It was a hot Friday night in Medellín, 1982. Pablo Escobar had decided to break from his usual routine and visit a discreet bar in the Laureles neighborhood, far from the places where he normally met with his associates. He was dressed casually, in dark jeans and a white linen shirt, trying to blend into the crowd.

His bodyguards kept a discreet distance, mingling with the bar’s patrons. La Estrella Dorada was known for its relaxed atmosphere and diverse clientele, ranging from university students to workers looking to unwind after the work week. Pablo sat at a corner table, ordered a double whiskey, and lit a Marlboro cigarette, observing the scene with that penetrating gaze characteristic of the most powerful man in Colombian drug trafficking. Salsa music blared as couples 

They danced on the small, makeshift dance floor. At the bar, a burly man of about 30 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 “pocamata” thug, someone who took care of minor problems for local merchants in exchange for money.

He was almost 6’6″, weighed over 220 pounds, and had a reputation as a violent man who enjoyed intimidating others. That night, alcohol had completely clouded his judgment. His friends were egging him on to prove his bravery, daring him to harass some customer at the bar. Rodrigo, with the typical arrogance of someone who believes the world belongs to him, began pacing between the tables, looking for a victim for his next display of power.

His eyes fell on Pablo, who stood calmly in his corner, seemingly alone and vulnerable. To Rodrigo, this man of average height and ordinary appearance seemed like 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 in that instant that would forever change Rodrigo Mendoza’s life. Pablo remained motionless for several seconds that seemed like an eternity. Slowly, he wiped the beer from his face with a napkin, his eyes fixed on the thug 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 rising from their seats, the palpable tension in the air. Everything indicated that Rodrigo had just made a monumental mistake. One of Rodrigo’s friends, more sober than him, finally recognized Pablo Escobar.

His face paled instantly, and he desperately whispered the name everyone in Medellín knew and feared. Rodrigo, still dazed from the alcohol, took a few seconds to process the information before he finally grasped 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, brushing the last drops of beer off his shirt. His expression was inscrutable, a mask of calm concealing the inner turmoil. Bodyguards already surrounded the scene, awaiting orders. The bar owner, an older man named Don Julio, rushed out of the kitchen upon hearing what had happened, silently praying that his establishment wouldn’t become the scene of a massacre.

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

The silence in the bar was absolute, broken only by the sound of Rodrigo’s ragged breathing. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Pablo smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile, but an expression laden with meaning. None of it comforting. He placed his hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder with a pressure that, while not violent, conveyed a clear message of dominance.

In a low voice, barely audible to those nearby, Pablo uttered the words that would seal Rodrigo’s fate. “I’ll be waiting for you at Hacienda Nápoles tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. Don’t be late. If you don’t show up, I’ll find you anyway. And believe me, you’ll be glad you came of your own accord.”

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

He could flee, try to disappear into some remote Colombian village, or cross the border into Venezuela or Ecuador, but he knew Pablo Escobar’s reach was virtually limitless. His tentacles extended throughout the country and beyond. Fleeing would only delay the inevitable and likely worsen his situation. The other option was to turn himself in at Hacienda Nápoles as ordered, face the consequences of his stupidity, and beg for mercy.

His mother, a humble woman who worked as a seamstress, noticed his distress in the early hours of the morning. Rodrigo didn’t tell her the details, only that he had to solve an important problem. With her unerring maternal intuition, she sensed that her son was in grave danger. She made him coffee and arepas for breakfast, while silent tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.

At 6:00 a.m., Rodrigo showered, dressed in his best clothes—gray trousers and a white shirt his mother had carefully ironed—and left home, unsure if he would ever see her again. He took a bus to Puerto Triunfo, the nearest town to Pablo Escobar’s infamous ranch. The trip from Medellín took approximately four hours.

Throughout the journey, Rodrigo watched the Colombian landscape unfold before his eyes. Green mountains, small towns, farmers working the land. He wondered if this would be the last time he would see it all. Families, merchants, and students were also on the bus, all oblivious to the personal tragedy Rodrigo was experiencing.

An elderly woman sitting next to him tried to start a conversation, but he barely responded with monosyllables, lost in his thoughts. He remembered his childhood when his father, also a violent man, had taught him that in life one had to impose oneself by force. Now he understood that this philosophy had led him straight to disaster.

