lorenzo lit a cigarette, unfazed.  

"First time?"  

Raymond spat. "That wasn't business. That was torture."  

Lorenzo blew smoke into the neon-lit haze. "Business is torture. You break them fast, or they break you slow." He flicked the cigarette at a stray dog. "You still wanna be the knife?"  

Raymond thought of Nelson's bloody knuckles. Of Chuy's sobs. Of the way Tavo's eyes rolled back as he choked.  

He wiped his mouth.  

"Yeah."  

Lorenzo sat at his desk, counting gold coins. Raymond watched, silent.  

"You ever think about what this makes us?" Raymond asked finally.  

Lorenzo didn't look up. "What?"  

"Pigs."  

Lorenzo paused. "What?"  

Raymond nodded at the gold. "Pigs. Rolling in shit, getting fat. That's capitalism, right? They're just animals at the trough."  

Lorenzo laughed, but it was hollow. "Sounds like you're starting to catch on, Ray."  

Raymond said nothing.  

Outside, the city hummed. Cars honked.  

The gold glimmered, cold and bright.  

Later, over carne asada and Modelos, Lorenzo laid it out.  

"You ever think about pigs, Raymond?"  

Raymond took a swig of beer. "What?"  

"Pigs," Lorenzo repeated. "They eat anything. Garbage, shit, their own young. And what do we do with 'em?"  

"Eat 'em."  

"Exactly." Lorenzo stabbed his fork into the meat. "Capitalism's the same. It's a pig. It'll eat anything—people, morals, whole countries. But if you're smart? You eat it first."  

Raymond chewed slowly. "That's your big philosophy? Be a pig?"  

Lorenzo laughed. "Nah, cabrón. Be the butcher."  

Raymond didn't make it home until late. The house was quiet, the only light coming from the TV flickering in the living room.  

The smell of burning chorizo led Raymond to the kitchen where Jorge stood frozen, Raymond's bloodstained work shirt in his hands. The older man's knuckles whitened around the fabric.  

"You told me you were working construction," Jorge said, voice cracking like dry kindling.  

Raymond reached for it. "It's not what—"  

Jorge flung the shirt into the sink where it hissed against leftover dishwater and huffed his way out of the kitchen.  

Through the kitchen window, Raymond saw Sebastian watching from the driveway, arms crossed. A silent witness.  

Nelson sat at the table, his face red, his hands clenched into tiny fists.  

Raymond frowned. "What happened?"  

Nelson wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Marcus. He... he pushed me into the mud. Called me a wetback."  

Raymond's blood boiled. He crouched down, eye level with the kid. "You hit him back?"  

Nelson shook his head, fresh tears welling up. "Abuelito said not to."  

Before Raymond could respond, Sebastian appeared in the doorway, his arms crossed. "Leave him alone," he snapped. "You're not helping."  

Raymond stood, turning to face him. "Kid's getting bullied. Somebody's gotta teach him to stand up for himself."  

Sebastian's jaw tightened. "By making him a thug like you?"  

The words hung in the air like a punch. Raymond stepped closer, his voice low. "Better a thug than a punching bag."  

Sebastian didn't back down. "You think violence fixes everything? That's why you're nothing. Just a dumb pocho."  

Raymond saw red. He grabbed Sebastian by the collar, slamming him against the wall. "Say that again."  

Sebastian smirked, blood trickling from his lip. "Puerco."  

Raymond reared back—then stopped. Nelson was watching, his eyes wide.  

Sebastian saw his hesitation and struck first. His knee came up hard into Raymond's gut, knocking the wind from him. Before Raymond could recover, Sebastian twisted free and drove a shoulder into his ribs, sending them both crashing to the linoleum.  

The younger man was stronger than he looked. His fists pummeled Raymond's sides with surprising force, his breath hot against Raymond's ear. "This what you want to teach him?" Sebastian hissed between blows. "This the lesson?"  

Raymond tasted blood. He bucked his hips, flipping their positions, pinning Sebastian's wrists to the floor. The kid thrashed beneath him, spitting curses in rapid Spanish.  

Nelson's small voice cut through the struggle: "Stop! Please stop!"  

Raymond froze. He looked down at Sebastian's furious face, at the blood smeared across his own knuckles. This wasn't teaching. This was just another fight, another cycle of violence.  

