3. Chapter Three

Bautista settled into one of the worn, wooden chairs of the dimly lit restaurant. It was a rustic hideaway tucked into a town that smelled of earth and rain—a sanctuary from state authority where tentative allies met under an uncertain truce. The air was thick with the scent of simmering spices and roasting meats. A smiling woman placed before them platters of arepas, their golden crusts breaking open to reveal pockets of molten cheese. Skewers of churrasco hissed quietly beside piles of patacones, fried plantains crisp and seasoned just right. Bautista's mouth watered at the smell of sopa sancocho, steaming bowls of comfort promising tender chicken falling off the bone amidst chunks of yuca and corn. It was food that spoke of home, of tradition, and a shared understanding of who they were and where they had come from.

Because, different as they were, all three men at this table held some things in common.

Across from Bautista, Raul Garcia y Vega laughed—a rich, throaty sound that rumbled like the purr of a well-tuned engine. With one arm draped casually over the back of his chair, he leaned forward, engaging in the conversation with an ease and charisma that drew eyes as surely as flame drew moths. He was the sort of man whose presence filled a room, his dark eyes flashing with intelligence and reckless daring. Bautista couldn't help but admire him; the son of Diego Garcia bore his lineage with pride and a brash confidence that bordered on arrogance but never quite stepped over into it. Though he was only his father's second in command now, Raul would lead Los Hermanos cartel one day, that much was clear, and he'd do so with the same iron fist and velvet glove approach his father was infamous for.

In opposition to Raul's vibrant energy sat Miguel Estrada Blanco—Estrada, the icy young kingpin of Las Punzadas, who watched the world through hooded eyes, every movement calculated and restrained. Bautista considered himself a good judge of a man, yet Estrada eluded him. There was something about the man that made Bautista's skin prickle, but what it was precisely he could not say.

"Try the bandeja paisa," Raul Garcia suggested.

Bautista complied. The first mouthful of beans repaid him at once, hitting all the right notes, robust and unyielding. "Damn good," he said with a smile. "Almost as good as Mamá used to make."

"Nothing beats Mama's cooking," Raul Garcia acknowledged, raising his glass in a toast. Estrada nodded, lifting his own. Despite the undercurrents of rivalry, there were bonds here that transcended business, rooted in blood and soil. Even Estrada could not resist the things that made them who they were.

When the time was right, the conversation turned from the meal to weightier matters.

"An alliance," Raul Garcia said with a smile, "could be mutually beneficial."

He leaned back, his eyes flickering between Bautista and Estrada, clearly gauging their reactions.

Estrada's face remained unreadable, a mask of composed neutrality. The man gave nothing away, but Bautista felt the weight of his consideration. He was himself intrigued.

"Of course," he said coolly, "we would need to review the numbers—ensure our exports align with such an agreement. I for one know nothing of the activities of Las Punzadas."

"Indeed," Estrada said without emphasis. He nodded toward the young man he had introduced as his secretary, signalling for him to join the discussion.

The man, whose name was Cisco, stepped forward and placed a leather folder in front of Estrada with hands that were steady, despite the dangerous company.

"Here are the latest figures, Se?or," Cisco said, his low voice carrying clearly across the table. It was the first time Bautista heard him speak. His voice was quiet, the timbre smooth and even. Deferential and yet unafraid.

Bautista reviewed the numbers with a scrutiny born from years of running Los Lagos. "These export figures," he challenged, tapping a finger against the grainy paper. "Are you certain about these?"

Cisco did not react to the question, only turned his large, dark eyes towards Estrada. His boss gestured, giving his silent permission.

"Se?or Bautista," Cisco said politely, "the figures account for recent changes in border control. I've cross-referenced them with our shipments over the past three months and adjusted for projected increases in security measures. You will find them accurate."

As Cisco spoke, his self-assurance was palpable, even layered as it was with deferential respect. Bautista couldn't help but admire the way Cisco held his ground without stepping out of his place—to do so would be to defy the order of things. Instead, Cisco made it clear that he was beneath the men around him, without making a show of it.

