“You’re a young man,” Osiel said. “Adán, I cannot believe it. Thank God they didn’t succeed.”

“Thank you, Osiel.”

“Anyway, I took care of it for you.”

“What do you mean?”

Adán already knew what he meant—Contreras killed his own partner. That’s how cold-blooded and ruthless Contreras is, and Adán made a mental note not to forget it, especially now that Contreras was assuring him of his friendship.

“I wanted to tell you this before you heard from someone else,” Osiel said. “I wanted to tell you personally. Adán, I’m ashamed and embarrassed, but it was Herrera who ordered the attempt on your life.”

“Herrera? Why?”

“He was afraid of you, now that you’re back.”

“I’ve been back for almost a year,” Adán answered. “Why now?”

“Your business has been growing,” Osiel said. “You’ve been doing very well.”

“Very well for you, too,” Adán said. “And for Herrera. The piso that I pay you—”

“I tried to explain that to him,” Osiel said. “He wouldn’t listen. So you can relax and enjoy the holidays. Herrera won’t be bothering you anymore.”

Adán clicked off and went back into the “bedroom,” where Magda sat doing her nails. “It was Contreras.”

Magda looked up from her nails.

“He was the one who tried to have me killed,” Adán continued, “and when it didn’t work out, he shifted the blame on Herrera and bragged about killing him for my sake. It’s a win-win for him—he gets the CDG all to himself and has an excuse for it.”

If Magda was disturbed, she didn’t show it. She just seemed to accept treachery as a fact of life. “Why now?”

“I asked him that,” Adán said, sitting down beside her, “and he actually answered, vis-à-vis Herrera. Apparently my business is doing too well.”

Magda finished applying polish to a finger, held it up for inspection, and apparently approved. “It’s nonsense, of course. Contreras is ambitious. He wants to be El Patrón, and knows that he can never be while you’re alive.”

“I have assured him—I have assured everyone, time and again, that I have no—”

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Magda asks. “No one believes you.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not,” Magda says, starting in on another fingernail. “How can I? Not even you believe you. You knew, whether you admit it or not, even to yourself, the moment you manipulated your return to Mexico that you would have to take back the throne. Some people welcome that; others—like Contreras—will fight you for it. Kings don’t resign, Adán. They either remain king or they die. And not in bed.”

Magda’s right, Adán thinks.

About all of it.

Contreras will have to try again. It’s a sad day when a man isn’t safe in his own prison. And he has the power to do it, with his private army, the so-called Zetas.

But now Adán sets those concerns aside for the party. It’s Christmas, time to celebrate. A mariachi band is setting up in the dining hall. Brightly wrapped presents are stacked up against the walls. Trucks have prime rib, lobster, and shrimp. Others are bringing wine, champagne, and whiskey.

Still another will be delivering his family.

Such as it is.

He hasn’t seen his sister, Elena, in years. Nor his own nephew, Salvador, Raúl’s son—a teenager now.

No, it’s been too long.

Too long.

The Tapia brothers and their wives are coming (Adán has strictly banned mistresses and whores from the party; this is meant to be a family day), as are a few of the narcos and favored prisoners—friends of Adán’s—in Puente Grande. The warden has been invited, and some of the higher-ranking guards and their families.

Security is tight outside.

Both additional prison guards and Diego’s people patrol outside the main gate. They’ve pulled an armored car sideways across the road to block unwanted vehicles, its machine gun trained to shred any attacker that comes up the highway.

—

Nacho Esparza is not at the party. He’s in Mexico City to deliver a Christmas present.

It’s in a suitcase he carries as he gets out of his car on Paseo de la Reforma in the Lomas de Chapultepec neighborhood of Mexico City.

He’s familiar with Lomas, a wealthy neighborhood of businesspeople, politicians, and drug traffickers northwest of downtown and literally above the ring of pollution that keeps the city itself in a soup bowl.

Nacho is as smooth as Diego Tapia is rough, his bald head as slick as his speech. Clean-shaven, immaculate, he favors linen suits and Italian loafers. Today, in honor of Christmas, he’s added a tie.

He walks to the Marriott hotel on Hidalgo and goes into the lounge, which is quiet on a Christmas afternoon.

The government official is already there, sitting in an easy chair by a glass table with a drink set on it. Nacho sits across from him and sets the suitcase down. “You’re aware that certain people want this to happen. Tonight.”

“What certain people want is beyond the scope of my authority,” the official says. “What I can promise is that there will be no interference.”

“So if something should happen with our friend in Puente Grande…”

“Then it happens.”

Nacho gets up.

He leaves the suitcase.

—

A semi truck rolls up to the gate of CEFERESO II.

Two of Diego’s men, AR-15s in their hands, walk up to the driver. They talk for a few seconds, Diego’s men bark some instructions, and the prison guards back off into the shadows of the walls. The blocking truck pulls aside, the metal door slides open, and the semi truck backs its rear door to the entrance.

Salvador Barrera hops out of the truck in his black leather jacket and jeans and looks around with all his father’s bluff arrogance. It almost brings tears to Adán’s eyes. Salvador is his father’s son—thick, muscled, aggressive.

Aggression had been Raúl’s role in the organization. In the terms of cheap journalism, Adán was the brains, his brother Raúl was the muscle. A generalization, of course, but fair enough.

Raúl had died in Adán’s arms.

Well, that’s not quite accurate, Adán thinks as he embraces his nephew. Raúl, gut-shot, died from a tiro de gracia that I fired into his head to end his agony.

Another memory he owes to Art Keller.

“You’ve grown,” he says, holding Salvador by the shoulders.

“I’m eighteen,” Salvador answers, just the slightest trace of resentment in his tone.

I understand it, Adán thinks. Your father is dead and I’m alive. I’m alive and the empire your father died for is shattered. If he were alive, the empire might still be intact.

And you might be right, my nephew.

You might be right.

I will have to find a way of dealing with you.

Salvador turns away to help his mother from the truck. Sondra Barrera has taken on the trappings of a stereotypical Mexican widow. Her severe dress is black and she clutches a rosary in her left hand.

It’s a shame, Adán thinks.

Sondra’s still a pretty woman, she could find another husband. But not looking like a nun waiting for death. A nice dress…a little makeup…maybe an occasional smile…The problem is that Raúl has become a saint in her memory. She has apparently forgotten his endless infidelities, violent bursts of temper, the drinking, the drugs. Among the many names Adán remembers Sondra calling her husband when he was alive, “saint” was not one of them.

He kisses Sondra on her cheeks. “Sondra…”

“We always knew,” she says, “that we’d end up here, didn’t we?”

No, we didn’t, Adán thinks. And if you did, it never stopped you from enjoying the houses, the clothing, the jewelry, the vacations. You knew where the money came from—it never stopped you from spending it.

Lavishly.

And, to my knowledge, you never turn down the package of cash that arrives at your house the first of every month. Nor the tuition payments for Salvador’s college, the medical bills, the credit card payments…