He let go.  

Sebastian straightened his shirt, still smirking. "That's what I thought."  

Raymond turned to Nelson. "Listen to me, kid. The world's full of pigs. Some wear badges, some wear suits. Only way to survive is to be the meanest one in the pen."  

Sebastian scoffed. "Great advice. Really Christian."  

Raymond ignored him, kneeling in front of Nelson again. "You hit Marcus tomorrow. Hard. And if he hits back, you hit harder. Understand?"  

Nelson hesitated, then nodded.  

Sebastian threw up his hands. "Great. Now we got two of you. Así es como los pochos hacen las cosas."  

The next day, Raymond was nursing a whiskey-laced coffee when Jorge’s front door burst open. Nelson stood there, trembling, his knuckles split and bloody.  

“I hit Marcus,” he whispered.  

Raymond crouched down. “And?”  

“He cried.” Nelson’s voice was equal parts pride and terror. “Then his brother pushed me into the fence.”  

Sebastian stormed in, his face thunderous. “Mira lo que hiciste!” He grabbed Nelson’s arm, showing Raymond the bruises. “You happy now?”  

Raymond ignored him, wiping Nelson’s bloodied hand with a dish towel. “You hit the brother too?”  

Nelson shook his head.  

“Next time,” Raymond said, “you hit everyone.”  

Sebastian threw the towel in Raymond’s face. “You’re turning him into an animal!”  

Raymond stood slowly. “Better an animal than prey.”  

Raymond’s second day at Lorenzo’s bar was nothing like he expected.  

He arrived early, the neon sign flickering weakly in the morning light, casting a pink glow over the empty parking lot. The bar was closed, but Lorenzo had given him a key. Inside, the air smelled of stale beer and disinfectant. The chairs were still upside-down on the tables, the floor sticky under his shoes.  

Lorenzo wasn’t there yet.  

Raymond wandered behind the bar, running his fingers along the bottles of liquor, the labels faded from years of sunlight. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Clean? Stock? Wait?  

He grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter, the motion mindless, repetitive. The silence was oppressive.  

Then the door opened.  

A woman walked in, her heels clicking against the tile. She was tall, with dark hair cascading down her back, her lips painted a deep red. She wore a tight black dress, her curves accentuated, her presence commanding.  

Raymond froze, the rag still in his hand.  

She raised an eyebrow, her eyes scanning him up and down. “You must be Raymond.”  

He nodded, suddenly aware of how rough he must look—his wrinkled shirt, his scuffed boots, the fading bruise on his cheek from the fight at the gas station.  

“Lorraine,” she said, extending a manicured hand. “Lorenzo’s girlfriend.”  

Raymond wiped his palm on his jeans before shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, her nails sharp.  

“Lorenzo’s running late,” she said, her voice smooth, amused. “He told me to make sure you didn’t burn the place down.”  

Raymond frowned. “I know how to clean.”  

She smirked, leaning against the bar. “Good. Because Lorenzo doesn’t hire people who don’t pull their weight.”  

Raymond didn’t respond. He went back to wiping the counter, his movements stiff.  

Lorraine watched him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re not much of a talker, huh?”  

“Not when I don’t have anything to say.”  

She laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Fair enough.” She reached behind the bar, pulling out a bottle of tequila and two glasses. “You drink?”  

Raymond hesitated, then nodded.  

She poured two shots, sliding one toward him. “To new beginnings.”  

They clinked glasses. The tequila burned going down, but Raymond didn’t flinch.  

The TV hummed in the dim glow of the empty steakhouse, sunlight slicing through half-closed blinds. A rerun of Lone Star Court played to no one—just the ghosts of last night’s drinkers and the lingering scent of stale beer.  

Judge: "Where were you going? The pork store?"  

A pause. The defendant, a burly man with a defensive hunch, shifted on the stand.  

Defendant (Mr. Manstavich): "Yeah, needed kielbasa for the grill."  

Judge: "Was he drinking again?"  

The prosecutor sighed, flipping a file shut.  

Prosecutor: "Your Honor, did you break your 90-day sobriety? Did you drive drunk?"  

Manstavich (grumbling): "No, Your Honor."  

Judge (eyebrow raised): "Then what did he do?"  

Prosecutor (dryly): "He incited an accident by not using his turn signal."  

