20. Chapter Twenty

It was mid afternoon, but Bautista's study was dark, the curtains drawn against the heat. Bautista was slouched in his leather chair, brooding over a glass of whiskey and swirling the amber liquid around in the glass. His thoughts were fixated on one thing—regret. But it was regret for something that could never be put right, and so it could not be exorcised by brooding.

Rylan. How had he become such a thorn in Bautista's side? Why would the memory of him not melt away like the ice in his glass?

He closed his eyes as he recalled the sound of Rylan's voice as he cried out in ecstasy, his body writhing under Bautista's hand. The memory brought both pleasure and pain. Bautista berated himself for his selfishness in using Rylan as he had. It had been a cruel game to play, and yet Rylan had submitted to it willingly enough in the end.

Worse, he had told Rylan he never meant anything when in truth he had become everything. It was a lie, one Bautista had told only so Rylan would leave and not have regrets. Now the regrets were all his own. How fitting.

The heavy oak door banged open, admitting Carlos, who was now recovered enough to come bothering Bautista whenever he felt like it. Will it never end?

"Seems all you do lately is work and drink," Carlos commented, his voice gruff as he observed Bautista's state. "You used to just work."

"Ah, but at least I have a new hobby now," Bautista retorted, his words dripping with sarcasm. He took a long sip of his whiskey, making no effort to hide his misery from Carlos.

Carlos chuckled, but it was a rueful sound. He began to speak of cartel business, but Bautista could barely focus, his heart not in the conversation. He couldn't stop thinking about Rylan and the emptiness that settled in his chest since he'd sent him away.

"Are next week's shipments ready?" he asked, his voice distant as he tried to feign interest in the conversation.

"Sí, jefe. Everything is prepared," Carlos replied, his brow furrowed with concern as he studied Bautista. His usual stoicism seemed to soften, if only for a moment. "You need to snap out of this. It's not like you."

"Maybe," Bautista muttered, finishing his whiskey and setting the glass down on his desk with a heavy thud. The truth was, he didn't know how to escape the dark cloud that seemed to follow him since Rylan had gone. It clung to him, suffocating him, reminding him of all he'd lost in the name of protecting his reputation, his cartel, and even Rylan himself.

But would any of it be enough? Perhaps he had doomed himself to a life of emptiness, forever grasping at memories like a foolish old man.

"Is this dark mood of yours perhaps related to a certain package sent back to California?" Carlos asked, his voice carefully deferential.

Bautista's eyes snapped up to meet Carlos', feeling a flash of anger and defensiveness. "Of course not," he lied, trying to dismiss Carlos's concerns. "I'm focused on our business, just like always." He folded his arms, glaring as he attempted to project an air of authority.

Carlos raised an eyebrow, undeterred by Bautista's dismissal. "You've been distant and distracted since then. It's hard not to notice."

"Fuck you," Bautista snarled, losing his composure for a split second. "You told me to send him back! You should be happy!" The words hung heavy in the air between them, thick with accusation.

Carlos looked away, his expression chastened. "Maybe I made a mistake," he admitted quietly.

Bautista stared at him. "Do you," he began, but then he hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject. Carlos had confided in him, but it was been a moment of emotion, and it would not do to broach his trust by speaking of unsaid things too clearly. "Do you ever regret what you've given up in order to lead the life we do?"

After a long moment, Carlos's said quietly, "Sometimes. Sometimes I wish I could have made a different decision."

Bautista studied Carlos, taking in the lines around his eyes, the scar on his cheek, and the weight of the life they'd chosen bearing down upon him. A bitter laugh escaped Bautista's lips, though it held no humor.

"Then we're both fools, aren't we?" he muttered, turning back to his desk, his fingers tracing the rim of his empty whiskey glass.

"Perhaps," Carlos agreed, his gaze lingering on Bautista's face. "But we made our choices, and we have to live with them."

"Or die with them," Bautista added darkly. The bitter taste of regret burned like acid on his tongue, and he knew he'd never be able to wash it away.

"Or die with them," Carlos echoed solemnly, his eyes meeting Bautista's again.

Feeling maudlin, Bautista reached for the whiskey bottle and poured two generous servings. He pushed one glass towards Carlos, whose eyes flickered with surprise before he silently accepted the offering.

"Salud," Bautista rasped, raising his own glass in a toast to the ghosts of their pasts. Carlos mirrored the gesture, and they drank.

Setting down his glass, Carlos cleared his throat. "So what's it going to take to snap you out of this?" he asked, eyebrows raised in a challenge.

