Pablo’s bodyguards kept a careful distance, blending in with the bar’s patrons. La Estrella Dorada was famous for its laid-back vibe and eclectic crowd, ranging from university students to workers unwinding after a long week. Pablo sat at a corner table, ordered a double whiskey, lit a Marlboro, and observed the scene with that piercing gaze that marked the most powerful man in Colombian drug trafficking. Salsa music thumped as couples

danced on the small, makeshift dance floor. At the bar, a burly man of about thirty named Rodrigo “El Toro” Mendoza downed 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 handled minor problems for local merchants in exchange for cash.

Standing nearly 6’6″ and weighing over 220 pounds, he had a reputation for violence and intimidation. That night, alcohol had clouded his judgment completely. His friends egged him on, daring him to harass a random customer to prove his courage. Rodrigo, arrogant and self-assured as someone who believed the world belonged to him, began pacing between tables, searching for the perfect target for his next display of power.

His gaze landed on Pablo, who stood calmly at his corner, seemingly alone and vulnerable. To Rodrigo, this man of average height and ordinary appearance seemed ideal. He approached unsteadily, clutching a bottle of Club Colombia beer in his right hand.

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

Everyone held their breath. The musicians froze mid-note. Time seemed to stop in that instant, forever altering Rodrigo Mendoza’s life. Pablo remained motionless for several seconds that felt like an eternity. Slowly, he wiped the beer from his face with a napkin, his eyes locked on the thug who was just beginning to realize something was wrong.

The expressions on the other patrons’ faces, the sudden movement of men rising from their seats, the palpable tension in the air — all signaled that Rodrigo had just made a monumental mistake. One of his friends, soberer than the rest, recognized Pablo Escobar immediately.

Rodrigo’s face drained of color as he whispered the name everyone in Medellín feared. Dazed from the alcohol, it took him a few moments to grasp the gravity of what he had done. His legs began to tremble. He had spilled beer on the head of the most dangerous man in Colombia, perhaps all of Latin America.

Pablo rose slowly, brushing the last drops of beer from his shirt. His face betrayed nothing, a mask of calm concealing the turmoil within. Bodyguards already surrounded the scene, awaiting orders. Don Julio, the older bar owner, rushed out of the kitchen upon hearing the commotion, silently praying his establishment wouldn’t become a massacre zone.

Rodrigo tried to stammer an apology, but the words stuck in his throat. Fear had replaced all arrogance. His friends had vanished, abandoning him to his fate. Pablo stepped forward, closing the distance.

The bar fell silent, broken only by Rodrigo’s ragged breathing. Then, unexpectedly, Pablo smiled. It wasn’t friendly — the expression carried weight, meaning, and warning. He placed a hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder with a pressure that, while not violent, conveyed absolute dominance.

In a low, barely audible voice, Pablo spoke 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 and walked toward the exit, his men following, leaving the bar in collective shock — and Rodrigo Mendoza, suddenly aware 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 a working-class neighborhood, contemplating his options. He could flee, hide in a remote Colombian village, or cross the border into Venezuela or Ecuador, but he knew Pablo Escobar’s reach was virtually limitless. Fleeing would only postpone the inevitable and likely worsen his situation. His only other option was to appear at Hacienda Nápoles as instructed, face the consequences of his stupidity, and beg for mercy.

His mother, a humble seamstress, noticed his distress in the early morning hours. Rodrigo didn’t share the details, only that he had to resolve an urgent problem. Her maternal intuition sensed the danger. She prepared him coffee and arepas for breakfast, tears silently streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.

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

Along the way, Rodrigo watched the Colombian landscape unfold: green mountains, small towns, and farmers working the land. He wondered if this would be the last time he would see it all. Families, merchants, and students traveled on the bus, oblivious to the personal tragedy Rodrigo endured.

An elderly woman sitting next to him tried to start a conversation, but he responded with only monosyllables, lost in thought. He recalled his childhood, when his violent father taught him that life required imposing oneself by force — a philosophy that had now led him straight into disaster.

Upon arriving in Puerto Triunfo, Rodrigo asked for directions to Hacienda Nápoles. The locals regarded him with curiosity and pity; everyone knew who owned the property and the kind of business conducted there. A taxi driver offered to take him to the main entrance.

