His bodyguards remained at a safe distance, mingling with the establishment’s clientele. The Golden Star bar was known for its relaxed atmosphere and diverse clientele, ranging from university students to workers seeking to forget the work week. Pablo sat at a fine table, ordered a double whiskey, and lit a Marlboro cigarette, observing the movement of the place with that penetrating gaze that characterized the most powerful man in Colombian drug trafficking. Salsa music was playing at full volume while the couples

He was dancing on the small, makeshift dance floor. At the bar, a burly man of about 30 years old named Rodrigo “El Toro” Mendoza drank beer after beer, celebrating with his friends a supposed victory in a street fight. Rodrigo was known in the neighborhood as a “mato de pocamta,” someone who solved minor problems for local merchants in exchange for money.

He was almost 2 meters tall, weighed over 100 kg, and had a reputation as a violent man who enjoyed intimidating others. That night, alcohol had completely clouded his judgment. His friends urged him to prove his courage, daring him to bother some customer at the bar. Rodrigo, with the typical arrogance of someone who believes the world belongs to him, began to walk between the tables looking for a victim for his next demonstration of power.

 

His eyes fell upon Pablo, who remained calm in his corner, seemingly alone and vulnerable. To Rodrigo, that man of average height and common appearance seemed the perfect target. He approached unsteadily, holding a bottle of Club Colombia beer in his right hand.

Pablo’s bodyguards noticed the movement, but a discreet signal from their boss told them not to intervene yet. Pablo wanted to see how far the situation would go. Rodrigo approached the table and, without a word, deliberately tipped the beer bottle over Pablo’s head. The golden liquid ran through his black hair, soaking his white shirt as silence fell over the bar.

Everyone present held their breath. The musicians stopped playing. Time seemed to stand still at that moment that would forever change Rodrigo Mendoza’s life. Pablo remained motionless for several seconds that seemed eternal. Slowly, he wiped the beer from his face with a napkin, his eyes fixed on the man who was now beginning to realize that something was wrong.

The expressions on the faces of the other customers, the sudden movement of several men getting up from their seats, the palpable tension in the atmosphere. Everything indicated that Rodrigo had just made a mental mistake. One of Rodrigo’s friends, more sober than him, finally recognized Pablo Escobar.

His face paled instantly and he desperately whispered the name that everyone in Medellín knew and feared. Rodrigo, still confused by the alcohol, took a few seconds to process the information when he finally understood the magnitude of his mistake. His legs began to tremble. He had spilled beer on the head of the most dangerous man in Colombia, perhaps in all of Latin America.

Pablo stood up slowly, shaking the last drops of beer off his shirt. His expression was indescribable, a mask of calm that concealed the storm within. The bodyguards already surrounded the scene awaiting orders. The bar owner, an older man named Don Julio, came running out of the kitchen upon learning what had happened, praying mentally that his establishment would not become the scene of a massacre.

Rodrigo tried to stammer an apology, but the words caught in his throat. Fear had completely replaced arrogance. His friends had already disappeared, abandoning him to his fate. Pablo took a step forward, shortening the distance between them.

The silence in the bar was absolute, broken only by the sound of Rodrigo’s labored breathing. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Pablo smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile, but an expression that carried multiple meanings. None of them comforting. He placed his hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder with a pressure that, although not violet, conveyed a clear message of domination.

In a low voice, barely audible to those nearby, Pablo uttered the words that would seal Rodrigo’s fate. “Tomorrow at 10 a.m. I’ll be waiting for you at Hacienda Nápoles. Don’t be late. If you don’t show up, I’ll find you anyway. And believe me, you’ll wish you’d come of your own free will.”

Then he turned around, walked towards the exit followed by his men, leaving behind a bar submerged in the collective shock, and Rodrigo Mendoza who had just understood that his life would never be the same again. Rodrigo didn’t sleep that night. He remained seated on the edge of his bed, in the small apartment he shared with his mother in the poor neighborhood, contemplating the options he had before him.

She could flee, pretend to disappear to some remote town in Colombia, or cross the border into Venezuela or Ecuador, but she knew that Pablo Escobar’s reach was practically unlimited. His tentacles extended throughout the country and beyond. Fleeing would only delay the inevitable and would probably worsen her situation. The other option was to turn herself in at Hacienda Nápoles as he had ordered, face the consequences of her stupidity, and beg for mercy.

His mother, a humble woman who worked as a seamstress, expressed her anguish during the early morning. Rodrigo didn’t tell her the details, only that he had to solve an important problem. She, with the material intuition that fails, sensed that her son was in grave danger. She prepared coffee and arepas for breakfast, while silent tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks.

At 6:00 a.m., Rodrigo showered. He dressed in his best clothes, a pair of gray trousers and a white shirt that his mother had carefully ironed, and left his house without knowing if he would ever see her again. He took a bus to Puerto Triunfo, the closest municipality to Pablo Escobar’s famous ranch. The trip took approximately four hours from Medellín.

Throughout the journey, Rodrigo watched the Colombian landscape unfold before his eyes through the window. Green mountains, small towns, farmers working the land. He wondered if this would be the last time he would see all of this. On the bus traveled families, merchants, students, all oblivious to the personal drama Rodrigo was experiencing.

A woman sat beside him and tried to start a conversation, but he barely responded in monosyllables, lost in his thoughts. He remembered his infancy when his father, also a violent man, had taught him that in life one had to impose oneself by force. Now he understood that that philosophy had led him directly to disaster.

Upon arriving in Puerto Triumph, Rodrigo asked how to get to the Hacienda Nápoles. The locals looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and pity. Everyone knew who owned the property and what kind of business was run there. A taxi driver offered to take him to the main entrance.

