I watch as they meander up and down the street, kicking at some broken bottles and ribbing each other. A part of me envies their easy camaraderie. I don’t have a lot of friends, and the boys I occasionally play with all seem to be afraid of me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m the Señor’s son, or if they’ve heard things about me. I don’t usually mind their fear—I encourage it, in fact—but sometimes I wish I could just play like a regular kid.

These teenage boys haven’t heard about me, though. I can tell because when they spot me sitting there, they smirk and walk toward me, thinking they’ve found easy prey to bully.

“Hey,” one of them calls out. “What’s a little boy like you doing here? This is our neighborhood. You lost, kid?”

“No,” I say, replicating their smirks. “I’m about as lost as you… kid.”

The boy who spoke to me swells up with anger. “Why you little shit—” He starts toward me, and immediately freezes when I point my gun at him without blinking.

“Try it,” I invite him softly. “Come closer, why don’t you?”

The boys begin to back away. They’re not completely dumb; they see that I know how to handle the weapon.

My father and his men come out at that moment, and the boys scatter like a pack of rats.

When I tell my father what happened, he nods approvingly. “Good. You don’t back down, son. Remember that—you take what you want, and you never back down.”

Cold water in my face, followed by a brutal slap, and I’m back in the present. They have me tied to a chair now, my wrists bound behind my back and my ankles tied to the chair legs. My fingers and toes throb with agony, but I’m still alive—and for now unbroken.

I can see the frustrated fury on Majid’s face. He’s not happy with the progress thus far, and I have a feeling he’s about to amp up his efforts.

Sure enough, he approaches me, his knife clutched in his fist. “Last chance, Esguerra…” He stops in front of me. “I’m giving you one last chance before I start cutting off some useful body parts. Where is the fucking factory, and how do we get in?”

Instead of answering, I gather whatever little saliva remains in my mouth and spit at him. The red-tinted spittle splatters all over his nose and cheeks, and I watch with satisfaction as he wipes it off with his sleeve, his body vibrating with rage at the insult.

I don’t have a chance to enjoy his reaction for long, though, because he fists his hand in my hair and yanks on it, causing my neck to bend painfully backwards.

“Let me tell you what’s about to happen, you piece of shit,” he hisses, pressing the blade against my jaw. “I’m going to start with your eyes. I’m going to cut your left eyeball in half—and then I’m going to do the same with your right. And when you’re blind, I’m going to start trimming your dick, inch by inch, until there’s only a tiny stub left… Do you understand me? If you don’t start talking now, you will never see or fuck again.”