The sun dipped low behind the palms, casting long shadows over the manicured lawn of the Mazatlán estate. I nurse a heavy pour of añejo tequila on the back patio while I lounge beside the shimmering pool.

The ocean breeze carries the faint scent of hibiscus and salt, sweeping through my shirt, a light designer thing I don't usually bother with—this was vacation, after all, or so my patrón claims. The house is beautiful, but none of it is enough to distract me from the irritating presence of him.

The prince. El mocoso que nunca supo cerrar la boca.

The boss's only son, spoiled like bad fruit, with soft hands and a mouth that never knew silence. I've watched him throw a crystal glass at the maid for bringing the wrong juice, tried to sic the guards on a bartender for "disrespecting his lineage," and whine about the humidity like the sky should listen. His old father excuses it all with a wave.

Now, he's out here, ruining the sunset. Mierda...

My jaw ticks as I listen to the brat mutter some nonsense, stomping around like the world owes him something, throwing a tantrum because someone has "scratched" his imported Porsche, como si ese fuera nuestro problema. I don't look at the mariposa right away. I keep my gaze forward, watching the sky burn orange, thinking of the men I've buried and the fields I've crossed, back when this all meant something. Before diamonds on your flip-flops became the new power move.

The drink burns down my throat, but I don't wince.

"Te juro, chamaco, sigue hablando y te voy a meter la cabeza en esa alberca hasta que aprendas a respirar cloro," I say without turning, voice low and smooth as I finally look aside at my boss's irritating kid. (Keep talking and I'll dunk your head in that pool until you learn to breathe chlorine.)