During the short journey, the driver, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache, warned him, “Boy, I don’t know what’s bothering you, but be careful. Some people escape and get out of that hacienda.” Rodrigo nodded in silence, paid the fare, and got out of the vehicle. Facing him stood the imposing entrance of the Hacienda Nápoles with its famous Piper PA18 airplane mounted on the entrance arch, the same airplane that Pablo had used in his first cocaine shipments.

Two guards armed with AK47 rifles were guarding the entrance. Rodrigo approached with his hands visible, trying not to make any sudden movements. “I’m here because Don Pablo summoned me,” he said in a trembling voice. One of the guards spoke into his radio, confirming the information. After a few minutes that seemed like hours, they told him to come in.

A jeep was waiting to take him outside the property. As he drove along the roads of the hacienda, Rodrigo could observe the magnitude of Escobar’s empire. There were luxurious buildings, artificial lakes, and to his amazement, exotic animals: elephants, giraffes, hippos, zebras. It was like being on an African safari in the middle of Colombia.

Pablo Escobar had turned that property of more than 3,000 hectares into his personal refuge, a place where he could be the absolute king of his own kingdom. The jeep stopped in front of a colonial-style main house, surrounded by meticulously cared-for gardens.

Rodrigo was led to a waiting room where other men, all with tense expressions, were also waiting to be received. Some were business partners, others employees, and probably some, like him, were there to settle accounts for some mistake. The hands of the clock advanced with agonizing slowness.

Rodrigo observed every detail of the room. The paintings on the walls, the fine wooden furniture, the polished marble floor—everything exuded power and wealth. At 10 o’clock, a tall, thin man, dressed in a dark suit, appeared in the doorway and stated his name. Rodrigo stood up, feeling that his legs could barely support him.

It was time to face the consequences of his imprudent act the night before. Rodrigo was led through a long hallway decorated with family photographs of Pablo Escobar. In them, the drug trafficker could be seen in everyday moments playing soccer with his sons, embracing his wife Maria Victoria, posing next to his exotic animals.

Those images showed a different side of the man the world knew as the most wanted criminal. Finally, they arrived at a spacious office with large vertical windows that offered a panoramic view of the estate. Behind a solid mahogany desk sat Pablo Escobar, dressed in casual clothes, jeans and a white t-shirt.

He was smoking a cigarette while reviewing some documents. Standing beside him were two of his trusted men, both with impassive expressions. The man who had guided Rodrigo withdrew, closing the door behind him. Pablo looked up and observed Rodrigo for several seconds without saying a word. Then he gestured toward a chair in front of the desk.

“Sit down,” he ordered in a calm but firm voice. Rodrigo obeyed, feeling the sweat run down his back despite the conditioned air that filled the cool room. Pablo stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands over his abdomen.

Rodrigo Mendoza, also known as the bull, began Pablo demonstrating that he had already investigated him. 32 years old, born in the popular neighborhood of Medellín, son of Ramón Mendoza, who died in a bar fight 10 years ago and of Lucía Mendoza, a seamstress, has a criminal record for personal injuries, disturbing the peace and extortion.

You work as a debt collector for some merchants in the sector, using physical intimidation as your main tool. Is that correct? Rodrigo nodded weakly, impressed by the amount of information Pablo had gathered in less than 12 hours. “Yes, sir,” he managed to articulate.

Pablo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. Last night, in a moment of utter stupidity, you spilled beer on my head in a public bar. Do you have any idea of ​​the consequences that act would normally have? Rodrigo swallowed hard. Yes, sir, I’m very sorry. I was drunk and didn’t recognize it. It was the biggest mistake of my life.

Pablo smiled slightly, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. The biggest mistake of your life so far. Let me explain something to you, Rodrigo. I could make you disappear without a trace. I could make you suffer in ways you can’t even imagine. I could make your mother spend the rest of her days wondering what became of her son.

All of that would be within my capabilities and, according to the rules of the world we live in, it would be justified. Rodrigo felt panic taking hold of him. He began to tremble visibly. Please, Don Pablo, I beg you to have mercy. My mother has no one else. I will do anything, whatever you ask of me. I will work for you without pay.

I will be your slave if necessary, but please don’t kill me. Tears began to roll down Rodrigo’s cheeks. His entire tough-guy facade had completely crumbled. Pablo observed that display of vulnerability with indescribable expression. After a silence that seemed eternal, he spoke finally.

“Get up,” he ordered. Rodrigo obeyed clumsily, standing with difficulty. Pablo also got up and walked toward the window, turning his back on him. “I’m going to tell you something that very few people know. When I was young, more or less your age, I also made stupid mistakes. Once, I unwittingly questioned a powerful man in Medellín, someone who could have easily eliminated me. But that man, instead of killing me, gave me a chance.”

He told me that we all deserve a second chance to show what we’re really made of. Pablo turned to look directly at Rodrigo. I’m going to give you that same opportunity, but with very clear conditions. From today you will work for me, not as a slave, but as an employee. You will receive a fair wage.

Your job will consist of basic security tasks, all related to the main business. You will be one more of the many men who will look after my property and my legitimate interests. But listen to me carefully. If you ever betray me, if you talk too much, if you make another error of judgment like last night, there will be no second chance. Understood? Rodrigo couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

I was expecting a death sentence and, instead, I received a job offer. Yes, sir, extended. I swear on my mother’s life that I won’t let you down. I’ll be the most loyal employee you’ve ever had. Pablo agreed. I hope so. Now one of my men will explain your duties and show you around the facilities. You start tomorrow.

And Rodrigo, one more thing. Stop drinking. A man who doesn’t control his vices is a weak man, and I don’t employ weak men. Rodrigo was escorted out of the office. Still processing what had just happened, he had entered the Hacienda Nápoles expecting to die and was leaving with a new job and a new opportunity for life.