Upon arriving in Puerto Triunfo, Rodrigo asked for directions to the Hacienda Nápoles. The locals looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and pity. They all knew who owned the property and what kind of business was conducted there. A taxi driver offered to take him to the main entrance.

During the short ride, the driver, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache, warned him, “Kid, I don’t know what you’re up to, but be careful. Some people go into that ranch and never come out.” Rodrigo nodded silently, paid the fare, and got out of the vehicle. Before him rose the imposing entrance to Hacienda Nápoles with its famous Piper PA18 airplane mounted on the entrance arch, the same plane Pablo had used for his first cocaine shipments.

Two guards armed with AK-47 rifles stood watch at the entrance. Rodrigo approached, his hands visible, trying to avoid any sudden movements. “I’m here because Don Pablo summoned me,” he said, his voice trembling. One of the guards spoke into his radio, confirming the information. After a few minutes that felt like hours, they signaled for him to enter.

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

Pablo Escobar had transformed that 3,000-hectare property into his personal refuge, a place where he could be the absolute ruler of his own kingdom. The jeep stopped in front of a colonial-style main house, surrounded by meticulously manicured gardens.

Rodrigo was led to a waiting room where other men, all with tense expressions, were also waiting to be seen. Some were business partners, others employees, and probably some, like him, were there to answer for some mistake. The hands of the clock moved 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 sharp, a tall, thin man in a dark suit appeared in the doorway and called his name. Rodrigo stood up, feeling as if his legs were barely supporting him.

It was time to face the consequences of his reckless act the night before. Rodrigo was led down a long hallway decorated with family photographs of Pablo Escobar. They showed the drug lord in everyday moments: playing soccer with his sons, embracing his wife, María Victoria, and posing with his exotic animals.

Those images showed a different side of the man the world knew as the most wanted criminal. They finally arrived at a spacious office with large windows offering a panoramic view of the estate. Behind a solid mahogany desk sat Pablo Escobar, dressed casually in 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 sweat trickle down his back despite the air conditioning that kept the room cool. 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 “El Toro,” began Pablo by demonstrating that he had already investigated him. The 32-year-old, born in a working-class neighborhood of Medellín, is the son of Ramón Mendoza, who died in a bar fight 10 years ago, and Lucía Mendoza, a seamstress. He has a criminal record for assault, disturbing the peace, and petty extortion.

You work as a debt collector for some merchants in the area, 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 say.

Pablo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Last night, in a moment of monumental stupidity, you spilled beer on my head in a public bar. Do you have any idea what the consequences of that act would normally be?” Rodrigo swallowed hard. “Yes, sir, I’m so sorry. I was drunk and didn’t realize 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 happened to 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 grip 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. I will work for you without pay.

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

“Get up,” he ordered. Rodrigo obeyed awkwardly, struggling to his feet. Pablo also got up and walked to the window, his back to him. “I’m going to tell you something very few people know. When I was young, around your age, I also made stupid mistakes. Once, I unintentionally insulted 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 chance, but with very clear conditions. From today on, 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, nothing related to the main business. You’ll be one of the many men who protect my property and my legitimate interests. But listen carefully. If you ever betray me, if you talk too much, if you make another lapse in 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, understood. 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 nodded. 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 can’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 lease on life.

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

His immediate supervisor 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 his first day, Gustavo explained the basic rules. “There are three fundamental principles: loyalty, discretion, and efficiency. If you adhere to these three, you’ll have a peaceful and well-paid life.”

If you fail at any of them, the consequences are final. There are no half measures. Rodrigo took those words very seriously. He had stopped drinking completely, just as Pablo had ordered. 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 who her son worked for.

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

For the first time in his life, Rodrigo was able to 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 check that everything was running smoothly. Rodrigo noticed that Pablo was meticulous about details. He inquired about the well-being of his employees. He remembered names and personal circumstances. He was a leader who inspired loyalty, not only through fear, but also through respect.

One afternoon, Pablo arrived at the building with his children, Juan Pablo and Manuela, to pick up some documents. The children played in the lobby while their father attended to his business. Rodrigo watched Pablo interact with them. He was affectionate, patient, a devoted father. This 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 a disagreement. Instead of resolving the issue with violence, Pablo sat them both down, listened to their sides of the story, and offered a fair solution that satisfied both parties.

