OOM: Portugal
Ramon enjoys Portugal. There’s something about a Latin country that makes him feel more at home. Of course, it’s not Colombia and never will be. But it’s better than totally alien places.
He likes this house too. There are memories here, albeit ones from visits so many years ago that the memories are hazy. His grandfather had grown up here and had kept it, even after moving to Brazil at the age of twenty-five. It’s been in the family for years.
He’d had five sons, all born in Brazil. Raul was the eldest, Emanuel the next in line. The old man had been a traditionalist and therefore, the firstborn got the property. It was OK though because the two eldest had always been close, especially after the family moved to Colombia from Brazil when they were both under ten years old. It’s not hard to surmise why, although their father had been a complete failure at setting up in the drug trade and had been killed early on.
Raul had never lived here, though he’d owned it his whole life. He’d come to visit the old country at times, with Emanuel and his two young nephews. Ramon remembers being here and not understanding why other kids he met on the beach didn’t speak Spanish. He’s Bogotá through and through. When his father had explained that Portugal had its own language, he’d demanded to learn it. That had earned him a fatherly chuckle and a ruffle of his hair. From then on, he was addressed almost solely in Portuguese.
He’d been five. Picked it up fast too, because didn’t all kids learn quickly at that age? And he’d spoken it to Hector because even at that young age, he’d known that the business his papa and tio were setting up would be his one day. He’d known it with the arrogance of youth, the all-powerful belief that he was, and would always remain, untouchable.
And so far, that had been almost on the money. Until the unfortunate events with Bauer, he’d never been anywhere close to being brought down. Sure, there were a few minor arrests over the years but that was mainly down to illegal street fighting and running prostitution rings and he’d always had the back-up to beat the charges. Since he took over the cartel and made it grow, there’d been nothing. Always too smart for that - and too ruthless. No qualms about making witnesses disappear.
But this house…he turns to look at it now, from his position on the sand. He’s been out here for an hour, sitting on the beach that’s accessible from the gate at the bottom of the garden. It’s nice, in the evening. Warm still, not hot. The sea is calm, the waves easy, and the sun paints a pretty picture as it disappears over the horizon. And the house…a Salazar house…
…only it’s not, anymore. Oh, it is on paper. But that doesn’t matter because from where he’s sitting, Ramon can see in the windows at the back, the ones that illuminate the kitchen. And Random’s visible - and audible actually, because he’s singing as he washes plates from dinner and talking to Martin in between lines taken from some musical or other. Ramon smiles. Because although this place may have been in his family for generations, it now belongs to a particular piece of Amber, just as much. He had meant it, when he said that everything would get shared with his lover.
He turns back to the sea, still smiling as he raises a cigarette to his lips, arms resting on bent knees. It occurs to him that this is faintly ridiculous - he’s worth hundreds of millions of dollars. He can buy anything he wants, on practically any world. And here he is, sitting on a beach with slacks rolled up his calves, wearing a simple white cotton shirt and hasn’t shaved for three days - and he’s happy, here, outside a small cottage in the middle of nowhere with only another man and a baby for company.
Funny how things work out. He’s always thought himself all about the simple pleasures in life - good booze, fine cigars, hookers and broads, drugs, cars, wealth, power, influence...violence, death and murder. But it turns out that there are even simpler things than that, and he’d never known. Arms round someone he cares for. Making love instead of fucking. A dinner not provided by chefs, and lazy mornings in bed with pancakes and newspapers.
Even funnier how this is easier, being here and enjoying those things, with no pressure to be Ramon Salazar, Cartel Boss. When he was five years old, running around on this sand, he already knew that that’s what he’d grow to be, even though his father was hardly big time then. And now, to be back here and almost moving on from what he’s built...
...it’s odd. He glances back at the kitchen window and sees Random dancing with Martin in his arms. And grins, because this is better. Just being himself, and nothing else.
Not everywhere. There’s a time and place for everything. But right here, right now? This is all he is, and it’s enough.