Free Scale of Justice by Dani Amore Page A

them. They haven’t had anything since. They’re really hungry.”
     
    The old man got to his knees. “Please, sir. Please do not kill us. My son made a mistake, and I made a mistake trying to help him, but please do not kill us.”
     
    “Fuck off, old man,” Villanueva said.
     
    “Sir!” the young man finally spoke. “He did not steal from you, I did! He is lying to try to protect me. I stole from you. It was me. I deserve to die, not my father!”
     
    “What is this, Telemundo?” Villanueva said. “I don’t care who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. If I kill you both, the problem is solved.”
     
    He turned again to the men behind them. “Open up the alligator kitchen. Feed them the younger one first. As an appetizer.”
     
    He stepped aside as the men tried to grab the younger man.
     
    “Please, sir!” the old man said and struggled to his feet. “I beg you! I am only a chef, but I will give you everything I have for his life. Everything! Even my life! Kill me instead!”
     
    Villanueva turned back to the old man. An odd look crossed his face, and the old man noticed.
     
    “You are a chef?” Villanueva said.
     
    The old man said, “Yes.”
     
    Villanueva’s men had the younger man at the brink of the ripped out floor where everyone could hear the sound of large animals thrashing in the water below.
     
    Villanueva turned to his men. “Is he any good? Is the food at the restaurant any good?”
     
    “It is delicious, Diego,” one of the men said.
     
    “Is it heavy? All fat and deep-fried?” Villanueva said.
     
    “No, sir,” the old man said. “I make many things alfresco. Very lean, grilled meats, fresh vegetables. Very light, very delicious.”
     
    Villanueva seemed to think this over.
     
    He pointed to the younger man with his chin. “Beat that one within an inch of his life, and then keep him somewhere under you control.”
     
    He turned to the old man.
     
    “Bring this one with me.”
     
     
     

Two hours earlier
     
     
     
    The man from Colombia was known as The Machete. His real name was Símon Rios. He was the son of one of Colombia’s most notorious drug runners and had taken over his father’s business by the time he was only twenty-five years old. He had earned his nickname by using it as his chosen method for advancing up the criminal corporate ladder.
     
    The fact that his father had been blow to bits by an American unmanned spy drone at the very end of his twenty-fourth year, had also helped speed his fast and furious rise.
     
    Now, he sat in the penthouse of The Hotel Deco in the heart of Detroit. He was here for various meetings with his many lieutenants. Men who oversaw the American retail outlets for his highly coveted product.
     
    The day had been filled with appointments, mostly successful discussions that resulted in problems being solved and strategies developed for stubborn obstacles. The only sour note for The Machete was the amount of pleading and excuse-making that some of his lieutenants displayed. The American raised ones were the worst. Men in Colombia would rather die than beg like a pussy.
     
    He sat back as his assistants brought in the last petitioner of the day. After this, The Machete planned to go to the casinos and spend lots of money, and find a big blonde American bombshell with huge tits that he could play with all night long.
     
    Speaking of big tits, he thought, as the fat man was brought before him.
     
    “Diego Villanueva,” The Machete said. “How are you?”
     
    “I am good, jefe, very good,” the big man said, out of breath. His voice was high and rushed. “In fact, I am doing so well, that is why I wanted to talk to you while you were here.”
     
    The Machete looked at the fat man, noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Was it from nervousness? Or was it just the exertion of walking the twenty feet down the hall to him? Either way, it was pathetic.
     
    He watched as Diego Villanueva lowered himself