A beat. Lorraine snorted.  

Manstavich (leaning forward): "I don’t use the turn signal if there ain’t nobody behind me that needs to see it!"  

Judge (pinching the bridge of her nose): "Then why—"  

Manstavich (sheepish, shrugging): "See, the thing was… I was a little tipsy, Your Honor."  

The gavel cracked. Lorenzo’s woman shook her head. Somewhere, a fridge motor kicked on. The TV cut to a commercial for injury lawyers as the camera lingered on the empty stools, the silent neon, the justice no one was left to hear.  

Lorraine studied Raymond, her dark eyes unreadable. “Lorenzo says you used to be something.”  

His grip tightened around the glass. “Used to be.”  

She tilted her head. “What happened?”  

He set the glass down harder than necessary. “Life.”  

Lorraine didn’t press. Instead, she poured another shot. “Well, Lorenzo thinks you can be something again. So don’t fuck it up.”  

Raymond didn’t answer.  

The day dragged on.  

Lorenzo finally showed up around noon, flashing that easy grin of his, clapping Raymond on the back like they were old friends. He gave Raymond a quick tour of the place, explaining the basics—stocking the bar, handling the register, breaking up fights before they got out of hand.  

“Mostly, you’re just here to keep an eye on things,” Lorenzo said. “Make sure no one steals, no one starts shit. You’re the muscle, but you don’t gotta flex unless you have to.”  

Raymond nodded. Simple enough.  

But as the hours passed, he realized how boring it was. The bar didn’t open until evening, so he spent most of the afternoon cleaning, organizing, waiting. He wasn’t used to this—the monotony, the stillness. He was used to chaos, to survival.  

Lorraine left around midday, blowing Lorenzo a kiss before disappearing into a sleek black car. Lorenzo watched her go, his expression unreadable, then turned back to Raymond.  

“Hungry?”  

Raymond shrugged.  

Lorenzo grinned. “Good. There’s a place down the street. Best carnitas in Houston.”  

The restaurant was small, cramped, the air thick with the smell of sizzling pork and spices. A faded mural of a smiling pig adorned the wall, its cartoonish face cheerful, oblivious.  

“Bienvenidos a El Cerdo Feliz!” the pig seemed to say. Welcome to The Happy Pig!  

Raymond stared at it as they sat down.  

Lorenzo followed his gaze and chuckled. “Kinda fucked up, right? A pig smiling while people eat its cousins.”  

Raymond didn’t respond.  

Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp. “You ever think about that? How we’re all just pigs in the end?”  

Raymond frowned. “What?”  

Lorenzo gestured around them. “Capitalism, man. It’s a slaughterhouse. Some of us are the butchers. Some of us are the meat. But we’re all part of the machine.”  

Raymond stared at him. “Since when do you care about capitalism?”  

Lorenzo smirked. “I don’t. But it’s funny, right? That pig up there? It’s happy. It doesn’t know it’s food. That’s most people. They work, they grind, they think they’re getting somewhere. But they’re just bacon waiting to happen.”  

Raymond’s stomach twisted. He looked away.  

Lorenzo’s grin widened. “But not us, Raymond. We’re the butchers.”  

The waiter arrived, setting down two plates of carnitas—crispy, golden, glistening with fat.  

Raymond stared at his plate.  

The pig on the wall kept smiling.  

The bar’s neon sign buzzed like an angry wasp as Raymond wiped down the counter for the third time that afternoon. The monotony was getting to him—same sticky spots, same lingering smell of spilled beer and regret. He glanced at the clock. 4:37 PM. Still two hours before opening.  

Then the door swung open.  

A man strode in, his tailored suit crisp despite the Houston humidity, his gold Rolex catching the dim light. He wasn’t Lorenzo.  

Raymond straightened, the rag still in his hand. “We’re closed.”  

The man smirked, sliding onto a barstool. “Not for me.” He extended a hand. “Victor. Lorenzo sent me.”  

Raymond didn’t shake it. “Sent you for what?”  

Victor’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “To replace you.”  

The words hung in the air like a bad punchline. Raymond’s grip tightened on the rag. “The fuck you mean, replace me?”  

Victor pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and slid it across the bar. A text from Lorenzo:  

"Got a situation. Need Raymond ASAP. Send Victor to cover the bar."  

