Tomas Delgado was sobering very slowly. The unrelenting afternoon sun, pouring into the hotel room through dust-streaked windows, was helping. Also, his father’s booming voice and concussive disappointment.

“Get the fuck up, you little shit.”

Tomas pushed himself unsteadily to an upright position. He blinked against the brightness, making out only his father’s profile as the elder Delgado turned back to his phone to bark orders to minions.

Rico was a lion amongst men. He even had the appearance of one, although with ink black hair. When he moved or gestured, it was with a frightening suddenness and precision. The patriarch concluded his call and turned back to his son.

“We’ll clean this up, but you’ll pay back every ounce,” Rico said, ushering Tomas to their car. “You’ve disgraced our family, and I won’t spare you any justice.”

“Padre,” Tomas said. “What happened last night?”

Rico pulled out a handgun from under the seat and started the car.

“Mijo,” answered Rico, “last night, you started a war.”