During the short ride, the middle-aged driver 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 stepped out. Before him stood the imposing entrance to Hacienda Nápoles, marked by the Piper PA18 airplane mounted atop the gate — the same plane Pablo had used for his first cocaine shipments.

Two guards armed with AK-47s stood watch. Rodrigo approached with hands visible, avoiding sudden movements. “I’m here because Don Pablo summoned me,” he said, voice trembling. One guard radioed confirmation. After a few minutes that felt like hours, they signaled him to enter.

A jeep awaited to take him inside. As they drove along the hacienda’s roads, Rodrigo observed the scale of Escobar’s empire: luxurious buildings, artificial lakes, and, to his astonishment, exotic animals — elephants, giraffes, hippos, zebras — like an African safari in the heart of Colombia.

Pablo Escobar had transformed the 3,000-hectare property into his personal kingdom, a place where he ruled absolutely. The jeep stopped in front of the colonial-style main house, surrounded by meticulously manicured gardens.

Rodrigo was led to a waiting room where other tense men sat, likely business partners, employees, or others there to answer for mistakes. Time moved agonizingly slow. Rodrigo studied every detail: paintings, fine wood furniture, polished marble floors — a clear display of power and wealth.

At 10:00 sharp, a tall, thin man in a dark suit appeared and called his name. Rodrigo rose, legs barely supporting him. It was time to face the consequences of his reckless act the night before.

He was led down a long hallway adorned with family photographs of Pablo Escobar — playing soccer with his sons, embracing his wife María Victoria, posing with exotic animals — a side of the man the world rarely saw.

Finally, they arrived at a spacious office with large windows overlooking the estate. Behind a mahogany desk sat Pablo Escobar, dressed casually in jeans and a white T-shirt. He smoked a cigarette while reviewing documents. Two trusted men stood beside him, expressionless. The guide exited, closing the door. Pablo observed Rodrigo for several seconds in silence, then gestured toward a chair.

“Sit down,” he commanded in a calm but firm voice. Rodrigo obeyed, sweat trickling down his back despite the cool air-conditioning. Pablo stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray, leaned back, and clasped his hands over his abdomen.

Rodrigo Mendoza, “El Toro,” began by acknowledging that he had already researched Pablo. Born in a working-class Medellín neighborhood, the 32-year-old was the son of Ramón Mendoza, who died in a bar fight ten years earlier, and Lucía Mendoza, a seamstress. He had a criminal record for assault, disturbing the peace, and petty extortion.

“You work as a debt collector for local merchants, using physical intimidation as your main tool. Is that correct?” Rodrigo nodded weakly, impressed by how much Pablo had discovered in under twelve hours. “Yes, sir,” he managed.

Pablo leaned forward, 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 usual consequences of that act would 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 faintly, though it wasn’t a friendly smile. “The biggest mistake of your life so far. Let me tell you something, Rodrigo. I could make you vanish 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 power, and under the rules of the world we live in, it would be justified. Panic overtook Rodrigo. He began to tremble visibly. “Please, Don Pablo, I beg you for mercy. My mother has no one else. I will do anything, whatever you ask. I’ll work for you without pay. I’ll be your slave if needed, but please, don’t kill me.” Tears streamed down Rodrigo’s cheeks. His entire tough-guy mask had shattered. Pablo watched the display of vulnerability with an unreadable expression. After a silence that felt endless, he spoke again.

“Stand up,” he commanded. Rodrigo rose awkwardly, struggling. Pablo stood as well and walked to the window, his back to him. “I’m going to tell you something few people know. When I was young, around your age, I also made foolish mistakes. Once, I accidentally insulted a powerful man in Medellín, someone who could have eliminated me easily. But that man, instead of killing me, gave me a chance.”

He told me that everyone deserves a second chance to prove themselves. Pablo turned to look at Rodrigo. “I’m giving you that same chance, but with strict conditions. From now on, you’ll work for me—not as a slave, but as an employee. You’ll earn a fair wage.”

“Your job will be basic security work, nothing connected to the main business. You’ll be one of the many men who protect my property and legitimate interests. But listen carefully: if you betray me, if you talk too much, if you make a lapse in judgment like last night, there will be no second chance. Understand?” Rodrigo could hardly believe what he was hearing.

