Gigi awaited the arrival of his pilfering floor manager.

He’d had some time to cool down, so he wasn’t

going to kill the little fucker. A smile graced his features. He’d had ample time to work out his
frustrations. He’d had all night to heat up, then cool down again. Multiple cycles of such, long into the
night.

So sweet. So perfect.

His little Erika, safe at home, sure as he spoke. Sweating, no doubt. Waiting for him.

So he could go easy on el ladrónito. He did promise her, after all.

He drummed his fingers across the top of his desk. Yes, he could be merciful, but he wasn’t an especially
patient man.

He stretched his arms over his head and sighed.

“Jefe?”

The one on his right. José Antonio? He could never keep them straight. If they weren’t twins they just as
soon should have been.

“Ya bien.”

He was conscientious, whichever one this was. Both of them were.

Loyal.

Not thieves.

He stood up and paced a few turns.

He was like a caged panther in this room, and he knew it. Fed it, if there were someone who needed it
fed to. Or someone to be the food.

The walls were bare, the room spare. Deliberately so. This was his inner sanctum, where he went to
think, which needed nothing extraneous save silence.

It was the room where special conferences took place. Personal, motivational meetings, which was what
this one was going to be, if el ladrónito ever showed up.

He spared a glance back at the Antonios. He was making them nervous.

He walked back towards the desk and hopped up on the edge. Another few minutes, and he’d send out
the retrieval crew, which he didn’t want to do.

Messiness. He hated that.

Messiness required a firmer hand than he’d agreed to use.

He sighed again.

Was a promise made under duress still a promise you were bound to honor? An intriguing ethical
conundrum.
Erika, Erika.

He hadn’t expected much of a stir when he came in without her in tow, and there was none. If anyone
wondered where she was, no one would ask. Maybe no one had even noticed her absence. He doubted
it. Then again, he’d never noticed her at all, until the money turned up missing.

Missing money, missing girls. Conundrum upon conundrum.

And there was the door. A soft knock—so polite!—and then it eased open with obvious hesitance.

Yonathan skulked in, one tremulous hand on the doorframe. His eyes darted from Gigi, to Antonio Uno,
back to Gigi, to Antonio Dos, and back again.

Gigi waited for him to lag both feet inside the office.

He didn’t smile.

“Sit.”

The man obeyed, with guarded reluctance.

Gigi crossed both arms across his chest and stared. Yonathan sought out a desk clock. He wouldn’t find
one. That ticking he heard was his own heart.

“Yonathan Villicaña Rendón, you are a thief.”

The man straightened in the chair, his mouth falling open. If one word came out of that recreant mouth,
it’d better not be a denial.

He was craven, but not stupid.

Yonathan’s head angled back towards the exit. Antonio #1 stepped forward, but a simple gesture from
Gigi halted him.

Stand down.

The message, unspoken, was for both parties.

“Please, don’t insult me. You’re already a thief, and a liar, but there are worse things you could be. Yes?
We understand each other?”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded.

“One of those worse things is a coward, Yonathan. Yesterday, a very nice, innocent young girl stood in
for those other charges against you. You were there, Yonathan. You watched. You watched it happen.
Did it excite you?”

He silently shook his head.

“Yet you said nothing. You did nothing. You are a coward, Yonathan.”

Yonathan, no doubt wisely, remained silent.

“That sweet, entirely innocent young girl not only stood in for your sins, Yonathan, she also begged me
not to hurt you when I learned the truth of the matter. You are a coward, Yonathan. You have no
honor.”

The man slumped in the chair, but his head was inclined up enough to be surveying the exits. Yes, he
was craven, but not stupid. Gigi missed nothing.

“You’re not an unattractive man, Yonathan, which works in your favor.”

Ah. There el ladrónito dared meet his eyes, albeit briefly.

It was true. The man had a sharp face, a sharp little nose, a bit crooked. He was on the thin side, slightly
built. Cowlick across his forehead, molded there with a good bit of Tres Flores Brilliantine, no doubt, like
a ‘20s film star. Ramón Novarro? No, not quite. Not handsome, but not without a certain charm. Like an
engaging cartoon rat, say, the one from that Disney movie his nanny had kept on constant repeat in his
playroom. What was that again? Ah, yes. Ratatouille.

“I have it. I have the money. Still. I can pay it. Pay you.”

Gigi cocked his head to the side.

“You have the money?”

The man knew he couldn’t run, but each knee and finger of his hand were taking silent flight, as was his
erstwhile lying little tongue. “Yes. I have it. Most of it. Still.”

“Where do you have it?”

“In an account. An account over the border. Most of it.”

“And the remainder?”

“A boat. I bought a boat. A Catalina 320.”

“What am I supposed to do with a sailboat, Yonathan?”

“I can sell it. I can sell it. $65,000.”

“Is that what you paid for it?”

“Yes. Yes. $65,000.”

“You stole from me to buy a boat? No sick grandparent? No sick child?”

Ah, a little flush to his cheeks. Charming.

“I admire your honesty, Yonathan. If you had gone with ‘I stole your money for insulin, for my sick child’,
I might have been willing to let this ugly business go. I am a bit soft-hearted for abuelitas with hip
replacements, diabetic children, Chihuahuas needing specialized vet care. I’ve fallen for those sad tales
before. But…” Gigi leaned forward, near enough the man he could smell the sweat emanating from
under his arms. “But, you mustn’t share that information, Yonathan. That information is never to leave
this room, even if you do.”
That cheek flush had gone to pale. Gigi smiled.

“Your account number, please.”

The wire transfer went quickly. A few clicks of the keyboard, and order was nearly restored. The man
sitting before him was looking relieved. Much more than he had any right to be, of course. A situation
even more quickly remedied.

“Do you carry lubricant, Yonathan?”

The man’s mouth dropped open. Ah, silver. A real son of south. That was the first thing his great white
father had seen to, yanking out those fillings and replacing them with composite resin.

“No matter. I make sure to keep some on hand.” He nodded to the guard on his right—Gigi could never
keep them straight… Marco Antonio? José Antonio? The little gray tube of Sutil was faithfully produced.

Gigi set it upright on the desk beside him. Distinctly phallic, down to the tiny red bud peeking up from
the petals in the logo.

“You’ve been a coward, Yonathan, without honor. But that honor can be restored, today. You let an
innocent woman atone for your misdeeds, while you stood by and watched.

What are your options?

You can run. Run, right now. Disappear and never been seen again, because if you are seen, I’ll kill you.

Or, you can take the dick. The same offer that innocent young woman received. But here is the mercy
that innocent young woman begged for you be afforded: no witnesses. Just you, me, and the Antonios
here.”

He nodded to either side, then to the man before him. The tang of sweat was even more powerful.

“They’ve seen it before, Yonathan. They’re as good as parish priests. No tales will leave this room, even
if you do. Yes?”

Some beads of perspiration on the man’s lips now. Cute.

He might even kiss his little Ratatouille before the assfucking.

“You take the dick, Yonathan, you can keep your job. You can keep your sailboat, even.

So which do you want? Your sailboat, or a suitcase?”

The man was silent but not still. Gigi could see the vibration, like a tuning fork. B-flat? The sound was
sweet, regardless.

“Am I to assume the latter, Yonathan?”

Still no word. Nor squeak.

Gigi’s grin broadened, his own slight dental imperfection—that winsome little gap between his front two
teeth, clearly visible. He cupped his hand forward and beckoned.

“Come, Ratatouille.”
He obeyed, still shaking and a bit white in the face.

“Closer.”

The man’s feet were moving in a measure of millimeters.

Gigi put a little teasing lilt in his voice. Was it cruel? Perhaps.

“Closer...”

Once Yonathan was in range, Gigi rested his hands at the man’s hips. Then a little lower. He ran his
palms along the track of the man’s belt. Ridged. He looked down. Ah…embroidered. A charro belt. How
adorable.

The closure easily dispatched.

Gigi heard a little sniffle and glanced up.

Oh, dear. The man’s faced was scrunched up and his eyes squinted. Oh, dear. The last thing he wanted
was his Ratatouille in tears.

He put his hands to either side of the man’s face.

“I won’t hurt you. I wanted to hurt you, that’s true, but I promised, so I won’t. I think, yes, a promise is a
promise. Don’t you agree?”

The man’s slightly sloping shoulders trembled.

Gigi leaned his head against Yonathan’s forehead. He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. “It’s
really not so bad. Do you remember Don Francisco? Don Francisco Urrutia Mera? Yes? Yes, you know
the name? He fucked me many times, Ratatouille. That was his test of loyalty. He was a good mentor to
me.

I think he honestly cared for me at the end.”

Gigi sighed.

“I killed him, of course.” Gigi lifted his head and straightened. “But he had cancer, you see. Cáncer
gástrico. Very painful.”

Gigi gently tugged at the fabric of the man’s briefs. It appeared his Ratatouille had the beginnings of an
erection.

Inclining his head back towards the man, he whispered, “Not so bad.”

Then he brought his lips to Yonathan’s mouth and kissed.

The man was openly crying now, and it moved Gigi a little, it did.

“Tell me about your boat.”

The man took a few jerking, halting breaths.

“Is…is sss-single mast, 32 feet, and…it’s…”

“Go on.”

“And…” With a wavering breath he continued. “…Engine. Engine-assisted. Sailboat.”

Gigi took hold of Yonathan’s hand, and the man look up at him with a brief befuddlement as Gigi
pressed the bottle of Sutil into his palm.

“Go on.”

“I….I…”

“Go on.”

He did, with fumbling hands. Then the Sutil went back to the desk top, along with Ratatouille.

Gigi ran his hand up and down the man’s exposed hip.

“So why a boat? Yonathan?”

“I…I…my father…”

“Yes?”

“Fisherman.”

“Your father was a fisherman? Yonathan?”

“Yes…”

“But your boat is a yacht, isn’t it?”

Gigi could see the shaking of the man’s upper back. Fighting not to whimper, he guessed. He ran his
hand further up, under the rough hem of Yonathan’s shirt.

“You wanted to show your father you’re a success, didn’t you?”

The answer was so small, a tortured exhale.

“….yes….”

“Take your father out on your sailboat tonight, Yonathan. Think of how proud he’ll be. His successful
son. Yes?”

“…yes…”

Gigi returned his hands to the man’s hips, in a gentle caress.

“Ah, Ratatouille…Can you hear it? El sonido de las olas…You, out on the ocean, in your beautiful
sailboat…”

Gigi bent to place a soft kiss on the back of the man’s neck, with genuine affection.