Violence is the last resort, not the first, Pablo told the employees. We’re an organization, not 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 building homes for the poor.

The infamous Pablo Escobar neighborhood in Medellín, where he had built hundreds of homes for homeless families, exemplified how Pablo cultivated his image as a social benefactor. For many poor Colombians, Pablo wasn’t a criminal, but a hero who had given them what the government never had: a decent roof over their heads. However, Rodrigo wasn’t naive. He knew perfectly well that behind that facade of philanthropy lay 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 the reality. Rumors circulated constantly. Shipments intercepted, rivals eliminated, politicians assassinated, judges threatened. Pablo’s empire was built as much on acts of generosity as on 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 he could be. He arrived on time, never missed a day. He was courteous to everyone. He kept his work area spotless. Slowly, he earned the trust of his superiors.

After six months, he was promoted to shift supervisor, which meant a pay raise and more responsibilities. His mother was proud, although she still didn’t know the full details of his job. To 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 giving him a second chance when he deserved to die.

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

One night, while on his rounds, Rodrigo stopped in front of a mirror in the building’s lobby. He studied his reflection. He was no longer the drunken, arrogant thug he had once been. He wore a clean uniform. He was sober. He had a purpose. But at what cost? He had simply traded one life of crime for another.

These questions tormented him during sleepless nights, but during the day he buried them deep and carried on 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 oversee the construction of a soccer field he had promised the community months earlier. For the residents of the neighborhood, this was a monumental 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 be working so closely with the boss at a public event. Gustavo gave him precise instructions. “Your job is to observe the crowd, identify potential threats, and maintain a secure but discreet perimeter. Pablo wants to interact with people. He doesn’t want us to look like an occupying army.”

But keep your eyes wide open. There are many who would like to see the boss dead. When Pablo arrived in the neighborhood in a caravan of beat-up cars, 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. Children shouted his name. Elderly people wept with emotion.

It was a surreal scene that Rodrigo watched in amazement. Pablo got out of the car dressed in jeans, a white t-shirt, and sneakers—his usual attire for these occasions. He smiled broadly, greeted everyone, posed for photos, and listened to requests. He had brought bags full of money, which he distributed among the neediest families.

Fifty-thousand Colombian peso bills, which for those people represented the difference between eating and going hungry for weeks. Construction of the field 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 and bought top-quality materials. The court would have nighttime lighting, spectator stands, and fully equipped locker 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 hardships, the needs, the dreams. The government has abandoned us, but we will not abandon each other.”

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

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

It was a generosity built on a foundation of blood. During the ceremony, an elderly woman 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 replied with genuine humility, “I’m no saint, ma’am. I’m just a man trying to help however I can.” After the official ceremony, Pablo stayed several more hours in the neighborhood. He visited homes, spent time with families, and played soccer with the children on a vacant lot.

Rodrigo watched everything, fascinated by Pablo’s ability to connect with ordinary people. There was no arrogance in his demeanor, no 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 nodded. It’s a good neighborhood, hardworking and honest 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 nervousness.

An hour later, Pablo, accompanied by Rodrigo and two bodyguards, knocked on the door of Lucía Mendoza’s humble apartment. The woman nearly fainted when she saw who was at her door. Pablo entered casually, complimenting the cleanliness and order of the home. He accepted a cup of coffee 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 placed 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 two million pesos, more money than she had ever seen in her entire life. She hugged her son, weeping, unsure if those tears were of happiness or of fear about the world Rodrigo had become involved in.

That night, Rodrigo reflected on what he had witnessed. Pablo Escobar was a living enigma, capable of ordering brutal murders and at the same time making a poor old woman cry tears of joy. He was loved and feared in equal measure. And Rodrigo, who had started out 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 Londoño, intensified. What had begun as a commercial rivalry had become a bloody conflict that claimed lives weekly. Rodrigo, from his position within the organization, began to feel the repercussions of that war.