But he also knew that he had just entered a world from which it would be very difficult to leave. Rodrigo’s first months working for Pablo Escobar were a complete revelation about how the world’s most famous drug trafficking empire really operated. He was assigned to a security team that watched over one of Pablo’s urban properties in Medellín, an apartment building in the exclusive El Poblado neighborhood.

His immediate superior was a man named Gustavo, a veteran of the organization with over 10 years of service. Gustavo was a serious, taciturn man, but fair in his dealings with subordinates. On the first day, Gustavo explained the basic rules. “Here there are three fundamental principles: loyalty, discretion, and efficiency. If you abide by these three, you will have a peaceful and well-paid life.”

If you fail at any of them, the consequences are definitive. There are no middle grounds. Rodrigo took those words very seriously. He had stopped drinking completely, just as Pablo had ordered him to. Every morning he got up early, had breakfast with his mother, who was happy to see him more responsible and with a stable job, although she didn’t know exactly what her son did for a living.

Rodrigo had simply told him that it was private security for an important businessman. His routine consisted of 8-hour shifts watching the building, controlling visitor access, conducting periodic patrols, and reporting any suspicious activity. The salary was considerably better than what he previously earned as a neighborhood thug.

For the first time in his life, Rodrigo could significantly help his mother financially, pay the bills on time, and even save some money. But most importantly, he was learning discipline and responsibility. During those months, Rodrigo had several opportunities to observe Pablo Escobar in his daily life.

The drug trafficker occasionally visited the building for meetings with associates or simply to verify that everything was working correctly. Rodrigo noticed that Pablo was meticulous about details. He asked about the well-being of his employees. He remembered names and personal circumstances. He was a leader who inspired loyalty, not only out of fear, but also out of respect.

One afternoon Pablo arrived at the building accompanied by his children, Juan Pablo and Manuela, to pick up some documents. The children played in the lobby while their father attended to matters. Rodrigo watched how Pablo interacted with them. He was affectionate, patient, a devoted father. That image contrasted dramatically with the man’s reputation as a ruthless criminal.

It was a duality that Rodrigo found both fascinating and disturbing. On another occasion, Rodrigo witnessed Pablo handling a conflict between two of his employees who had had a disagreement. Instead of resolving the problem with violence, Pablo sat them both down, listened to their versions, and gave me a fair solution that satisfied both parties.

Violence is the last resort, or the first. Pablo told the employees. We are an organization, or a street gang. Rodrigo also learned about Pablo’s legitimate activities. The drug trafficker had invested millions in legal businesses, real estate, soccer teams, and the construction of housing for the poor.

The infamous Pablo Escobar neighborhood in Medellín, where he had built hundreds of houses for homeless families, was an example of how Pablo cultivated his image as a social benefactor. For many poor Colombians, Pablo was not a criminal, but a hero who had given them what the government never gave them: a decent roof over their heads. However, Rodrigo was not naive. He knew perfectly well that behind that facade of philanthropy existed a brutal business that had caused thousands of deaths.

Although his work didn’t directly involve him in drug trafficking, it was impossible to ignore reality. Rumors circulated constantly. Intercepted shipments, eliminated rivals, assassinated politicians, threatened judges. Pablo’s empire was sustained as much by acts of generosity as by rivers of blood. One day, Gustavo confided in Rodrigo during a break.

Look, kid, you’re lucky. The boss forgave you because he saw something in you. I don’t know what, but something. I’ve seen men die for much lesser offenses. My advice is to do your job, collect your wages, take care of your mother, and don’t ask questions about things that don’t concern you.

There are people here who have been working for years and are still alive precisely because they understand those limits. Rodrigo appreciated the advice and followed it to the letter. He focused on being the best security guard possible. He arrived on time, never missed a day. He was courteous to everyone. He kept his work area spotless. He gradually earned the trust of his superiors.

After six months, he was promoted to shift supervisor, which meant a salary increase and more responsibilities. His mother was proud, although she still didn’t know the full details of his job. For her, her son had finally matured and found his way. But Rodrigo lived with a constant contradiction. On the one hand, he was grateful to Pablo for having given him a second chance when he deserved to die.

On the other hand, he knew he was working for a criminal organization whose salary came directly from the suffering of thousands of addicts in the United States and Europe. He tried to justify it by telling himself that he only did security, that he didn’t participate directly in drug trafficking, but deep down he knew he was part of the machinery of that machine.

One evening, while making his rounds, Rodrigo stopped in front of a mirror in the building’s lobby. He observed his reflection. He was no longer the drunken, arrogant killer he had been. He wore a clean uniform. He was sober. He had a purpose. But at what price? He had simply exchanged one criminal lifestyle for another.

These questions tormented him during sleepless nights, but during the day he buried them deep inside and continued with his work because he knew there was no turning back. It was a sunny Saturday in July when Pablo Escobar decided to visit the working-class neighborhood, precisely where Rodrigo had grown up. The news spread like wildfire.

The boss would personally come to supervise the construction of a soccer field he had promised the community months earlier. For the residents of the neighborhood, this was a momentous event. Pablo Escobar was seen as a benefactor, someone who cared for the poor when the government had forgotten them. Rodrigo was assigned to the security team that would accompany Pablo during the visit.

It was the first time he would work so close to the patron at a public event. Gustavo gave him precise instructions. Your job is to observe the crowd, identify possible threats, maintain a secure but discreet perimeter. Pablo wants to interact with the people. He doesn’t want us to look like an occupation army.