“I was expecting a death sentence, and instead, I’m being offered a job. Yes, sir, understood. I swear on my mother’s life that I won’t let you down. I’ll be your most loyal employee ever.” Pablo nodded. “I hope so. Now, one of my men will explain your duties and show you around. You start tomorrow. And Rodrigo, one more thing. Stop drinking. A man who cannot control his vices is weak, and I don’t employ weak men.”

Rodrigo was escorted out of the office. Still processing the events, he had entered Hacienda Nápoles expecting death and was leaving with a job and a second chance at life. But he also knew he had stepped into a world that would be nearly impossible to escape.

Rodrigo’s first months working for Pablo Escobar revealed the inner workings of the empire of the world’s most notorious drug trafficker. He was assigned to a security team guarding one of Pablo’s urban properties in Medellín, an upscale apartment building in El Poblado.

His immediate supervisor was Gustavo, a veteran of the organization with over ten years of experience. Gustavo was a serious, taciturn man, but fair with his subordinates. On Rodrigo’s first day, Gustavo explained the basic rules. “Three fundamental principles: loyalty, discretion, and efficiency. Follow them, and you’ll have a peaceful, well-paid life. Fail, and the consequences are final. No half measures.”

Rodrigo took the words to heart. He stopped drinking entirely, as Pablo had ordered. Every morning he woke early, had breakfast with his mother—who was pleased to see him responsible and stable, though unaware of his employer’s identity. Rodrigo told her simply that he worked in private security for an important businessman.

His routine included eight-hour shifts watching the building, controlling visitor access, patrolling, and reporting suspicious activity. The pay was far better than his earnings as a neighborhood thug. For the first time, Rodrigo could support his mother, pay bills on time, and even save money. But more importantly, he was learning discipline and responsibility.

During these months, Rodrigo observed Pablo in his daily life. The trafficker occasionally visited the building for meetings or to check operations. Rodrigo noticed Pablo’s attention to detail, his concern for employees’ wellbeing, remembering names and circumstances. He inspired loyalty not only through fear but through respect.

One afternoon, Pablo arrived with his children, Juan Pablo and Manuela, to collect documents. The children played in the lobby while Pablo conducted business. Rodrigo saw him interact with them—affectionate, patient, a devoted father. This image contrasted sharply with Pablo’s ruthless reputation.

Rodrigo found the duality fascinating yet unsettling. On another occasion, he witnessed Pablo handling a conflict between employees. Rather than resorting to violence, Pablo listened to both sides and offered a fair solution. “Violence is the last resort, not the first,” he told them. “We’re an organization, not a street gang.”

Rodrigo also learned about Pablo’s legitimate ventures: investments in real estate, soccer teams, and homes for the poor. The infamous neighborhood Pablo built in Medellín demonstrated his philanthropy. To many, he wasn’t a criminal but a hero providing what the government could not. Yet Rodrigo knew behind the charity lay a brutal empire responsible for thousands of deaths.

Though he wasn’t directly involved in drug trafficking, the reality was impossible to ignore: intercepted shipments, eliminated rivals, assassinated politicians, threatened judges. Pablo’s empire was built on generosity and rivers of blood.

One day, Gustavo confided in Rodrigo. “You’re lucky. The boss forgave you because he saw something in you. I don’t know what, but something. Men have died for far less. My advice: do your job, collect your wages, take care of your mother, and don’t ask questions about things that don’t concern you.” Rodrigo followed this advice to the letter. He focused on being the best security guard possible, arriving on time, courteous to everyone, and keeping his area spotless. Slowly, he earned the trust of his superiors.

After six months, he was promoted to shift supervisor, gaining more responsibilities and higher pay. His mother was proud, still unaware of the full scope of his work. To her, he had matured and found his path. Yet Rodrigo lived with a constant contradiction: grateful to Pablo for a second chance, but fully aware he now worked for a criminal empire, his salary indirectly tied to the suffering of thousands.

One night, while on patrol, Rodrigo paused in front of a mirror. He studied his reflection. Gone was the drunken, arrogant thug. He was sober, disciplined, and purposeful—but at what cost? He had traded one life of crime for another. These questions haunted him at night, though by day he buried them, focused on work.

One sunny July Saturday, Pablo decided to visit the working-class neighborhood where Rodrigo grew up. News spread quickly. Pablo was overseeing construction of a promised soccer field—a monumental event for the residents, who saw him as a benefactor. Rodrigo was part of the security team assigned to the visit.

