The San Rafael estate, located on the outskirts of Envigado, seemed like paradise in the middle of the hell that was Medellín in the mid-1980s. Surrounded by mango trees, avocado groves, and coffee plantations, it had two main houses, four cabins for staff, and land so vast no one had managed to walk it all. It belonged to Pablo Escobar, but only one son lived there: Gustavo Márquez Escobar—the invisible bastard, the one who never appeared in photographs.
The boy was already 16, and in his gaze there was something that wasn't youth or innocence. It was calculation. Precision. Control.
From a young age, Gustavo understood that he didn't have a normal family. His mother had died when he was just two, and his father—the most feared and adored man in the country—kept him at a distance. Pablo gave him everything except love. And that was enough for Gustavo's soul to grow twisted, thirsty for more than affection: absolute power.
But Gustavo wasn't going to ask for it. He was going to build it.
It all started with the street kids. During a clandestine visit to Medellín with his trusted bodyguard, Gustavo saw three boys—no older than twelve—scavenging through trash near the San Javier station. One had a face full of scars. Another walked with a limp. The third held a rusty knife, threatening a stray dog.
"Who looks after these kids?" Gustavo asked, his tone more of an accusation than a question.
"No one, boss," the bodyguard replied."Now they look after me."
The three kids were taken to the estate. They ate for the first time in days. They bathed in hot water. They received clean clothes. But Gustavo wasn't a savior. He wasn't doing it out of kindness.
It was a test.
He spoke to them softly, like an older brother. Showed them the land. Taught them how to shoot old shotguns at empty beer cans. Told them stories of heroes who died for betraying. And when one of them tried to steal a watch from his room, Gustavo didn't yell.
He just stared at him. Took him to the farthest part of the estate. And shot him in the head without saying a word.
The other two buried him with trembling hands.
And from that day on, they swore loyalty to him for life.
The system repeated itself. Every week, Gustavo sent his trusted men to Medellín, Bello, Itagüí, and the poorest towns around. They searched for abandoned children, orphans, displaced kids, boys with no direction. The recruitment wasn't forced: they were offered food, shelter, a family. But staying was only voluntary until the first bullet.
The estate began to transform. From a training ground to a fortress. Gustavo designed his own instruction system. Based on the teachings of his tutor, he mixed political history with military tactics and urban warfare lessons.
He divided the boys into groups:
The Wolves: the oldest, aged 16 to 18. They were his personal guard.
The Crows: 14 to 15-year-olds, in charge of reconnaissance and surveillance.
The White Rats: the youngest, 12 to 13. Messengers, apprentices, but trained in shooting from the first month.
Everything was structured. Schedules. Punishments. Rewards. A private army under the command of a teenager with the mind of a strategist and the heart of stone.
By the age of 17, Gustavo had 40 loyal soldiers. None knew another home. None doubted him. From his training, he had learned the worst of his father—but also the best: charisma, planning, brutality disguised as purpose.
He spoke to them about a new Colombia. A country ruled by men who didn't ask for permission. Of an inevitable war against the wealthy who denied them everything.
"The State doesn't want you. But I do. You're my army. Not to defend me… but to conquer what belongs to me," he would say, walking among them dressed in black, a pistol at his waist, eyes fixed on the horizon.
In a leather notebook he kept locked away, Gustavo had written a list of targets. Not politicians, not cops. Not yet. For now, other sons of crime.
Heirs of the Castaño Gil family.
Nephews of the Ochoa clan.
The youngest cousin of Don Berna.
The eldest son of a prosecutor who investigated Pablo Escobar.
To Gustavo, crime wasn't a way of life. It was a genetic duty. He didn't want to be Pablo. He wanted to be better. Colder. Cleaner. More permanent.
Pablo loved noise. Gustavo loved silence.
One evening, one of his lieutenants—Mateo, 17, a former bazuco dealer from La Candelaria—came to him with a question.
"What if one day your father comes to take control of all this, boss?"
Gustavo looked at him calmly.
"Pablo Escobar is already old. He doesn't know it, but his time ended the day he left me here.""And us?""You're not his army. You're mine. And I don't share power."
Mateo nodded. He knew that answer was a warning.
At 18, Gustavo stopped receiving visits from his father. They were no longer necessary.
In the narco world, some rumors began to spread:
—"There's a new Escobar who doesn't want to be seen."—"He has his own army."—"He wants to clean the name… with more blood."
And while Medellín burned between bombings, explosives, and betrayals, in the shadows, a new boss was born. One younger. Colder. And more ambitious.
Gustavo Escobar didn't need his father to leave him anything.
He was going to take it all.