But I killed him with my eyes wide open. There are many who wanted to see the boss dead. When Pablo arrived in the neighborhood in a caravan of beat-up vehicles, he was received like a rock star. Hundreds of people crowded around to see him, touch him, thank him. Mothers held up their babies for Pablo to bless them. Children shouted his name. Many cried with emotion.

It was a surreal scene that Rodrigo observed with astonishment. Pablo got out of the vehicle dressed in jeans, a white t-shirt, and sneakers. His characteristic attire for these occasions. He smiled broadly, greeted everyone, took photographs, and listened to requests. He had brought with him bags full of money that he distributed among the neediest families.

50,000 Colombian peso bills that for those people represented the difference between eating or going hungry for weeks. The construction of the arena had already begun days before, but Pablo wanted to be present for the symbolic laying of the first stone of the stands.

He had hired the best builders, bought top-quality materials. The arena would have night lighting, spectator stands, and fully equipped changing rooms. It would be the best sports facility in the area. All financed by drug money, although nobody there wanted to think about that detail.

During the event, Pablo took a microphone and addressed the crowd. Brothers and sisters of the working-class neighborhood, I am here because you are my people. I come from neighborhoods like this, I know the difficulties, the needs, the dreams. The government has abandoned you, but we will abandon each other.

This field is for your children, so that they have a place to play, where they can dream of becoming professional footballers, where they can stay away from vices and violence. I will continue building schools, fields, houses, because you deserve it. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers. Pablo, Pablo, Pablo, they chanted. Rodrigo, from his position on the security perimeter, felt contradictory emotions.

He knew many of those people; he had grown up with them. He saw the pure gratitude on their faces. To them, Pablo was a hero. But Rodrigo also knew the whole truth. That money came from the cocaine that destroyed lives in other countries, from the violence that had claimed thousands of victims.

It was a generosity built on foundations of blood. During the ceremony, a neighbor approached Pablo. It was Mrs. Mercedes, a neighbor Rodrigo had known since childhood. She had lost her husband years before and lived in extreme poverty. With tears in her eyes, she took Pablo’s hands and said, “Don Pablo, may God bless you for all you do for us. You are a saint.”

Pablo responded with humility, “I am a simpleton, ma’am. I am just a man who tries to help as he can.” After the official ceremony, Pablo stayed several more hours in the neighborhood. He visited houses, shared with families, and played soccer with the children in a vacant lot.

Rodrigo watched everything, fascinated by Pablo’s ability to connect with ordinary people. There was no arrogance in his behavior, nor was there any distance. It was as if he truly was one of them, despite being a multimillionaire. At one point, Pablo approached Rodrigo. “This is your neighborhood, isn’t it?” he asked. Rodrigo was surprised that Pablo remembered him.

Yes, boss. I grew up here. Pablo agreed. It’s a good neighborhood, hardworking and welcoming people. That’s why I like helping out here. Tell me, does your mother still live in this area? Yes, sir, three blocks from here. Then, after we finish here, we’ll go visit her. I want to meet the woman who raised a man who had the courage to show up at my ranch, knowing he could die. Rodrigo felt a mixture of pride and presumption.

An hour later, Pablo, accompanied by Rodrigo and two bodyguards, knocked on the door of Lucía Mendoza’s humble apartment. The woman almost fainted when she saw him at her door. Pablo entered naturally, praising the cleanliness and order of the home. He accepted a drink that Lucía prepared with trembling hands. They talked for 20 minutes about everyday topics, the cost of living, her health, and memories of the neighborhood.

Before leaving, Pablo discreetly left an envelope of money on the kitchen table. “So you can buy yourself something nice, Mrs. Lucía. And thank you for the coffee, it was delicious.” When Pablo left, Lucía opened the envelope and found 2 million pesos, more money than she had ever seen in her entire life. She hugged her crying son, not knowing if those tears were of happiness or of fear because of the world Rodrigo had become involved in.

That night, Rodrigo reflected on what he had witnessed. Pablo Escobar was a living paradigm, capable of ordering brutal murders and at the same time making a poor woman cry with joy. He was loved and feared in equal measure. And Rodrigo, who had started as a victim of his own stupidity, was now part of that complex and contradictory universe.

Months passed and the war between the Medellín cartel, led by Pablo Escobar, and the Cali cartel, headed by the Rodríguez Orejuela brothers and José Santa Cruz Lodoño, intensified. What had begun as a commercial rivalry had turned into a bloody conflict that claimed lives weekly. Rodrigo, from his position in the organization, began to feel the repercussions of that war.

Security measures had tripled. Now there were constant checkpoints, frequent changes of location, and coded communications. The atmosphere of tension was palpable. Gustavo explained the situation during a security meeting. The Cali cartel is planning to eliminate our key operators. They have already killed several of our associates in Bogotá and on the coast.

They are using different tactics than usual. They bribe police officers, infiltrate informants, and use professional hitmen. They are more discreet, but just as lethal. We all need to be on high alert. One night, while Rodrigo was on guard duty at the town’s building, he received an urgent call from Gustavo. Code red. Possible threat in your location.

Reinforcements on the way. Keep your eyes open and don’t let anyone in who isn’t on the authorized list. Rodrigo felt the adrenaline rush his system. He checked his weapon, the .38 caliber revolver he carried on his waist, and alerted the other two guards on duty. They turned off the lobby lights for better visibility outside.

The minutes were traversing with aggravated leptus. Then Rodrigo spotted a suspicious vehicle parked across the street. It was a gray Repault 9 with two occupants observing the building. It wasn’t a neighborhood car. Rodrigo reported immediately by radio. Suspicious vehicle in position.

Two male occupants. License plates not identified. Gustavo’s response was immediate. He didn’t confront them. He took up defensive positions. Reinforcements in 2 minutes. But then something unexpected happened. From the vehicle came the two men carrying long guns, AK47 rifles.

They began walking towards the building, clearly hostile. Rodrigo understood that he only had 2 minutes. He had to act now. Everyone to cover! he shouted to his companions. Just at that moment, the attackers opened fire on the facade of the building. The deafening sound of automatic gunfire filled the night.

The lobby windows shattered into a thousand pieces. Rodrigo and his companions returned fire from protected positions behind columns and furniture. It was the first time Rodrigo had participated in a real shootout. The training he had received activated automatically. He breathed in a controlled manner, aimed with precision, and fired with restraint to conserve life.

The attackers, surprised by the armed response, sought refuge behind their vehicle. The exchange of gunfire lasted what seemed like hours, but in reality it was barely 2 minutes. Then reinforcements arrived, three vehicles with heavily armed men from Pablo’s organization.

The attackers, outnumbered and outgunned, tried to flee, but were overtaken. One died on the spot, the other was captured, wounded. When silence finally returned, Rodrigo checked his body for wounds. Miraculously, he and his companions had been overtaken, although the building had suffered considerable damage.

Gustavo arrived minutes later, assessed the situation, and congratulated Rodrigo. “Good job, kid. You kept calm and protected the position. The boss will find out about this.” The captured attacker was interrogated that same night under pressure. He confessed that he was a hitman hired by the Cali cartel. His mission was to attack Pablo Escobar’s properties in Medellín in retaliation for similar operations that the Medellín cartel had carried out in Cali.

It was an endless cycle of violence and aggression. The next day, Pablo personally visited the building to assess the damage and speak with the security team. When he reached Rodrigo, he shook his hand firmly. They told me you acted with courage and professionalism. That’s exactly what I expect from my people.

You’re going to receive a special bonus and a promotion. I need men like you in positions of greater responsibility. Rodrigo thanked them for the words, but inside he felt a mixture of emotions. He had killed a man that night, or at least he had participated in his death, although it was in self-defense and fulfilling his duty, the weight of having taken a human life was beginning to settle on his conscience.

That night in his apartment, Rodrigo couldn’t sleep. He watched the scene of the shooting over and over again. He wondered who that man had been who tried to kill him. Did he have a family, children? Or was he simply another unscrupulous criminal? The line between good and evil, which had once seemed clear to him, was now blurred and confused. His mother noticed his agitated state. “What’s wrong, son? You seem worried.”

Rodrigo couldn’t tell her the truth. Nothing, Mom, just the stress of work. But Lucía, with her maternal intuition, knew that something deeper was happening. That night she prayed for her son’s safety, asking God to protect him from the dangers she perceived, but she didn’t fully understand.

The cartel war would escalate in the following months, and Rodrigo would find himself increasingly deeply involved in a conflict that was not yet in sight. Despite the ongoing war with the Cali cartel and the pressures from the Colombian and U.S. governments, Pablo Escobar always found time for his family. His daughter Manuela was about to turn seven, and Pablo had decided to throw a spectacular party at Hacienda Nápoles.

Rodrigo was selected as part of the security team for the event. A honor that indicated the trust that Pablo had placed in him after the shooting incident. The preparation for the party began weeks in advance. Pablo spared no expense when it came to his children.

He hired the best animators in Medellín. He ordered the construction of a giant inflatable castle. He brought a small, complete circus with clowns, jugglers, and even a magician. There were tables laden with food: papaya, tamales, empanadas, tropical fruits, and, of course, a five-tiered cake decorated with Disney characters. On the day of the party, Hacienda Nápoles was transformed into an amusement park.

More than 200 guests arrived: family, close friends, children of company employees, and some children from poor neighborhoods whom Pablo had personally invited. It was important to him that his daughter grow up with social awareness, that she understand that there were less fortunate children.

Rodrigo observed everything from his position on the security perimeter. Seeing Pablo Escobar, the most wanted man in the world, playing with children, painting his face, laughing without a care in the world, was an image that contrasted violently with the reality of his criminal empire. At that moment, Pablo was simply a loving father celebrating his daughter’s birthday.

Mamuela, a beautiful little girl with dark hair and bright eyes, was clearly her father’s princess. Pablo carried her in his arms, fulfilled her every whim, and gazed at her with absolute adoration. María Victoria, his wife, was also present, supervising to ensure everything went perfectly.

She was an elegant and discreet woman who had chosen to remain by her husband’s side despite knowing the nature of his business. During the party, something happened that Rodrigo would never forget. One of the invited children, a little boy of approximately 5 years old from the popular neighborhood, timidly approached Pablo and said, “Mr. Pablo, my mom says that you are like Robin Hood, that you take from the rich to give to the poor.

“That’s true.” Pablo knelt down to the boy’s level and answered him with a smile. “Well, champ, I simply try to help people who need it, but don’t worry about those things now. Today is a day to have fun. Have you tried the cake yet?” The boy nodded excitedly and ran back to the other boys.

Pablo remained pensive for a moment, as if reflecting on his own legend. Then he continued with the celebrations. In the mid-afternoon, Pablo gathered all the children for the moment to open the gifts. Mauela received dozens of presents: imported dolls, bicycles, designer clothes, electronic toys, but the most special gift came at the end. Pablo had ordered a white pooy, a beautiful animal with a frond.

Mamuela shouted with excitement and hugged her father with all her might. “Thank you, Daddy. It’s the best gift in the world.” Pablo had tears in his eyes. “For my princess, only the best.” But then, in a gesture that surprised everyone, Mamuela approached the poor children who were at the party and told them, “Everyone can show my po whenever they want. It’s for sharing.”

Pablo smiled proudly. His daughter had learned the lesson of generosity. While the party continued, Rodrigo was briefly relieved to take a break. He sat under a tree observing the scene. He pondered the paradox of it all. There was Pablo Escobar, responsible for thousands of deaths, the addiction of millions, the corruption of entire institutions, but also a loving father, a devoted husband, a benefactor of the poor.

How could both realities coexist in the same person? Gustavo sat down next to him. “I know what you’re thinking,” the veteran said. “We all go through that when we’ve been working for the boss for a while. You see his human side and you wonder how he can be the same person who orders executions?” The truth is that the boss is complex, like all of us. The difference is that he operates on a much larger scale.

His acts of kindness are moral, but so are his acts of violence. Rodrigo nodded. Do you ever regret working for him? Gustavo reflected before answering. Regret is a luxury we can’t afford. We’re here for better or for worse. The only thing we can do is our job as best we can and try to keep our humanity intact.

It wasn’t easy, but it was what it was. The party continued until nightfall. When the guests began to leave, Paul personally said goodbye to each family, making sure that everyone had bags of food and small gifts. The poor children also received envelopes of money for their parents.

It was Pablo’s way of making sure that his generosity extended beyond the event. That night, while Rodrigo was returning to Medellín in one of the organization’s vehicles, he thought about Majuela and all the children who had enjoyed that magical party. He wondered what future awaited them. Growing up in a world where the line between good and evil was so blurred, where love and violence coexisted in the same space.

He had no answers, only more questions that would keep him awake another night. It was a rainy October afternoon when an important politician from Bogotá arrived discreetly at one of Pablo Escobar’s properties in Medellín. Rodrigo was on guard that day and witnessed a meeting that would reveal even more about how power really operated in Colombia.

The politician, whose name Rodrigo I didn’t know for sure, but which I recognized from having seen him on television, arrived in a vehicle without official plates, dressed in casual clothes so as not to attract attention. He was a man of about 50 years old with gray hair and a servile expression. Clearly he was not comfortable with that clandestine meeting.

Pablo received him in a private room. Rodrigo and other guards were instructed to maintain the perimeter, but not to get too close. However, voices occasionally rose high enough to hear fragments of the conversation. “Don Pablo, you know that I have always been your friend,” the politician pleaded. “I have voted in favor of your interests in Congress.”

I have blocked extradition initiatives. I have done everything he asked of me. Pablo’s response was calm, but firm. And I have financed his campaigns. I have mobilized votes in his favor. I have made him win elections he would otherwise have lost, but now I need him to do something more.

The pressure from the United States is increasing. I need you to introduce a bill that completely reforms the extradition treaty. I need guarantees that I will not be sent to a North American prison. The politician responded with a trembling voice. That is very difficult, Don Pablo. The United States government is under heavy pressure.

The president is under international scrutiny. If I present that bill, my political career will be over. There was a heavy silence. Then Pablo spoke, and although his tone remained calm, there was a hint of something. His political career exists because I allow it. I have documents, photographs, and recordings of all our transactions.

If those documents were to reach the prison, it wouldn’t just end his career, it would end in prison. So I suggest you find a way to do what I’m asking. The politician began to sob. Please, Don Pablo, have mercy. I have a family, children. If I expose myself, they too will suffer the consequences. Pablo’s voice softened slightly.

Precisely because he has a family, he must cooperate. I don’t want to destroy him, Congressman. You have been useful to me, and I hope you will continue to be so, but I need you to understand that this is not a negotiation, it is an instruction. Present the project, use all your influence to make it move forward. In return, you will continue to receive my financial and political support.

Your family will be protected and your future secured. But if you fail me, the consequences will be severe. After almost two hours, the politician left the meeting with a defeated expression, got into his vehicle, and drove off quickly. Pablo came out moments later, lit a cigarette, and called Gustavo. Rodrigo was nearby and overheard the conversation. “That man is weak,” Pablo said disdainfully.

“But it’s useful. Keep a discreet watch on him and his family. I want to know what he’s talking about, where he’s going, what he’s doing. If he shows any signs of wanting to betray me, I want to know immediately.” Gustavo agreed and withdrew to organize the watch. Pablo noticed Rodrigo’s presence and signaled for him to come closer. “Did you hear anything about the conversation?” Pablo asked directly.

Rodrigo hesitated for a moment, but decided to be honest. Some fragments, boss. Not obviously, Pablo agreed. It’s fine. In fact, it’s good that you understand how this country really works. That man who just left here is a respected congressman. He appears on television talking about ethics and justice, but in private he comes to kneel before me because he knows who has the real power.

Do you know why? Because power doesn’t live off titles or official positions. Power lives off money, information, and the will to use both without scruples. Rodrigo listened attentively. Pablo commented. The Colombian government is rotten from the inside out. Politicians, judges, police, military, they all have a price. Some are more expensive than others, but they all have a price.

I simply play the game better than anyone, and while they pretend to govern, I will truly govern from the shadows. It was the first time Pablo had spoken so openly with Rodrigo about his philosophy of power. But, boss, Rodrigo dared to ask, are you afraid that one day all this will collapse?

The states are not going to give up and there is more and more international pressure. Pablo smiled, but it was a smile without joy. Of course I know that. Nothing lasts forever. But while it lasts, I’m going to make sure my family is protected, that the people who have been loyal to me are taken care of, and that those who betrayed me pay the price. That’s my code, Rodrigo.

Loyalty for loyalty, betrayal for destruction. Then he abruptly changed the subject. How is your mother? The question took Rodrigo by surprise. Fine, boss. Thank you for asking. The money you gave her that day changed her life. She was able to get some medical treatments she needed. Pablo nodded, satisfied. I’m glad to hear that.