It was the first time he worked closely with Pablo at a public event. Gustavo gave precise instructions: “Observe the crowd, identify potential threats, maintain a secure yet discreet perimeter. Pablo wants to interact with people, not appear as an occupying force. But keep your eyes open—many would like to see him dead.”

When Pablo arrived in a caravan of cars, he was treated like a rock star. Hundreds surrounded him, touching him, thanking him. Mothers lifted babies for blessings; children shouted his name; elders wept with emotion.

Rodrigo watched in amazement, conflicted. Many he knew since childhood, genuinely grateful. To them, Pablo was a hero. But Rodrigo also knew the truth: that wealth came from cocaine and violence, from thousands of lives destroyed.

During the ceremony, Mrs. Mercedes, a neighbor Rodrigo had known since childhood, approached Pablo with tears. “Don Pablo, may God bless you for all you do for us. You are a saint.”

Pablo replied humbly, “I’m no saint, ma’am. I’m just a man trying to help however I can.” Afterward, he stayed, visiting homes, spending time with families, and playing soccer with children.

Rodrigo observed everything, fascinated by Pablo’s connection with ordinary people. There was no arrogance, no distance—he truly was one of them, despite his wealth. At one point, Pablo approached Rodrigo.

“This is your neighborhood, isn’t it?” he asked. Surprised that Pablo remembered him, Rodrigo replied, “Yes, boss. I grew up here.”

Pablo nodded. “Good neighborhood, hardworking, honest people. That’s why I like helping out here. Does your mother still live in this area?”

“Yes, sir, three blocks from here.”

“Then after we finish here, we’ll visit her. I want to meet the woman who raised a man brave enough 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 twenty minutes about everyday topics—living costs, 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 whether her tears were of happiness or of fear for 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 while making a poor old woman cry tears of joy. He was loved and feared in equal measure. Rodrigo, who had started as a victim of his own recklessness, 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 claiming 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 employ 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 were 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, 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—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 two 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 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 night under pressure. He confessed to being a hitman hired by the Cali Cartel, tasked with attacking Pablo Escobar’s properties in Medellín in retaliation for similar operations carried out by the Medellín Cartel 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 him, but inside, he felt a mix of emotions. He had killed a man that night—or at least participated in it—even though it had been in self-defense and as part of 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 replayed the scene of the shooting over and over, wondering 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, once 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 a 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 involved in a conflict that seemed to have no end in sight. Despite the constant war with the Cali Cartel and 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—a reflection of 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, ordered the construction of a giant inflatable castle, brought in a small circus complete with clowns, jugglers, and even a magician. Tables overflowed with food: lechón (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, understanding that there were less fortunate children.

Rodrigo watched from his security perimeter. Seeing Pablo Escobar—the most wanted man in the world—playing with children, painting faces, laughing without a care, was a striking contrast to 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 invited children, a little boy of about five from the working-class neighborhood, timidly approached Pablo.

“Mr. Pablo, my mom says you’re like Robin Hood—taking from the rich to give to the poor.”

“That’s true,” Pablo said, kneeling to be at the boy’s eye level. “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.”

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 briefly 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, devoted husband, and benefactor of the poor.

“How could both realities coexist in the same person?” Rodrigo wondered.

Gustavo sat down next to him. “I know what you’re thinking,” the veteran said. “We all go through that after working for the boss for a while. You see his human side and 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 were monumental, but so were his acts of violence. Rodrigo nodded. “Do you ever regret working for him?” Gustavo considered for a moment before replying. “Regret is a luxury we can’t afford. We’re in this for better or worse. All we can do is perform our duties as best we can and try to preserve our humanity.”

It wasn’t simple, but it was the reality. The party carried on until nightfall. As guests began departing, Paul personally said goodbye to each family, ensuring everyone left with bags of food and small gifts. The children from poor families also received envelopes containing money for their parents.

It was Pablo’s way of extending his generosity beyond the event itself. That night, as Rodrigo returned to Medellín in one of the organization’s vehicles, he thought of Manuela and all the children who had enjoyed that magical party. He wondered what awaited them in a world where the line between good and evil was blurred, where love and violence existed side by side.

He had no answers, only more questions that would keep him awake for 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 and witnessed an encounter that would reveal even more about the workings of power in Colombia.