Security measures had tripled. There were now constant checkpoints, frequent changes of location, and coded communications. The tension was palpable. Gustavo explained the situation during a security meeting. “The Cali cartel is trying to eliminate our key operatives. They’ve already killed several of our associates in Bogotá and along the coast.”

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

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

The minutes ticked by agonizingly. Then Rodrigo noticed a suspicious vehicle parked across the street. It was a gray Renault 9 with two occupants watching the building. It wasn’t a car from the neighborhood. Rodrigo immediately reported it over the radio. Suspicious vehicle facing north.

Two male occupants. Unidentified license plates. Gustavo’s response was immediate. Don’t confront them. Maintain defensive positions. Reinforcements in 2 minutes. But then something unexpected happened. The two men got out of the vehicle carrying long guns, AK-47 rifles.

They began walking toward the building with clearly hostile intentions. Rodrigo realized they didn’t have two minutes. He had to act now. “Everyone to the deck!” he shouted to his crewmates. Just then, the attackers opened fire on the building’s facade. The deafening sound of automatic gunfire filled the night.

The lobby windows shattered into a thousand pieces. Rodrigo and his comrades returned fire from protected positions behind columns and furniture. It was Rodrigo’s first time participating in a real firefight. The training he had received kicked in automatically. He breathed in a controlled manner, aimed precisely, and fired sparingly to conserve ammunition.

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

Outnumbered and outgunned, the attackers tried to flee, but were overtaken. One died at the scene; the other was captured, wounded. When silence finally returned, Rodrigo checked his body for injuries. Miraculously, neither he nor his companions had been hit, 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 hear 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 the Medellín Cartel had carried out in Cali.

It was an endless cycle of violence and revenge. 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. “I was told 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 mix of emotions. He had killed a man that night, or at least had participated in his death, even though it was in self-defense and while doing his job; 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 the man was who had tried to kill him. Did he have a family, children? Or was he just another unscrupulous criminal? The line between good and evil, which had once seemed clear to him, was now blurred and confusing. His mother noticed his troubled state. “What’s wrong, son? You seem worried.”

Rodrigo couldn’t tell her the truth. “Nothing, Mom, just tired from work.” But Lucía, with her mother’s intuition, knew something deeper was going on. That night she prayed for her son’s safety, asking God to protect him from the dangers she sensed but didn’t fully understand.

The cartel war would continue to escalate in the following months, and Rodrigo would find himself increasingly deeply involved in a conflict that seemed to have no end in sight. Despite the constant war with the Cali Cartel and the pressure 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 her a spectacular party at Hacienda Nápoles.

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

He hired the best entertainers in Medellín. He ordered the construction of a giant inflatable castle. He brought in a small circus complete with clowns, jugglers, and even a magician. There were tables overflowing with food: lechona (roasted suckling pig), 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 trusted employees, and some children from poor neighborhoods whom Pablo had personally invited. It was important to him that his daughter grow up with a social conscience, that she understand that there were less fortunate children.

Rodrigo watched 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.

Manuela, 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, making sure 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 dealings. During the party, something happened that Rodrigo would never forget. One of the children invited, a little boy of about 5 years old from the working-class neighborhood, timidly approached Pablo and said, “Mr. Pablo, my mom says you’re like Robin Hood, taking from the rich to give to the poor.

“That’s true.” Pablo knelt down to be at the boy’s eye level and replied with a smile. “Well, champ, I’m just trying to help people in need, but don’t worry about those things now. Today is a day for fun. Have you tried the cake yet?” The boy nodded excitedly and ran back to the other children.

Pablo remained thoughtful 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 opening of presents. Manuela received dozens of gifts: imported dolls, bicycles, designer clothes, electronic toys, but the most special gift came last. Pablo had ordered a white pony, a beautiful animal with a flowing mane.

Manuela screamed with excitement and hugged her father tightly. “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, Manuela approached the poor children at the party and said, “Everyone can ride my pony whenever they want. It’s for sharing.”

Pablo smiled proudly. His daughter had learned the lesson of generosity. As the party continued, Rodrigo was briefly relieved to take a break. He sat under a tree observing the scene, pondering the paradox of it all. There was Pablo Escobar, responsible for thousands of deaths, the addiction of millions, the corruption of entire institutions, yet 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, the boss is complex, like all of us. The difference is that he operates on a much larger scale.