The men who work for me must have peace of mind. If they are worried about their families, they cannot concentrate on their work. That is why I take care of the families of my people. It is an intelligent investment, but it is also the right thing to do. That night Rodrigo reflected on what he had witnessed.

The meeting with the politician had shown him the true extent of Pablo Escobar’s power. He wasn’t just a drug trafficker; he was someone who had infiltrated the highest levels of the Colombian government. He had congressmen, judges, and police officers in his pocket. He was a state within a state.

Rodrigo was beginning to understand that he had entered a world far more complex and dangerous than he had initially imagined. He was no longer just a security guard; he was part of a machine that pulled the strings of power in Colombia. And although Pablo treated him well, although he paid him generously, Rodrigo knew he was trapped. There was no easy way out of that world.

Once inside Pablo Escobar’s organization, getting out alive was almost impossible. Almost two years had passed since that fateful night in the bar when Rodrigo spilled beer on Pablo Escobar. In that time, Rodrigo had risen through the ranks of the organization. He was doing well. His mother lived comfortably, and he had developed skills he never imagined he possessed.

But the price of all that was beginning to weigh more and more on his conscience. One early morning, Rodrigo received an emergency call. He had to report immediately to a warehouse on the outskirts of Medellín. When he arrived, he found a scene that deeply disturbed him. There were three men tied and gagged on the floor. Gustavo and other security personnel were present.

These three informants, Gustavo explained with a serious expression, have been passing information to the Cali cartel about our operations. Because of them, we lost a shipment valued at 5 million dollars and two of our men died in an ambush. The boss has ordered their execution. You will participate. Rodrigo felt the world stop.

Defending property in a shootout, acting in self-defense, was one thing. Executing defenseless men in cold blood, regardless of what they had done, was quite another. Gustavo, I don’t know if I can do this, Rodrigo said, his voice trembling. Gustavo glared at him. “It’s not a request, Rodrigo, it’s an order.”

The boss wants to know he can trust you completely. This is a test of loyalty. All of us here have been through this at some point. It’s part of belonging to the organization. Rodrigo watched the three men on the ground. One of them, the youngest, couldn’t have been more than 25. He had tears running down his face.

His eyes pleaded for mercy. Rodrigo thought of his own mother, of how she would feel if he were in that position. “There’s no other way,” he asked desperately. “Can’t we simply let them go with a warning?” Gustavo banged his head. “Treason only has one punishment in this world. If we let them go, others will think that betrayal can have consequences.”

This is necessary to maintain order. Now take the weapon and do what you have to do. They extended a pistol with a silencer. Rodrigo took it with trembling hands. He approached the first man, the youngest. Their eyes met. In that look Rodrigo saw absolute terror, but also resignation.

The man knew there was no escape. Rodrigo aimed the weapon, but his hand trembled so much he couldn’t hold it steady. Sweat ran down his forehead. His breathing was ragged. Seconds passed that seemed like hours. Finally, he lowered the weapon. “I can’t do it,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t kill a defenseless man.”

If that means I’m no longer useful to the organization, so be it, but I can’t cross this line. The silence in the cellar was absolute. The other men present looked at Rodrigo with expressions ranging from contempt to something that could be respect. Gustavo sighed deeply. “Wait here,” he ordered and left the cellar to make a phone call.

Rodrigo remained there still holding the weapon, knowing that he had probably just signed his own death warrant. If Pablo Escobar considered his refusal as betrayal or weakness, he wouldn’t see the sunrise. After 15 agonizing minutes, Gustavo returned. “The boss wants to see you now.” Rodrigo was taken to one of Pablo’s safe houses.

When he entered the office, he found Pablo sitting behind his desk, smoking thoughtfully. “Sit down,” Pablo ordered without looking at him. Rodrigo obeyed, bracing himself for the worst. Pablo finally looked up. “Gustavo, I heard what happened. Did you go and execute the traitors?” “Yes, boss, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do it. I know that probably means my fate, but I couldn’t cross that line.”

Pablo watched him for a long time. Then, to Rodrigo’s surprise, he nodded slowly. “Do you know what’s ironic? I respect your decision. There are many men I would kill without a second thought, without feeling anything. Those men are useful, but they are also dangerous because they have no boundaries. You have a moral line that you are not willing to cross, even knowing the consequences. That speaks of character.” Rodrigo couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

So, are you going to kill me? Pablo hit him on the head. No, but you can’t compete in your current position either. I can’t have someone on my security team who isn’t willing to do what’s necessary when the situation requires it. However, I have another job for you. You’re going to supervise the construction operations of the houses I’m building for poor families.

It’s legitimate work, well-paid, and doesn’t require you to compromise your moral principles. Do you accept? It was an exit Rodrigo had been waiting for. Yes, boss, I accept. And thank you for extending. Pablo stood up and walked toward the window. Rodrigo, I’ve done terrible things in my life. I’ve ordered deaths. I’ve caused suffering.

I do it because in this business weakness is punished with death. But I don’t enjoy violence. I see it as a necessary tool. Nothing more. The fact that you can’t use it doesn’t make you weak, it makes you different. And I need different people in my organization too, but not just assassins. Rodrigo left that meeting with a new job and a new perspective.

The three traitors were executed that night by other members of the organization, but Rodrigo did not have to participate. He had kept his humanity intact, although he knew that the price of working for Pablo Escobar, even in a legitimate capacity, was still his silent complicity with everything else that happened.

That night Rodrigo told his mother that he had changed jobs within the same company, that he would now be supervising construction. She was happy that her son was in something less dangerous. Rodrigo didn’t tell her how close he had been to death, or the moral dilemma he had faced.