The politician, whose name Rodrigo never knew for certain but recognized from television, arrived in an unmarked vehicle, dressed casually to avoid attention. He was a man in his fifties with gray hair and a nervous expression, clearly uncomfortable with the clandestine meeting.

Pablo received him in a private room. Rodrigo and the other guards were instructed to maintain the perimeter but not to approach too closely. Occasionally, voices rose high enough for Rodrigo to catch snippets of the conversation. “Don Pablo, you know I’ve always been your friend,” the politician said pleadingly. “I voted in your favor in Congress.”

“I’ve blocked extradition attempts. I’ve done everything he asked. 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’s voice trembled. “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.”

A tense silence followed. Then Pablo spoke, his tone calm but carrying weight. “His political career exists because I allow it. I have documents, photographs, recordings of all our transactions. If those documents reached the press, not only would his career be ruined, he’d end up in prison. So I suggest you find a way to do as 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’ve been useful to me, and I hope you will continue to be, but you must understand 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 secured. But if you fail me, the consequences will be severe.”

After nearly two hours, the politician left, defeated, and quickly drove off. Pablo emerged moments later, lit a cigarette, and called Gustavo. Rodrigo, nearby, overheard. “That man is weak,” Pablo said disdainfully.

“But useful. Place discreet surveillance on him and his family. I want to know who he speaks with, where he goes, what he does. If he shows any intention of betraying me, I want to know immediately.” Gustavo nodded and withdrew to organize the surveillance. Pablo noticed Rodrigo and gestured for him to come closer. “Did you hear anything about the conversation?” Pablo asked directly.

Rodrigo hesitated briefly 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 is a respected congressman. He appears on television talking about ethics and justice, but in private, he kneels 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 ruthless 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 higher-priced than others, but they all sell out. I simply play the game better than anyone, and while they pretend to govern, I 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 cautiously, “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, a joyless smile. “Of course I know that. Nothing lasts forever. But while I do, I will ensure my family is protected, my loyal people are cared for, and those who betray me pay the price. That’s my code, Rodrigo. Loyalty for loyalty, betrayal for destruction.” Then abruptly, he changed the subject. “How’s your mother?”

The question caught Rodrigo off guard. “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 worry about their families, they can’t focus 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 revealed the full extent of Pablo Escobar’s influence. He wasn’t just a drug trafficker; he had infiltrated the highest levels of government. Congressmen, judges, and police officers were all on his payroll. He was a state within a state.

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

Once inside Pablo Escobar’s organization, survival was almost impossible. Nearly two years had passed since that fateful night in the bar when Rodrigo spilled beer on Pablo. In that time, he had risen through the ranks, earned a good salary, provided comfortably for his mother, and developed skills he never imagined he had.

But the cost of all that was weighing increasingly on his conscience. One early morning, Rodrigo received an emergency call to report to a warehouse on the outskirts of Medellín. Upon arrival, he found a scene that deeply disturbed him: three men bound and gagged on the floor, with Gustavo and other security personnel 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 as if 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 another entirely. “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 faced it at some point. It’s part of belonging to the organization. Rodrigo looked at the three men on the ground. The youngest couldn’t have been more than 25, tears streaming down his face.

His eyes pleaded for mercy. Rodrigo thought of his own mother and how she would feel in his place. “Isn’t there another way?” he asked desperately. “Can’t you just let them go with a warning?” Gustavo shook his head. “Treason has only 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 must.”

They handed him a silenced pistol. Rodrigo accepted 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, but his hand shook so violently he couldn’t keep it steady. Sweat ran down his forehead. His breathing was ragged. Seconds stretched like hours. Finally, he lowered the gun. “I can’t do it,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t kill a defenseless man. If that makes me no longer useful to the organization, so be it, but I can’t cross this line.”

The warehouse fell into complete silence. The others present looked at Rodrigo with expressions ranging from contempt to something approaching respect. Gustavo sighed. “Wait here,” he ordered and left to make a phone call.

Rodrigo remained, still holding the gun, knowing he had likely signed his own death warrant. If Pablo considered his refusal a betrayal or weakness, he might not see the dawn. Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Gustavo returned. “The boss wants to see you now.” Rodrigo was taken to one of Pablo’s safe houses.

Upon entering the office, he found Pablo behind his desk, smoking thoughtfully. “Sit down,” Pablo ordered without looking. Rodrigo obeyed, bracing 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. I know it probably means the end for me, but I couldn’t cross that line.”