His acts of kindness are monumental, but so are his acts of violence. Rodrigo nodded. “Do you ever regret working for him?” Gustavo pondered before answering. “Regret is a luxury we can’t afford. We’re here for better or for worse. All 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. As the guests began to leave, Paul personally said goodbye to each family, making sure everyone had bags of food and small gifts. The poor children also received envelopes with money for their parents.

It was Pablo’s way of ensuring his generosity extended beyond the event. That night, as Rodrigo returned to Medellín in one of the organization’s vehicles, he thought about Manuela 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 a prominent politician from Bogotá discreetly arrived at one of Pablo Escobar’s properties in Medellín. Rodrigo was on guard that day and witnessed an encounter that would reveal even more about how power truly operated in Colombia.

The politician, whose name Rodrigo never knew for sure but whom he recognized from television, arrived in a vehicle without license plates, dressed casually to avoid drawing attention. He was a man in his fifties with gray hair and a nervous expression. He was clearly uncomfortable with the 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 snippets of the conversation. “Don Pablo, you know I’ve always been your friend,” the politician said in a pleading tone. “I voted in your favor in Congress.”

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

The pressure from the Americans is increasing. I need you to introduce a bill that completely reforms the extradition treaty. I need guarantees that I will never be sent to an American prison. The politician replied, his voice trembling. That’s very difficult, Don Pablo. The United States government is applying intense pressure.

The president is under international scrutiny. If I introduce that bill, my political career will be over. There was a tense 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, recordings of all our transactions.

If those documents were to reach the press, not only would his career be over, he’d end up 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 you expose me, they’ll suffer the consequences too. Pablo’s voice softened slightly.

It is precisely because he has a family that 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, but I need you to understand that this is not a negotiation; it is an instruction. Submit the bill, use all your influence to move it forward. In return, you will continue to receive my financial and political support.

Your family will be protected and your future secure. 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. Place discreet surveillance on him and his family. I want to know who he’s talking to, where he’s going, what he’s doing. If he shows any signs of wanting to betray me, I want to know immediately.” Gustavo nodded and withdrew to organize the surveillance. Pablo noticed Rodrigo’s presence and gestured 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. “A few bits and pieces, boss.” Unintentionally, Pablo nodded. “Okay. 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 holds the real power.”

Do you know why? Because power doesn’t come from titles or official positions. Power comes from money, information, and the unscrupulous willingness to use both. Rodrigo listened attentively. Pablo continued. The Colombian government is rotten from within. Politicians, judges, police officers, military personnel—they all have a price. Some are more expensive than others, but they all sell out.

I simply play the game better than anyone, and while they pretend to govern, I will truly rule from the shadows. It was the first time Pablo had spoken so openly with Rodrigo about his philosophy of power. But, boss, Rodrigo ventured to ask, aren’t you afraid that one day all this will collapse?

The Americans aren’t going to give up, and international pressure is mounting. Pablo smiled, but it was a joyless smile. Of course I know that. Nothing lasts forever. But while I do, 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 betray me pay the price. That’s my code, Rodrigo.

Loyalty for loyalty, betrayal for destruction. Then he abruptly changed the subject. “How’s 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 need peace of mind. If they’re worried about their families, they can’t concentrate on their work. That’s why I take care of my people’s families. It’s a smart investment, but it’s 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 had infiltrated the highest levels of the Colombian government. He had congressmen, judges, and police officers on his payroll. 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 nearly 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. He earned a good salary. 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 heavily 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 bound and gagged on the floor. Gustavo and other security personnel were present.

“These three are informants,” Gustavo explained gravely. “They’ve been passing information to the Cali cartel about our operations. Because of them, we lost a shipment worth $5 million, and two of our men were killed in an ambush. The boss has ordered their execution. You’ll be involved.” Rodrigo felt like the world had stopped.

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. Everyone here has been through this at some point. It’s part of belonging to the organization. Rodrigo looked at the three men on the ground. One of them, the youngest, couldn’t have been more than 25. Tears were streaming down his face.

His eyes pleaded for mercy. Rodrigo thought of his own mother, how she would feel if he were in that position. “Isn’t there any other way?” he asked desperately. “Can’t you just let them go with a warning?” Gustavo shook his head. “Treason only has one punishment in this world. If we let them go, others will think they can betray us with impunity.”

