The air at the estate "La Fortaleza" was thick. Not because of the suffocating coastal heat nor the tobacco smoke drifting through the halls, but due to the palpable feeling that something important was about to happen.
Gustavo was in his office, surrounded by papers, maps, intelligence reports, and sealed envelopes bearing official stamps. In front of him, Mateo organized the voter lists for Mamatoco and Boca Grande, now under full control of the organization. The streets were safe, hunger had diminished, and every single mother, every sick grandfather, every child without school supplies knew that "the Boss" was watching out for them.
But the silence was broken by a knock on the door.
—Boss, the politicians have arrived —a guard announced.
Gustavo looked up. He had been expecting this moment.
—Let them in.
They entered in a line, like a religious procession: five well-dressed men in expensive suits and cheap smiles. Among them, Héctor Ballén, an old political fox, aspiring for the Senate with the National Unity Party; Camilo Rosas, an ambitious young man seeking a seat in the House; and three others, all with the same intention: to ask Gustavo Márquez for support to win at the polls.
Gustavo didn't stand. He let them sit first, watching them like a hunter sizing up his prey. Beside him, "El Tigre" stood intimidatingly, his coat open revealing his pistol.
—Gentlemen, I'm listening —Gustavo finally said.
Héctor was the first to speak.
—Gustavo, you and I both know how this works. It's election season, and in Santa Marta there are two key zones with over fifty thousand voters. I understand you... have influence there.
—I don't have influence —Gustavo replied—. I decide who gets in and who doesn't. What do you want?
Camilo took the floor, trying to sound conciliatory.
—We just came for your support. Money for the campaign. Spaces to meet with people. Help with logistics. You know... transport, security, publicity. If you contribute, we guarantee you representation.
—And what do you guarantee me if you win Congress? —Gustavo asked bluntly.
The politician hesitated, but Ballén stepped forward.
—We can guarantee you public contracts for your legal businesses. We connect you with ministers, with mayors. And most importantly: we prevent anyone from Bogotá from digging into your business.
There was a silence.
Gustavo took his cigarette, calmly lit it, and after a long drag said:
—I want the following. One: you give me lists of your advisors and contacts. No surprises. Two: if you win, the road infrastructure in my zones will be a priority. I need roads that don't attract attention but connect quickly with Barranquilla and Cartagena. Three: the Armed Forces won't set foot in my neighborhoods without my permission.
—That's possible —Camilo said uncertainly.
—You'll make it possible —corrected Gustavo—. And finally: five percent of all contracts you sign, whatever the amount, goes to me. You will deposit that money into accounts I will indicate.
One of the politicians turned pale. Another swallowed hard. But Ballén just nodded.
—Alright. And what do you offer us?
Gustavo smiled.
—I give you money, people, and security. Tomorrow you'll have billboards with your faces all over Mamatoco and Boca Grande. You'll have buses to move voters. And you'll have thousands of pre-marked ballots, ready to be counted.
He stood. Walked to the window and pointed to the horizon.
—But if you fail me... remember that power in Colombia isn't in the Casa de Nariño. It's on the streets. And I own the streets.
The meeting ended with a stiff handshake, sidelong glances, and disguised nervousness. But Gustavo knew he had already won. Not only would he have allies in Bogotá, but paid pawns in Congress.
Days later: Operation "Safe Vote"
Mateo and "El Tigre" led the election mobilization operations. At each of the Boss's aid posts, there was now an "election manager." Respected local people who received lists, ballots, envelopes, and payments.
Buses branded with slogans like "With the Boss, it's Possible!" began circulating through neighborhoods. At every stop, entire families boarded with promises of groceries, rent aid, or a new wheelchair for grandma.
—We're putting about six thousand people a day in early voting —Mateo reported—. And the ballots coming out are all marked.
—Perfect —Gustavo said—. And the results?
—The three candidates are crushing it. At least twice the votes of the next on the list.
Gustavo didn't celebrate. He just nodded.
—Get ready. When they get power, they'll think they can become brave. Better they remember who owns the seat.
A call from Bogotá
A week before the elections, Gustavo received an encrypted call.
—Márquez? This is the Minister of Transport —a deep voice said—. I know you're friends with Ballén and Rosas. They've told me about you.
—What do you want, Mr. Minister?
—A mutual favor. I need to move a shipment through Santa Marta. Sensitive. Not drugs. Weapons.
Gustavo understood: politics had accepted him as one of their own.
—Of course, Minister —he said with a dark smile—. Here everything moves... if the right toll is paid.