"Enough, Cisco," Estrada said without inflection. "Either Se?or Bautista believes you or he does not."

Cisco inclined his head, stepping back into the background without a word.

"Very well," Bautista conceded. "I accept your numbers."

"Good," Estrada said. Another man might have smiled, but he did not "Then we can proceed to the finer details."

As the conversation delved into logistics and territory, part of Bautista's mind remained fixed on Cisco—the image of his demure compliance, the efficient manner in which he served his boss. So quietly submissive. Devoted. Slave-like, almost.

What was their relationship? Estrada seemed to take Cisco for granted, Cisco accepting this as only natural. As if this was the only way things could be between them, as if their very natures made them this to one another. A dominant man and his submissive subordinate who lived only to satisfy him.

Later, in the jeep on his way back to Casa del Rey, Bautista could not shake the image that lingered in his mind. Cisco's submissive demeanor had been so unlike that of his own underlings. He was accustomed to commanding loyalty, but that that level of compliance was something else entirely—a quiet surrender that teased at the edges of his thoughts.

He pursed his lips, shifting uncomfortably. His men were strong, capable; they had backbone. They met his gaze evenly, with neither challenge nor deference, their respect earned and given in equal measure. But Cisco? Cisco's obedience was not born of mutual respect—it was the yielding of will to power, an absolute capitulation.

Maricón,he thought contemptuously. Such effeminacy. He despised it, even as he pictured what it would be like—to have someone like that at his beck and call, bending to his every whim without question or hesitation.

Shaking his head, Bautista thought, Better to have a woman like that. It would be natural for a woman to yield to him in such a way. They already did, to some extent. The women he chose to give him physical relief were all the same, obedient and permissive.

But Cisco had been different, submissive in a way that Bautista found he did not want from a woman. It would lose its appeal. It wasn't just about submission; there was something about the power dynamic, the utter control over another man that twisted deep inside Bautista, that both repelled and fascinated him.

He flexed his hands, feeling the familiar weight of authority in his bones, the command that had always come so naturally to him. Bautista knew the role he played—as a man, as a father, as the leader of Los Lagos. None of them were roles that afforded the luxury of self-indulgence.

So he put thoughts of Cisco out of his mind, forcing himself to think of the proposed alliance of the three cartels. This was where his attention should be. Everything else was immaterial.

***

He was in his study the following afternoon when one of his guards knocked respectfully at the door. "Carlos is back," the man told him.

"Did he bring our guest?" Bautista asked, rising from his chair.

"He brought something," the man said with a wry sneer.

Intrigued, Bautista followed him out into the foyer, where the great front doors hung open. Carlos was standing at the foot of the stairs, ahead of two Los Lagos men who carried between them their prize: the son of Hamilton West, a man who owed Bautista money and thought he could get away with betrayal. The older West would learn, though it would be the son who suffered for his father's mistakes.

The boy was bound, hands secured behind his back, and a bag obscured his face. With little regard for their captive, the men tossed him roughly to the floor. His body crumpled at Bautista's feet like a discarded sack of potatoes. It made a satisfying thud, accompanied by a muffled groan of pain from beneath the bag.

Carlos looked at Bautista with amusement in his eyes. Bautista smiled.

"Ah, Mister West," Bautista drawled, his deep voice dripping with satisfaction. "Here you are at last."

He could sense the boy's fear, even without seeing his face. It was a familiar sensation, the electric charge in the air when someone realized just how dangerous Bautista was, and it sent a thrill through him.

Bautista's eyes roamed over the boy's prone form, enjoying the sight of his enemy's son so defenseless at his feet. Given the animosity he held for the boy's father, Bautista couldn't deny the satisfaction that coursed through his veins at having the upper hand.

"Remove the bag," Bautista ordered, his voice dark and commanding.

Carlos complied, ripping the fabric from the boy's head with a rough jerk. As the bag came away, Bautista found himself momentarily taken aback.

He had been expecting someone that looked like his father, square jawed and blunt featured. The young man at his feet was neither. Even with a bruise marring his face, he was undeniably lovely. Pale, delicate, his cheeks were dusted with cinnamon freckles and framed by soft, ash-blond curls. His eyes were wide with terror. In this light they were dark as blueberries. He was younger than Bautista had expected, sweetly innocent, with a pretty, red mouth.

And then the boy looked down, submissive and frightened, and Bautista was hit by an unexpected surge of pleasure.

How interesting. Bautista was not a man who shied away from causing pain, but never before had he felt such a strange desire to inflict it. This was not hot anger nor cold revenge, but simply an urge to hurt the boy, to hear him cry out in fear. It was only natural to want something so weak and pathetic to bend to him, to want to break something so fragile.

"Look at you," Bautista sneered, allowing his disdain to lace his words, "So pitiful and helpless. Is your father proud of you?"

The boy's shoulders hunched, his hands flexing against the zip-ties locking his wrists together behind his back. Bautista watched with a cruel smirk.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Rylan," the boy breathed. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Rylan," Bautista repeated, rolling the name around in his mouth like something that disgusted him. A decadent name for the son of a fool.

He could sense the boy's fear and it only served to heighten his enjoyment of the moment.

"Do you know who I am?" The boy shook his head. "I am Marcus Bautista Aguilar, the leader of Los Hermanos cartel. You're in my territory now," Bautista said, enjoying the sight of his victim's dismay. "Your father's influence won't save you here. Do you understand?"

He watched Rylan swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to find his voice. "I understand," he finally managed.

"Good," Bautista said with malicious satisfaction. He let the silence stretch out, savoring the way Rylan's eyes darted around the room, searching for anything that might offer him some measure of comfort or escape. But there was none to be found. Bautista knew it.

"Your father made a very bad choice. Do you know what he did?"

Rylan shook his head again, eyes fixed on the man who held his life in the palm of his hand. Bautista basked in his mute terror.

"He tried to fuck me," Bautista said. He saw the way the boy's eyes widened. "Yes, you see how that would be a mistake. So now I am going to keep you here until your pendejo of a father comes to his senses. This, I understand, could take some time. And in that time, you and I are going to become much, much better acquainted."

Oh, the way the boy stared. Now he truly understood. Or perhaps he did not. Bautista was happy to clarify.

"I need you to understand something very important," he said crisply. "You are my slave now. If you want to live, you must obey me without question."

The fear in Rylan's eyes intensified, but it was coupled with a sudden spark of something else—a flicker of excitement that made Bautista's lip curl in disgust. The boy was pathetic.

"Is that understood?" Bautista demanded.

"Y-yes," Rylan stammered, his eyes locked onto Bautista's dark gaze, as if unable to look away.

"Good." Bautista stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. "You'll remain here, under my watchful eye. Any disobedience will be met with swift punishment. I won't hesitate to make an example of you." He looked Rylan in the eye. "You belong to me, now. There's no escape."

Rylan nodded, his breath hitching slightly. He clearly knew he was trapped, was wholly at the mercy of a man who despised him, and yet when he lifted his gaze to Bautista's face something shivered over him, something needy.

Bautista watched him closely, wondering what perverse thing the boy felt in this place. He was so effeminate; it disgusted Bautista, who had only ever respected men of a masculine stamp.

But there was something about this boy. He looked like a maricón. Fair enough. But that he should turn his eyes on his kidnapper and look so...needy. That was unusual.

Perhaps, Bautista thought, he could use that. Force the boy to submit to him. Give him that total submission he had seen from Cisco toward Estrada last night. With enough time, he was sure he could make the boy equally subservient.

He would enjoy that. He did not expect Rylan would enjoy it one bit.

***

Rylan couldn't look away from the man in front of him. Marcus Bautista Aguilar.

It was obvious what he was. Everything about him screamed it. He was a criminal, a powerful one. The kind who didn't need to hide his face from his victims because he was untouchable. Rylan could never, ever hurt a man like this. Rylan knew he was himself so insignificant that the thought was laughable.

The men in the van had called their master ‘Bautista'. The name rang in Rylan's brain like a gong. He felt like he should know it, but he didn't. He was wholly ignorant of who this man was and yet…he knew. One look and he knew.

The man himself was tall and broad, his dark eyes piercing and intimidating. He had neatly cropped, dark hair and a stern face, strong and cruel. He wore a lightweight tan suit, very well made, tailored to fall perfectly. There was gold glinting in the open collar of his snowy white shirt. And he carried himself like a man that was so used to being obeyed that the idea of anyone defying him could only be a joke.

Rylan couldn't help the flush that spread across his cheeks and down his neck. Bautista was compelling. Rylan wanted to stare at him but that was as dangerous as staring into the eyes of a predator.

Because that was what this man was. A predator. Hypnotising and dangerous.

Rylan ducked his head in an attempt to hide his fascination, but Bautista noticed immediately. The corner of his mouth lifted into a mocking smirk, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in Rylan's obvious interest.

"Tell me, Rylan," Bautista drawled, stepping closer once again, "what exactly is it that you think I will make you do?"

Rylan hesitated, his gaze flickering nervously between Bautista's cold, black eyes and the imposing breadth of his shoulders. Finally, he ventured a question. "Are...are you going to hurt me?"

"Is that all you're worried about?" Bautista chuckled darkly, the sound prickling down Rylan's spine. He leaned down until his lips brushed against Rylan's earlobe, his hot breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. "You lack imagination."

The intimacy of the whispered words had Rylan's heart pounding in his chest, both from fear and…something else. He swallowed thickly, unable to tear his gaze away from Bautista's penetrating stare.

Bautista straightened and stepped away, his eyes filled with contempt. "Do as you are ordered. Obey me in every way. And perhaps you will survive this." He smiled cruelly. "Nothing is guaranteed."

Rylan's mind raced with terror. To be in the hands of a man like this—it was a nightmare.

"Understood?" Bautista demanded, his voice jerking Rylan's chin up.

"Y-yes," Rylan replied, his heart pounding relentlessly against his ribcage as Bautista's unwavering gaze held him captive. The thick tension in the room was suffocating, and Rylan struggled to breathe under its weight.

"Take him to his quarters," Bautista ordered his men, his voice low and threatening. "And make sure he understands the rules. No trouble, no escape attempts. If he steps out of line, you know what to do."

The two burly guards exchanged a look before grabbing Rylan's arms, their grips firm and unyielding. Panic flared within him, but he forced himself to remain calm on the surface, thinking that any sign of fear would only amuse Bautista further.

As they pushed him up the stairs, Rylan glanced back at the imposing man who had taken control of his life. Bautista's dark eyes followed his every move, a predatory gleam in their depths that made Rylan's skin crawl.

"Remember, Rylan," Bautista called out after him, a sinister grin playing on his lips. "I'm always watching."

Bautista's words echoed in Rylan's mind. His knees shook. He was convinced the consequences of disobedience would be severe. He dreaded to think what they would do to him then.

"Keep moving," one the man escorting him growled, his voice snapping Rylan out of his reverie. Rylan forced himself to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, his mind reeling as he tried to process everything that had happened.

The men pushed him through a door and cut the ties from his wrists. Then they left him alone.

The room was…comfortable. More than he would have expected, with warm wood and brightly upholstery. Under other circumstances it would be lovely. Rylan didn't know what to think, so he fell onto the bed, hugging himself against the terror coursing through him.

He winced at the memory of Bautista taunting him. Nothing is guaranteed.

What Bautista wanted was obedience and to rule Rylan with fear. Well, good news for him—Rylan was afraid.