Chapter 2
CONTENT WARNINGThis story contains scenes of extreme violence, crime, domination, and morally questionable situations. Not recommended for sensitive readers. If this kind of narrative isn’t for you, I suggest finding another read.
I woke up early, no choice about it. The governor candidate was heading down to the Alemão [^1] for a rally, and with that came the usual ribbon-cuttings: a half-assed clinic and a daycare that wouldn’t last a year after the elections. All funded with our money, but sold like a gift to the people. The Family decided I had to be there, smiling and representing.
It wasn’t new to me. I’d been through hundreds of these events, shaking dirty hands, handing out fake smiles, pretending to give a shit. A Lady Di, waving to a crowd that looked at me with that mix of envy and awe. I hated it, but I was good at it. I knew how to play the game.
These appearances were never simple. I didn’t take a step without a whole entourage surrounding me — advisors, press, security, marketing folks — all there to make sure the Family’s image stayed untouchable. Power has to be flaunted, shown off without shame. People need to be reminded who’s in charge.
The favelas always struck me as a weird scene. The cops were in our pocket, the traffickers too. Every gun, every kilo of drugs, every operation… it all went through us. And those poor folks there, waving at me like I was some goddess. But hell, why not. I was decked out head to toe in Louis Vuitton. My little purse alone could buy three or four of those shacks.
My intern, Timothy, was running around like a chicken with his head cut off, pen and notepad in hand, jotting down meeting requests from the politicians swarming the candidate. A bunch of small-time opportunists, all wanting a slice of the pie. And yeah, I’m talking about Timothy. The same one from the cocaine mess. You remember that little shit? Alright, I know you want to hear what happened to him. But hold on, I’ll get to it.
That day, I had him in a little room, messing around a bit, and I pointed the gun at his head. But listen up, learn something: never go in armed to a spot when the other guy’s cornered and fighting for his life, especially with coke up to his eyeballs. The bastard could’ve broken free, come at me, grabbed my gun, and killed me. But I knew what I was doing. When I grabbed the revolver, it was just to scare him. Big Jan had taken the bullets out. When I checked the safety, it was just to make sure he’d really done it. I’ve been shooting since I was a kid; I know my way around a piece.
After that, we dug up his dirt, got back the chunk of money he’d stolen, fired our guy in on the scheme — beating him to a pulp, of course. Then I made Timothy an offer: either he worked to pay back what he owed, or I killed his whole family. Simple. I think it was a fair deal.
In the end, he took it. Now, on top of being my intern, he’s my personal assistant. I bust his balls, but it’s ‘cause I like him. And him… well, seems like he likes it too. Never complained about a thing.
The heat from the asphalt mixed with the smell of frying food and sewage made the air feel heavier as I smiled for the cameras and spread some charm. I posed for pics with the kids, shook hands, put on the show just right. Part of the game. But I needed more. I wasn’t there just out of duty; I had plans. Always did. Politics isn’t about who does the most; it’s about who looks like they do the most. And pics of me with the people played well.
So I decided to walk around the favela a bit, get a close-up of everyday life. I ate a greasy pastel and chugged some sugarcane juice at a dingy stand — stuff I’d never done in my life. It tasted good, and the photo would look great. While I was genuinely enjoying it, I noticed a woman nearby, sitting with two little kids that caught my eye. One of them, a chubby, cute baby, was nursing at her breast right there in the middle of the street, all peaceful. That scene hit me hard. Babies have always been my weak spot; I can’t explain it, but I get emotional when I see one.
That’s when a guy in his thirties walked by us. He looked at me, gave that sleazy “hey hot stuff” face, and when he passed the breastfeeding mom, he dropped this gem:
“Hey… Hey baby mama! Damn, I wish I was sucking on those tits!”
Silence hit first. Then some guys around protested, calling the asshole an animal. Even Big Jan, who never gets rattled, shook his head no. For him, that was as good as a rage fit. He looked at me, waiting for an order. I gave it, low:
“Find out who he is. Tell the favela’s boss to grab him. When you get him, call me.”