Bautista snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. "I could always bury myself in a beautiful woman's thighs."

The thought of a woman repulsed him now. Oh, women were beautiful and wet and forgiving, but now that he had glimpsed something else, he thought no one in the world would ever be able to take Rylan's place.

But then again, he'd thought that of Carmel, once.

Carlos studied him for a moment, then said gently, "I know you sent your women away. All of them. Even Teresa," he added dryly. "The new nanny is twice her age and three times her width. Not to your usual taste."

Bautista stiffened slightly, irked by the knowledge that Carlos knew this. It felt like Carlos could see into him too clearly. He forced himself to relax, reminding himself that Carlos had always been more than just a henchman; he was a confidant, a brother-in-arms.

"Even if I had not," Bautista muttered sullenly, swirling the remaining whiskey in his glass, "it wouldn't change anything."

"Then what would?" Carlos asked, his voice low and steady as he met Bautista's gaze. "What would it take, huh? Revenge? Money? Power? You've always enjoyed those in the past."

"Nothing," Bautista growled, the word heavy with despair. "Or everything. I don't know."

Reluctantly, Carlos cleared his throat and asked, "Would the boy be the cure?"

Bautista's jaw clenched as he stared unseeingly into his glass of whiskey, bitter laughter bubbling up from deep within him. "There's nothing else in this fucking world that could cure me of this," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I am sunk, Carlos. A drowning man."

Carlos's eyes filled with sympathy, but he offered no words of comfort. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh before speaking again. "Well, in the interests of your famous love of revenge, I have some news about what happened to Giraldo after he turned tail and ran."

"Tell me," Bautista demanded, his voice hardening instantly.

"He's working for Los Manos Rojos now."

"Motherfucker," Bautista swore through gritted teeth, anger coursing through him like liquid fire. "So he was the one who let them into the compound. I'll find that bastard and make him pay for this."

"Here's your chance," Carlos said, his voice low as he tossed the printouts of photos onto the table. The images were damning: Giraldo standing with men in Los Manos Rojos uniforms. But before Bautista could comment on that, Carlos flipped over another lot of photos.

There was Giraldo again, but with him was a familiar figure. Rylan, hands restrained behind his back, his pale skin flushed with fear and vulnerability.

"These were taken in Medellín, just a day ago," Carlos informed him, his tone dangerously even.

Bautista felt a cold fury come over him. He gripped the photos tight enough the paper buckled as he took in every detail of Rylan's distress. "Why would Los Manos Rojos do this?" Bautista demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

"Could be for money," Carlos suggested, watching him closely. "Or it could be to get back at you."

Bautista snarled, the thought of Rylan suffering at the hands of their enemies making his blood boil. He had a wild memory of Rylan's tears when Bautista had humiliated him and felt conflicted. No one gets to hurt him like that but me. And then, another memory overwrote the first, the soft cries and moans Rylan made when Bautista was buried in him. It felt like a distant dream.

How could this have happened? He'd been so sure that sending Rylan away would protect them all, but it had made no difference in the end. All he had done was hurt Rylan, and himself. And now Rylan was in danger.

Bautista's heart thudded like a drum, the realization of how deeply he needed Rylan settling in like a weight around his neck. He clenched his fists, fingers digging into his palms as he fought to steady his breathing.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, staring at the photos scattered across the table. A cold, sickening dread coiled in his stomach, making it difficult to breathe.

He realized something he had never even considered before: Rylan was his weakness. Like Carmelita, he was something that could be taken from Bautista and used against him.

If anything happened to Rylan...His chest tightened at the thought, an unbearable pressure building inside him. It was as if a vice were clamped around his heart, squeezing until he couldn't breathe.

He knew he would burn the world down to keep the two things in it he treasured safe. Carmelita and now Rylan. Everything else could go to hell.

"How long were you going to keep this from me?" he demanded

Carlos shrugged. "Before, had anyone taken one of your women, you would have done nothing, laughed in their faces." He did not point out how things had changed. He didn't have to because they both knew. "Now," he went on, his tone frank, "I thought you might do something reckless. I needed to know if it would be worth it." He tapped the photo. "What do you want to do, jefe?"

"Get our best men together," Bautista ordered, his voice hard and unyielding. "We're going to pick up a package that seems to have gotten lost."

"Of course," Carlos agreed, loyal as always.

Bautista set his jaw. This was going to end in blood, one way or another. There was no way he would let Rylan slip through his hands again.