Page 12 of Capuleto

I drank again.

"Don't you think that's enough?" The one who threw the question was a redhead who had passed through my bed hundreds of times.

I didn't even look up from the glass.

"Leave me alone."

"Not a chance." She snatched the glass from me and downed it with a grimace. Irene wasn't a fan of whisky.

"Did you call her? Why?" I reproached Dante, who was serving a couple of mugs. He didn't need to answer. Irene did for him.

"Because you're a damn mess, and neither he nor I want what happened last time to happen again. Look at me, R." I lifted my head and turned. My friend looked worried. "You can't do this to yourself, or to us either. I understand that your wife's disappearance has you distressed, but I remind you that you have a son."

"Adriano is well taken care of," I commented grudgingly.

"He might be, I'm not going to doubt that, I know you adore him, but your state is visible and smellable. Do you want him to think you're an alcoholic? What example are you going to set?"

"Right now, that's the least of my concerns. Juliet keeps him entertained."

"You can't let all the burden fall on your sister. Come on, R, you're not like this. You have your men, your father's men, and Nikita's men looking for her everywhere. She'll turn up."

"And if she doesn't?" I asked somberly, turning on the stool.

She moved closer and hugged me. I buried my nose in her neck, defeated, embittered, aware that alcohol wasn't the right refuge, yet unable to do anything else to ease the suffocating pain.

I snuggled into the warm embrace. I felt so cold, damn it!

Irene ran her nails through my hair. I lifted my head with empty eyes; she offered me a weak smile and lowered her mouth to mine.

It was a kiss that tasted of memories, of home, and of times when I didn't feel dead inside.

A call brought me back to reality. I pulled away from her lips and answered the phone.

"Yes?"

"Romeo, we've got a tip. We think we know where she is." I raised my eyes and fixed them on Irene's.

"Where?" The place didn't matter; I would go to the damned hell if necessary. I turned my attention to my friend. "Dante! Get me a fucking coffee with salt. I need my faculties intact to go somewhere."

Two hours and twenty minutes later, I was entering a damn drug den, located in the Las Tres Mil Viviendas neighborhood, specifically on Hermano Pablo Street; one of the most troubled areas of the neighborhood and all of Seville.

In Las Tres Mil Viviendas, they mainly dealt in bazuco, a cheap base paste of cocaine, sold to addicts. But they had other businesses ever since the two reigning clans had decided to diversify.

I kicked in the door, shooting without looking. I wanted to send a clear message to the man inside.

"What the fuck!" bellowed my target.

A true-blooded gypsy emerged half-naked, wearing a robe, from one of the rooms.

It was Juan Cortés, aka El Gordo, who gawked at me as I aimed the gun at his forehead.

A cloud of dust rose in the air, tainted by smoke.

I hadn't come alone. I wasn't stupid. My men aimed their pair of AK-47s at all the scum.

"You've smashed the fucking vase where my mother rested, you bastard!" he howled, looking at the shards of porcelain scattered over a mattress of ashes.

"What you should be worried about is not ending up in the same place as that vase. Your mother's ashes can be swept up with a broom and dustpan. " He clenched his fists tightly.