Big Jan nodded discreetly to one of our guys, who took off right after the dude.
“Wow, what an unpleasant guy!” I commented, like I was just venting.
The woman had zero social graces and shot back kinda rude, more from lack of formal manners than any real virtue.
“Yeah, ma’am, a total jerk. He’s known around here, but he only messes with folks he knows won’t cause trouble. He wouldn’t dare with a bandido’s woman. He’s taken some beatings, but the new kids in the crew don’t touch him anymore. They say he’s got a deal with the new manager.”
“Oh, really? That’s too bad to hear… But God’s on our side, friend! Pray and it’ll get better.”
The sarcasm in my voice was almost thick enough to cut. That just made me angrier. Angry enough to lose patience with the whole bullshit. I decided to get the hell out of there.
It was already night when the phone rang. I answered without rushing.
“God bless you, ma’am! It’s the Pastor here!”
“I know it’s you, Pastor. Your number shows up when you call.”
“Glory to God! Look, the favela boss grabbed your guy. Can we kill him?”
I took a deep breath.
“No, Pastor. Tell them I’m coming up. Let the cops know I don’t want anyone there tonight. Don’t get me in a shootout, got it?”
“Hallelujah! That won’t happen with God’s grace!”
“Pastor, I want the boss and the manager there. Hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am! You got it! The angels will act in our favor!”
The night was heavy. The kind of darkness that swallows any spark of hope. We got in the black armored car, low-key, no flashy details. I was dressed simple, no shine, no excess. Nothing to draw eyes. The car glided through the dark alleys of the favela, the backstreets opening up ahead. No headlights flashed, no interior lights came on, no windows rolled down. They knew we were coming.
The silence was eerie. The whole favela seemed on lockdown, like someone had called curfew. Few shadows moved on the streets. It was like the place itself was holding its breath. We took the shortcuts, the paths only the bosses know, up to the top of the hill. The car stopped at a clearing where the city faded into the dark forest.
The wind was whipping hard, kicking up dust and carrying the sour stink of burning trash. A smell of death.
We got out of the car. My eyes scanned the scene. Eight guys stood in front of us, one of them on his knees, beat up, head down. The favela’s boss came over to me, trying to strike a respectful pose. He stuck out his hand, in a pathetic attempt to show manners.
“Yo, what’s up, boss lady, pleasure! I’m Little 3Dicker,” he introduced himself with pride.
The name was ridiculous. But he thought it meant something.
“So, boss… let’s talk. You called, and we’re loyal, you know?”
I smiled lightly, in no hurry.
“Of course, honey… I trust my life to you. You’re doing great. Congrats.”
Lie. I didn’t even know who the hell he was. These guys drop like flies, replaced by the same kind every month. I didn’t waste time tracking who ran which corner. I had people for that.
I pointed at the guy on his knees.
“This the one I told you to grab?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And this the manager?”
“Exactly, madame.”
The manager was a skinny worm, covered in faction tats, eyes darting like he knew he could be next any second.
The silence there was brutal. They had no clue what I was about to do. The air was cold, thick with tension and fear. I knew the risk I was taking showing up like that. Pure arrogance. Raw power. They could just kill me and cash in a fat reward from my Uncles or Cousins. But they wouldn’t. They were too low-rent to even think about touching that level.
I stepped forward, eyes locked on the guy on his knees. His face was wrecked, a mix of resignation and terror. He knew he was done. Nobody got brought to this spot and walked out alive. And if they did… they wouldn’t be whole.
“Get up,” I ordered, voice steady, no rush.
He hesitated a second before standing, movements heavy, breath short.
I held out my hand to the Pastor. Without a word, he knew what I wanted. With all the calm in the world, he placed the grip of my pink .45 in my palm.
Jujubes. That was her name. A tribute to a girlfriend I had when I was younger.
To be continued