Some secrets were better kept alone. As the years passed, the war against Pablo Escobar intensified to unimaginable levels. The Search Bloc, Los Pepes, the Cali Cartel, all united with the common goal of eliminating the most powerful drug trafficker in the world. Rodrigo, from his position in the construction department, watched as Pablo’s empire slowly crumbled.

The properties were confiscated, the associates murdered or captured, the drug trafficking routes dismantled. Pablo went from hiding place to hiding place, increasingly cornered. Rodrigo saw him on several occasions during that period. The man who had once been the king of Medellín now looked gaunt, paranoid, prematurely aged by stress. But even in those circumstances, Pablo continued to care for his people.

He made sure that the families of his employees were protected and financially secure. On December 2, 1923, Rodrigo was supervising the construction of some houses in the popular neighborhood when he received the news by radio.

Pablo Escobar had been killed in an operation in the Los Olivos neighborhood of Medellín. The man who had defied governments, who had built a criminal empire worth billions of dollars, who had been loved and hated in equal measure. He had died on the roof of a house, having escaped yet again. Rodrigo felt a mixture of emotions: sadness, relief, confusion. Pablo had been his savior and his hero.

He had been given a second chance when he deserved to die, but he had also trapped him in a world of violence and criminality, from which it was difficult to escape. With Pablo’s death, the organization quickly disintegrated. Rodrigo, fortunately, was not pursued by the authorities.

His participation had been relatively minor and his activities mostly legitimate. He was able to contribute to construction work independently, using the skills and contacts he had developed. The following years were a time of deep reflection for Rodrigo. Now, decades after that night in the bar, when he spilled beer on Pablo Escobar’s head, Rodrigo is a 60-year-old man.

His mother passed away some time ago, but he lived his last years comfortably thanks to the money he was able to provide her. Rodrigo never married, never had children. He leads a simple life, occasionally working on construction projects, living in the same working-class neighborhood where he grew up. He frequently visits Pablo Escobar’s grave in the Jardines Montesacro cemetery.

There, in front of the tombstone that bears the full name of the drug trafficker, Rodrigo reflects on those extraordinary years of his life. “Doño Pablo,” he whispers during those visits. “To this day I regret what I did that night, the act itself, the chain of events that it unleashed. You saved my life when you could have killed me.”

You gave me opportunities that I would have colored differently, but you also showed me a world of violence and contradictions that marked my soul forever. You were a complex man, generous and cruel, loving and ruthless, visionary and destructive. I have never been able to reconcile those contradictions, either in you or in myself for having been part of your world.

Rodrigo also visits the soccer field that Pablo built in the Popular neighborhood, the same one where he was present during its inauguration. Now it is deteriorated, it needs repairs, but it is still used by children from the neighborhood. He sits in the stands and watches the young people play, wondering what would have become of his life if that night he had made different decisions.

During the frequent sleepless nights, Rodrigo mentally replays all the key moments. The shootout where he killed a man, the day he went to execute the traitors, the conversations with Pablo, the contradictions of working for a criminal who was also a benefactor. He asks himself if he did the right thing, if he could have acted differently, if his life has any meaning beyond being a footnote in the story of the most famous drug trafficker in the world.

Occasionally, Rodrigo gives talks in neighborhood schools, warning young people about the dangers of getting involved in the criminal world. He tells them his story, omitting the most compromising details, but being honest about the consequences of bad decisions.

A moment of stupidity, he tells them, “can change the entire course of your life. I spilled beer on a man’s head without knowing who he was, and that action defined the following years of my existence. I was lucky to survive, but many don’t have that luck. Think before you act, especially when alcohol or arrogance clouds your judgment.” The young people listen to him attentively, fascinated by someone who was so close to Pablo Escobar.

Some see him as a hero for having survived, others as a warning of what not to do. Rodrigo doesn’t consider himself one thing or the other; he is simply a man who made a mistake. He received an improbable second chance and has spent the rest of his life trying to understand what it all means. In the afternoons, Rodrigo walks the streets of Medellín, a city that has changed dramatically since the days of Pablo Escobar.

Now it is known as the city of explosion, of the subway, of urban transformation. Tourists visit places related to Pablo, turning the tragedy into a tourist attraction. Rodrigo observes all this with conflicted feelings. On the one hand, he is glad that the city has overcome those dark years.

On the other hand, he is bothered by how Pablo’s figure is romanticized, how the thousands of victims of his violence are forgotten. One afternoon, a foreign tourist stops him in the street, asking his age and assuming he might have stories from that time. “Did you know Pablo Escobar?” the tourist asks with morbid curiosity. Rodrigo looks at him for a long time before answering.

Yes, I knew him, but it’s not the romantic story you probably expect to hear. Pablo Escobar was a man who caused immense suffering while simultaneously helping the poor. He was a living contradiction, and all of us who were close to him carry those contradictions to this day. The tourist, expecting exciting anecdotes, is disappointed by the philosophical answer and walks away. Rodrigo smiles sadly.

Nobody really wants to understand complexity. Everyone prefers simple paragraphs of heroes and villains. Now, in the twilight of his life, Rodrigo Mendoza, the bull, who was once a bullfighter, lives with the weight of his decisions and the consequences of that moment of stupidity a few decades ago.

To this day he regrets not only spilling beer on Pablo Escobar, but everything he saw afterward: the lives lost, the blurred moral lines, the silent complicity with a criminal empire. But he also recognizes that that experience transformed him from a violent man into someone who at least intends to do something positive with the time he has left.

His repentance is eternal, but it is also his motivation to warn others, to tell his story as a cautionary tale, to ensure that his monumental error at least serves as a lesson for future generations. And so Rodrigor continued living, burdened with his memories, his regrets and the strange gratitude towards the man who could have killed him, but chose to give him a second chance.

The same man, whose memory continues to divide opinions in Colombia and the world. Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria.