Ricardo

I was at home, winding down in the library when my cell rang; I didn’t need to look at the name to know who was calling me this time of night.

“Hijo,” Dad slurred as I picked up the phone.

“Pa. You should be sleeping.”

He chuckled, the same way he did whenever I told him to rest.

“So should you. It’s past one. Anyway, I am in bed. I just wanted to remind you about tomorrow. The meeting.”

I dipped my head. “Sure, no worries. Hasta mañana."

“Buenas Noches.”

Those were his last words before hanging up the phone. I looked at my Rolex and realized he was right; it was late, and not only should he be in bed, but so should I. Friday night, we had the same conversation for our meeting on Saturdays. We would have breakfast together in his sun lounge or sometimes in the garden, depending on the weather. The topics were always the same:

How much money was owed to us?

Who needed to be put in line?

What was working well?

In our business, this was a rarity. We tended to brush over anyone who fell into a category three, knowing this status could change overnight. In just a week, someone might transition to a category two, and would become an issue we needed to take care of.

I knew he had his usual shot, most likely before hitting the sack; I did the same thing. But I didn’t keep the glass by my bed. Nah, I would have it in the study and then walk up the stairs; sometimes, just that much would tire me out a little more.

The shit had been hitting the fan lately. One day, I would take over the Empire, and Dad claimed he had faith in me, but at times I did question it. We both had our own teams for different reasons; he was full of old-timers just passing on their duties to their sons, whereas my team consisted of five of us who worked together to get the job done.

I would head up the stairs, strip off my suit as if it was on fire, and then plunge into my bed in my birthday suit. The same thing I did every night. I didn’t fucking worry about someone coming into my room. No one did; no one fucking dared. Not only because it was my room, but even my dad said the room freaked him out.

My room was what I pictured Hell to be like; red and black filled with my interpretation of evil. Demons didn’t consist of ugly animals with horns on their heads like the stupid movies painted them to be, no, it would be the complete opposite. Hell would have the most beautiful men and women, marveling in their fate, which was the part my room fell under. The ugliness of it all, beauty on the outside, but inside, the real cruelty. The Carcass by Agostino Venezianohas was painted on my ceiling. It reflected the evil in the world today, the cruelty of men and women against everyone they deemed to be beneath them. It symbolized my world, the darkness my family belonged to, and how we treated others. We used them, did cruel things to them to get whatever we wanted.

The walls had paintings by The Garden of Earthly Delights, a demonstration of our world today, even if it was painted in the fifteenth century. A world had succumbed to the temptations of evil and was reaping eternal damnation. The panel featured cold colors, and the nakedness of the human figures had nothing to do with erotica but highlighted the temptations man seeks. The darkness in this room was a reflection of the man who resided within it. The man who bathed naked in the bathroom and slept in this bed.

I had never seen goodness in anyone and knew I would fail to do so in the future. I closed my eyes, thinking about who will have to be killed or taught a lesson tomorrow. For now, all I could do was feel the effects of Louis XIII, my favorite liquor was taking its tow on my body. Tomorrow would be another day, not a brighter one, just another one filled with darkness.

I woke up, and it was still dark; after all, it was only five am. I had a strict schedule of waking up at the same time every day. In general, I didn’t sleep much, maybe four to five hours at the most. I headed into the shower, and I didn’t even bother to close the door. Only my housekeeper, Lourdes, lived with me, the rest of the staff start at seven. I tried not to be in the house while they were around; I couldn’t stand people cleaning around me. It fucking irritated me.

I ran the cold water, feeling the need for a pick-up. Maybe I took too much of a shot last night, but I feel a little hungover, which is a surprise because I never drank to the stage where I was drunk. Then again, I did go out for a celebration with the gang last night. We had something to be happy about, so maybe this was why I felt like shit. When I looked down, I was still fully dressed.

What the fuck?

Something must have happened because the last thing I remembered was coming up to my room after talking to Dad, and I was pretty sure, I was fucking naked; when did I get up to put clothes on?

No one would come in here, so I must be confused about how the night ended or something. Lately, I’ve been waking up and not remembering things clearly. Thinking something like this happened when it fucking didn’t.

Maybe I needed a special friend like dad advised me to do. I wasn’t like him. I didn’t use sex as a weapon, and I never felt delighted unless there was some connection with a woman. Fucking just for fucking’s sake, it didn’t work with me. The guys in our business functioned that way, but for me, it was the one thing I could never just think about regularly doing. My cousin Diego sometimes fucks three or four girls a night, but he’s young. “It’s all about pleasure, primo!” He would wink at me; if we’re at his place or someone else’s and a party is going on, he wouldn’t hesitate in picking up a girl or two.

Life’s too short; I’ve heard this repeated by so many different guys, time and time again.

Maybe finding a woman should be my next move. Go out there and get someone, someone who’s not in the business. Fuck, those women are so damn demanding, always wanting this and that.

A Mexican girl would be good for the first few months; then she would mingle, and before I knew it, she would be demanding. No, I needed someone to keep me company in the bedroom when or if I needed it.

Dad told me once, he knew how to get someone for my needs. I would talk to him about it in the meeting; I had to get going for now. I was not too fond of tardiness and had to get there on time. Even if no one respected punctuality in my family, I did with all the passion in the world. I looked up at the antique clock that chimed in my bathroom. I had a fucking clock everywhere. Time was money; both things I couldn’t afford to lose.