Raymond’s jaw clenched. He tossed the rag into the sink. “Where’s Lorenzo?”  

Victor shrugged. “Didn’t say. Just told me to hold down the fort while you handle business.” He glanced around the empty bar, unimpressed. “Not exactly a tough gig.”  

Raymond’s phone buzzed. A new text—coordinates, followed by:  

"NOW."  

He didn’t hesitate.  

The coordinates led to an industrial park on the city’s outskirts, rows of identical warehouses baking under the afternoon sun. Raymond parked Jorge’s car behind a rusted shipping container and stepped out, the heat pressing against his skin like a living thing.  

Lorenzo’s black Escalade idled near Warehouse 12, its tinted windows hiding whoever was inside. Raymond approached, his boots crunching on gravel.  

The passenger window rolled down. Lorenzo’s face appeared, his usual smirk replaced by a tight-lipped grimace. “Get in.”  

Raymond slid into the SUV. The AC blasted, icy against his sweat-damp skin. Lorenzo didn’t look at him, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.  

“What’s the emergency?” Raymond asked.  

Lorenzo exhaled sharply. “Deal went sideways. Some asshole thinks he can short me on a fentanyl shipment.” He finally turned, his dark eyes gleaming. “Time to remind him who he’s dealing with.”  

Raymond didn’t flinch. “You need me to hurt someone?”  

Lorenzo’s grin returned, slow and dangerous. “I need you to make sure they never forget.”  

The Escalade roared to life, tires spitting gravel as they peeled toward the warehouse.  

Raymond cracked his knuckles.  

The pig was about to meet the butcher.  

The road was supposed to be clear.  

Lorenzo’s convoy—three SUVs, armed men, the fentanyl hidden in the middle vehicle—rolled toward the meet point. Then the radio crackled.  

“Police checkpoint ahead.”  

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. He grabbed the radio. “Since when?”  

“Since this morning.”  

Too long to be a coincidence. Lorenzo cursed. “Turn around.”  

Raymond watched as the lead SUV swung a U-turn. “What now?”  

Lorenzo’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “If we miss this drop, the cartels think we stole from them.  

Raymond’s mind raced. Then it clicked.  

“We don’t need to drive it in,” he said.  

Lorenzo frowned. “What?”  

Raymond pointed at a tech store across the street. “I have another way.” (In half-Spanish)  

The drone was a sleek, commercial model—high payload, long range. Raymond calibrated it on the hood of the car, fingers moving with surprising precision.  

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you know drones?”  

Raymond didn’t look up. “California.”  

They loaded the fentanyl into the drone’s cargo compartment. Raymond lifted the controller, the machine whirring to life. The screen showed a bird’s-eye view as it soared over the checkpoint, police oblivious below.  

Ten minutes later, the cartel’s confirmation text came through:  

>>Package received.  

Lorenzo grinned. “You’re a genius, carnal.”  

Raymond didn’t smile. “You gave me the opportunity.”  

The gold bars gleamed under the warehouse fluorescents, stacked like bricks in some twisted game of monopoly. Lorenzo ran his fingers over them, the way a priest might caress a bible.  

"Three million," he murmured. "Not bad for a day's work."  

Raymond leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His knuckles were still raw from earlier—from Tavo, from Sebastian, from a lifetime of swinging first. The drone controller dangled from his other hand, its screen dark now.  

Lorenzo tossed him a bar. Raymond caught it on reflex, the weight surprising him.  

"Your cut," Lorenzo said. "For thinking outside the box."  

The gold was cold in Raymond's palm. He turned it over, studying the mint stamp. "This ain't why I did it."  

Lorenzo smirked. "I know. You did it because you're a fighter. But fighters gotta eat too, cabrón." He gestured to the stacks. "This? This is freedom. No more gas stations. No more begging Jorge for couch space. You're your own man now."  

Raymond's throat tightened. He thought of Nelson's bloody knuckles, of Sebastian's sneer. Puerco.  

A phone buzzed. Lorenzo checked it, his smile fading. "Shit."  

Raymond tensed. "Cops?"  

"Worse." Lorenzo pocketed the phone. "Victor says some pinche woman showed up at the bar asking for me. Says she's got something that belongs to me."  

Raymond frowned. "What?"  

Lorenzo's eyes darkened. "Gold."  

—ATILA—-