Medellín, 1968.The afternoon heat slipped through the wooden cracks of San Joaquín Church, while a faint breeze barely moved the white cloths hanging from the altar. It was a modest but elegant wedding. No famous figures attended—just a few discreet business associates, neighbors from Envigado, and close family. Pablo Escobar Gaviria, barely eighteen years old, was marrying a young woman of quiet beauty and steady gaze: Lucía Márquez.
Lucía was no ordinary girl. Her father had been a merchant, her mother a literature teacher. She grew up among books, religious novenas, and the order of a traditional household, but her rebellious spirit had pulled her into the neighborhoods where she met Pablo.It wasn't love at first sight. It was an argument at first sight. Then came admiration. And finally, desire.
Young Pablo, still unscarred and with a voice that hadn't yet gained authority, already spoke of business with confidence—big words and even bigger plans. He was trafficking small amounts of marijuana, had contacts in La Guajira, and was already talking about buying land, owning farms, and building something greater than all of them.
Lucía believed she could change him.
The wedding was simple. Pablo didn't want to flaunt his money. Lucía didn't want to ask for anything.
"Promise me you'll never put my life or our child's in danger," she said that very night, as he caressed her hair in the boarding house room where they were spending their honeymoon.
"I promise you'll be happy. And our son will be a king. But for that, Lucía, I need to become a god," Pablo replied, with that ambiguous smile that never made it clear if he was serious or mocking himself.
The pregnancy was tough. Lucía suffered from persistent nausea, fainting spells, back pain, and a dry cough that wouldn't go away. Pablo, between trips up north and meetings with smugglers, did what he could to be there. Sometimes he'd take her for walks through Envigado; other times, he'd talk about names.
"If it's a boy, Gustavo. After my cousin. He's real family.""And if it's a girl?""Then she won't be a hitwoman, she'll be a congresswoman," he'd joke, always dodging the emotional.
Gustavo was born on April 12, 1969, in a downtown clinic. Lucía held him in her arms, exhausted but with peaceful eyes. Pablo looked at him with a pride he didn't know how to express. Inside, something stirred—not love, not fear… a mix of duty and ambition. That child, he thought, would have what he never had. Power. Protection. Territory.
"This is Gustavo Escobar Márquez. He'll be better than you, Pablo," Lucía whispered before falling asleep.
The first year was peaceful. Pablo tried to stay away from the chaos, but it was impossible. The business was growing. He moved from marijuana to cocaine. Bogotá was calling. The Valle del Cauca capos were watching. The Cali Cartel was beginning to draw invisible borders.Pablo was still small-time, but already a nuisance.
Lucía saw him come home with stained hands. Dirty money. Information he couldn't share.
"Do you know Gustavo's crawling now?" she'd say, holding a cup of coffee, waiting in the kitchen."I'll make him run. But for now, I need him to stay quiet," he'd reply, almost always arriving late, with a gun tucked under his shirt.
They argued. A lot. Lucía hated the lies, the unexplained trips, the senseless expensive gifts.
"I don't need a ranch, Pablo. I need you to be here when he says 'dad.'"
One night, the cough came back. Stronger. Dry. Persistent. Pablo took her to a private doctor in El Poblado. She was diagnosed with advanced pulmonary fibrosis. It was genetic. There was no cure.
"That can't be," said Pablo, with a cigarette between his fingers. He put it out without thinking. He never smoked again."You're going to have to raise Gustavo on your own," Lucía said without drama."Don't say that, woman.""You're going to have to choose: him… or the other thing. Because you can't give him both."
Lucía died in 1971, at the age of 24, in her home in Envigado, surrounded by her books, her son, and a maid who held her hand as she slipped into a sleep with no return.Pablo arrived hours later, eyes bloodshot, speechless.
He stayed by her side all night. He didn't cry.
The next morning, he held Gustavo in his arms, looked him straight in the eyes, and carried him to the terrace of the estate. Medellín stretched out below them, like a model of concrete and blood.
"She wanted you to be different. Not like me.""Da..." the child babbled."But you can't escape blood, Gustavo. You're already an Escobar. Not by name. By destiny."
Pablo raised him in his own way. He didn't include him in his new family. With Tata, he built another home—cleaner, more photogenic. Gustavo was sent to a finca guarded by trusted men. He was given a private tutor, then a governess, then a political history professor who had once been a communist.
He paid for the best books, the best doctors, and visited him every six months like a father paying installments of affection.
"When you're older, you'll understand why I can't be with you."That was his favorite line."When you're older…"
Gustavo learned to read before he was five. He could write before six. By seven, he spoke clearly about Bolívar. By ten, he knew more about the history of drug trafficking than most police officers.
And at eleven, on an otherwise normal day, he asked his tutor:"Is my father a criminal?""Your father is… complicated.""No. He's a criminal. And I have his blood."
The tutor didn't know what to say.
Years later, when Gustavo was fifteen, he wrote on a piece of paper he hid under his mattress:
"My mother tried to make my father a man. My father made himself a monster. I will make myself… a legend."