a Z into her chest. And she was carrying Adán’s unborn child. Magda had confided in Elena and now she wonders if Adán ever knew. She hopes not—it would have broken his heart.
“Obviously Eva is not the person to take over,” Elena says.
“Please understand,” Núñez says, “that I believe I hold this position in trust for Adán’s sons. But if you think that you would be the better choice, I am willing to ignore Adán’s wishes and step down.”
“No,” she says.
Letting Núñez take the throne means shoving her own sons aside, but Elena knows that they’re secretly happy to be pushed. And, frankly, if Núñez wants to make himself a target, all the better.
But Iván … Iván is not going to like it.
“You have my support,” Elena says. She sees Núñez nod with a lawyer’s graciousness at having won a settlement. Then she drops the other shoe. “I just have one small request.”
Núñez smiles. “Please.”
“I want Baja back. For Rudolfo.”
“Baja is Iván Esparza’s.”
“And before it was his, it was mine.”
“In all fairness, Elena, you gave it up,” Núñez says. “You wanted to retire.”
It was my uncle, M-1, who sent my brothers to take the Baja plaza from Güero Méndez and Rafael Caro, Elena thinks. That was in 1990, and Adán and Raúl did it. They seduced the rich Tijuana kids and turned them into a trafficking network that co-opted their parents’ power structure on our behalf. They recruited gangs from San Diego to be gunmen, and they beat Méndez, Caro and everyone else to seize that plaza and use it as a base to take the entire country.
We made your Sinaloa cartel what it is, she thinks, so if I want Baja back, you’re going to give it to me. I won’t leave my sons without a power base with which to defend themselves.
“Baja was given to Nacho Esparza,” Ricardo is saying. “And with his death, it passed to Iván.”
“Iván is a clown,” Elena says. They all are, she thinks, all the Hijos, including your son, Ricardo.
“With a legitimate claim and an army to back it up,” Núñez says.
“And you now have Adán’s army,” Elena says, allowing to go unspoken the obvious—if I back you up.
“Iván is already going to be very disappointed that he’s not getting the big chair,” Núñez says. “Elena, I have to leave him with something.”
“And Rudolfo—Adán’s nephew—gets nothing?” Elena asks. “The Esparza brothers have plenty—more money than they can waste in their collective lifetimes. I’m asking for one plaza. And you can keep your domestic sales there.”
Núñez looks surprised.
“Oh, please,” Elena says. “I know young Ric is dealing your drugs all over Baja Sur. It’s fine—I just want the north and the border.”
“Oh, that’s all.” Elena wants one of the most lucrative plazas in the narcotics trade. Baja has a growing narcomenudeo, domestic street sales, but that’s dwarfed by the trasiego, the products that run from Tijuana and Tecate into San Diego and Los Angeles. From there the drugs are distributed all over the United States.
“Is it so much?” Elena asks. “For Adán’s sister to put her blessings on her brother’s last wishes? You need that, Ricardo. Without it …”
“You’re asking me to give you something that’s not mine to give,” Núñez says. “Adán gave the plaza to Esparza. And with all respect, Elena—my domestic business in Cabo is none of yours.”
“Spoken like a lawyer,” Elena says. “Not a patrón. If you’re going to be El Patrón, be El Patrón. Make decisions, give orders. If you want my support, the price is Baja for my son.”
The king is dead, Elena thinks.
Long live the king.
Ric sits out by the pool next to Iván.
“This is better,” Ric says. “I couldn’t stand another fucking minute in there.”
“Where’s Karin?”
“On the phone with the nanny,” Ric says, “probably discussing the color of poop. It’ll be a while.”
“You think she’s figured out you and Belinda?” Iván asks.
“Who gives a fuck?”
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“Look,” Iván says.
Ric turns to see Tito Ascensión walking toward them. About as tall as a refrigerator but thicker.
The Mastiff.
“My father’s old attack dog,” Iván says.
“Show some respect,” Ric says. “He’s Rubén’s dad. Anyway, you know how many guys he’s killed?”
A lot, is the answer.
Triple digits, at least.
Tito Ascensión used to be the head of Nacho Esparza’s armed wing. He fought the Zetas, then the Tapias, then the Zetas again. Tito once killed thirty-eight Zetas in a single whack and hanged their bodies from a highway overpass. Turned out it was a whoops—they weren’t Zetas after all, just your average citizens. Tito donned a balaclava, held a press conference and apologized for the mistake, with the caveat that his group was still at war with the Zetas so it would be prudent not to be mistaken for one.
Anyway, Tito played a big role in winning the wars for Sinaloa, and as a reward Nacho let him start his own organization in Jalisco, independent but still a satellite of Sinaloa.
Tito loved Nacho, and when he heard the Zetas had killed him down in Guatemala he grabbed five of them, tortured them to death over the course of weeks, then cut off their dicks and stuffed them in their mouths.
No, you don’t disrespect El Mastín.
Now the man’s shadow literally falls over both of them.
“Iván,” Tito says, “may I have a word?”
“I’ll catch you later,” Ric says, trying not to laugh. All he can think of is Luca Brazi from the wedding scene in The Godfather, which he’s had to watch with Iván about fifty-seven thousand times. Iván is obsessed with the movie to only a slighter lesser degree than he is with Scarface.
“No, stay,” Iván says, and when Tito looks dubious, adds, “Ric is going to be my number two. Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of him.”