Pablo studied him for a long moment. Then, to Rodrigo’s surprise, he nodded slowly. “You know what’s ironic? I respect your decision. Many men would kill without hesitation, without feeling anything. Those men are useful, but they’re dangerous because they have no inner boundaries. You have a moral line you’re unwilling to cross, even knowing the consequences. That shows character.” Rodrigo could hardly believe what he was hearing.

“So, you’re not going to kill me?” Pablo shook his head. “No, but you can’t stay in your current position either. I can’t have someone on my security team unwilling to act when the situation demands it. However, I have another role for you. You’ll oversee the construction of the housing I’m building for poor families. It’s legitimate work, well-paid, and doesn’t force you to compromise your principles. Do you accept?”

It was an escape Rodrigo hadn’t expected. “Yes, boss. I accept. And thank you for understanding.” Pablo stood 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 role and a new perspective. The three traitors were executed that night by other members, but Rodrigo did not have to participate. He had preserved his humanity, though he understood that working for Pablo Escobar—even legitimately—meant silent complicity with everything else happening.

That night, Rodrigo told his mother he had changed roles within the company and would now oversee construction projects. She was relieved that he was doing something less dangerous. Rodrigo didn’t tell her how close he had come to death or the moral dilemma he had faced.

Some secrets were better kept to oneself. Years passed, and the war against Pablo Escobar intensified to unimaginable levels. The Search Bloc, Los Pepes, the Cali Cartel—all united in the goal of eliminating the world’s most powerful drug trafficker. Rodrigo, working in the construction department, watched as Pablo’s empire gradually crumbled.

Properties were seized, associates killed or captured, and trafficking routes dismantled. Pablo went from hideout to hideout, increasingly cornered. Rodrigo saw him several times during this period. The man who had once ruled Medellín now appeared gaunt, paranoid, prematurely aged by stress. Yet even in those circumstances, Pablo continued to care for his people.

He ensured his employees’ families were protected and financially secure. On December 2, 1923, Rodrigo was overseeing the construction of houses in a working-class neighborhood when he heard 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, built a criminal empire worth billions, and been both loved and hated in equal measure, had died on a rooftop while 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 hard to escape. With Pablo’s death, the organization rapidly disintegrated. Rodrigo, fortunately, was not pursued by authorities.

His involvement had been relatively minor and mostly confined to legitimate activities. He was able to continue working in construction independently, using the skills and contacts he had developed. The following years became a period 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 had passed away some years ago, but she had lived her final years comfortably thanks to the money he provided. Rodrigo never married and never had children. He lives a simple life, occasionally working on construction projects, 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 lord’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, but you also exposed me to 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 Pablo built in the Popular neighborhood, the same one where he had been present at its inauguration. Now dilapidated and in need of repairs, it is still used by the neighborhood children. He sits in the stands and watches them play, wondering what his life might have been if he had made different choices that night.

During his frequent sleepless nights, Rodrigo mentally replays 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 infamous drug trafficker.

Occasionally, Rodrigo gives talks at neighborhood schools, warning young people about the dangers of getting involved in crime. He tells his story, omitting the most compromising details but honestly presenting the consequences of poor 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. Think before you act, especially when alcohol or arrogance clouds your judgment.” The young listeners are captivated by someone who was so close to Pablo Escobar.

Some see him as a hero for having survived; others as a cautionary tale. Rodrigo sees himself as neither—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, he walks the streets of Medellín, a city transformed since the days of Pablo Escobar.

Now known for innovation, its subway, and urban development, tourists visit sites connected to Pablo, turning tragedy into attraction. Rodrigo observes all this with mixed feelings. On one hand, he is glad the city has overcome those dark years.

On the other hand, he is troubled by how Pablo’s figure is romanticized, while the thousands of victims of his violence are forgotten. One afternoon, a foreign tourist stops him on 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 moment before answering.

“Yes, I knew him, but it’s not the romantic story you probably expect. 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 thrilling anecdotes, is disappointed by the philosophical answer and walks away. Rodrigo smiles sadly. Nobody truly 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.

Yet 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 is also his motivation to warn others, to tell his story as a cautionary tale, and to ensure that his monumental mistake 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 instead to give him a second chance. The same man whose memory continues to divide opinions in Colombia and around the world: Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria.