The butchery was chaos.
Don Diego's men were all fists and rage, the workers were all fear and flailing limbs, and the butcher… well, he was still on his knees, quivering so violently he looked like a chicken that had lost its head but hadn't realized it yet.
And then came my father's final decree.
"Take him," he ordered in a voice that was as cold as steel.
The butcher whimpered. Actually whimpered, like a kicked dog. His arms flailed uselessly as two men grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet.
"Señor De la Vega, I… por favor…"
His words dissolved into a pitiful sob as my father simply turned his back on him, already finished with whatever half-hearted pleas the man could offer. It didn't matter. Nothing could stop what was coming.
I knew what was coming.
And yet, when they began to drag him toward the exit, something in me clenched.
This wasn't mercy. This was just a delay.