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

The man knew there was no escape. Rodrigo aimed the gun, but his hand trembled so much he couldn’t hold it steady. Sweat trickled down his forehead. His breathing was ragged. Seconds passed that felt 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 warehouse was absolute. The other men present looked at Rodrigo with expressions ranging from contempt to something that might have been respect. Gustavo sighed deeply. “Wait here,” he ordered and left the warehouse to make a phone call.

Rodrigo stood there, still holding the gun, knowing he had likely just signed his own death warrant. If Pablo Escobar considered his refusal a betrayal or a sign of weakness, he wouldn’t see the dawn. 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 told me what happened. Did you refuse to execute the traitors?” “Yes, boss, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do it. I know it probably means the end for me, but I couldn’t cross that line.”

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

So, you’re not going to kill me? Pablo shook his head. No, but you can’t continue 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 demands it. However, I have another job for you. You’re going to oversee the construction operations of the housing 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 never expected. Yes, boss, I accept. And thank you for understanding. Pablo stood up and walked to 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, not just killers. 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 didn’t 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 was happening.

That night Rodrigo told his mother he had changed jobs within the same company, and that he would now be supervising construction projects. She was happy that her son was doing something less dangerous. Rodrigo didn’t tell her how close he had come to death, nor the moral dilemma he had faced.

Some secrets were better kept alone. Years passed, and 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.

Properties were confiscated, associates were killed or captured, and drug trafficking routes were dismantled. Pablo went from hideout to hideout, increasingly cornered. Rodrigo saw him a few times 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 his employees’ families were protected and financially secure. On December 2, 1923, Rodrigo was overseeing the construction of some houses in the working-class neighborhood when he received the news over the 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 a rooftop trying to escape once again. Rodrigo felt a mix of emotions: sadness, relief, confusion. Pablo had been both his savior and his downfall.

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

His involvement had been relatively minor and mostly in legitimate activities. He was able to continue working in construction 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 poured beer over Pablo Escobar’s head, Rodrigo is a 60-year-old man.

His mother passed away some time ago, but she lived her final years comfortably thanks to the money he was able to provide for her. Rodrigo never married and never had children. He leads a simple life, working occasionally on construction projects, and lives 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 bearing the drug trafficker’s full name, Rodrigo reflects on those extraordinary years of his life. “Don Pablo,” he whispers during those visits. “To this day I regret what I did that night, not the act itself, but the chain of events it unleashed. You saved my life when you could have killed me.”

You gave me opportunities I would never have had otherwise, but you also showed me a world of violence and contradictions that scarred 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, neither in you nor 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 at its inauguration. Now it’s dilapidated and needs repairs, but it’s still used by neighborhood children. He sits in the stands and watches the youngsters play, wondering what his life would have been like if he had made different choices that night.

During his frequent sleepless nights, Rodrigo mentally replays all the key moments: the shootout where he killed a man, the day he refused 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 world’s most famous drug trafficker.

Occasionally, Rodrigo gives talks at 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 aren’t so fortunate. Think before you act, especially when alcohol or arrogance clouds your judgment.” The young people listen attentively, fascinated by someone who was so close to Pablo Escobar.

Some see him as a hero for having survived, others as a cautionary tale of what not to do. Rodrigo sees himself as neither; he is simply a man who made a mistake. He received an unlikely 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’s known as the city of innovation, the subway, and urban transformation. Tourists visit places connected to Pablo, turning the tragedy into a tourist attraction. Rodrigo observes all this with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he’s glad the city has overcome those dark years.

On the other hand, he’s 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, noticing 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’re probably expecting 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 the complexity. Everyone prefers simple narratives of heroes and villains. Now, in the twilight of his life, Rodrigo Mendoza, “El Toro,” once an arrogant thug, lives with the weight of his decisions and the consequences of that moment of stupidity decades ago in a bar.

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

His regret is eternal, but it’s also his motivation to warn others, to tell his story as a cautionary tale, to ensure that his monumental mistake at least serves as a lesson for future generations. And so Rodrigo continues to live, carrying his memories, his regrets, and a strange gratitude toward 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.