Marcus Chen—or rather, the man who now inhabited his body—struggled to his feet. Fire shot through his ribs where he'd crashed into the bell, and Guilano cursed in languages this teenage body had never learned.
"My God, why did I get such a weak vessel?" he muttered, his voice cracking with adolescent uncertainty that infuriated him. Every breath was agony, every movement a reminder of how far he'd fallen.
He tried to orient himself in the darkness of the bell tower, but nothing was familiar. More than twenty years of commanding respect in Gulac's penthouses and boardrooms hadn't prepared him for navigating a crumbling orphanage in a dead-end town.
Then he saw it—a crumpled piece of paper on the floor near where the boy had been standing.
"Stupid kid," Guilano laughed bitterly as he picked it up. "You even left a suicide note." But as his fingers smoothed out the wrinkled paper, he realized this was more than teenage melodrama. This was intelligence. The starting point for understanding his new identity. He didn't even know the boy's name.
The handwriting was careful, practiced—the script of someone who'd had plenty of time to think about his final words:
"Dear Wesley,
By the time you're reading this, I'll be dead. I'm really sorry, but I wasn't ready for life outside Saint Mary's. You're the only friend I have, and I wish you all the best. Please tell Elena Luciano what I told you about her.
Marcus Chen"
Poor bastard, Guilano thought as he methodically tore the note into strips and ate the evidence. The paper tasted like desperation and broken dreams.
Marcus Chen. Even the name was weak—half-Asian, half-nobody, designed to be forgotten. But it was his name now, his identity, his prison.
Wesley. If I can find out who Wesley is, maybe I can use him. Allies were currency, and Guilano knew how to mint loyalty.
The ladder down from the bell tower creaked with each step, and Guilano had to grip the rungs carefully with hands that were too small, too soft. Everything about this place offended him—the musty smell of neglect, the peeling paint, the general aura of giving up. He'd gone from silk sheets and Cuban cigars to... this. But he was alive. That had to count for something.
"Accept it," he whispered to himself in Marcus's voice. "You're Marcus Chen now. Not Guilano González. Not anymore." The words tasted like poison, but they were necessary. Survival meant adaptation, and adaptation meant becoming someone he despised.
He was still trying to figure out where the hell he was going when a voice called out behind him. "Marcus!"
Guilano turned, and his heart sank. A nun was approaching—middle-aged, wearing the tired expression of someone who'd seen too many broken children. Sister something-or-other. In his former life, he'd have known exactly who she was within seconds, would have had a complete dossier on her family, her weaknesses, her price. Now he was flying blind.
Fuck. Is she Sister Thekela? Mary Magdalena? The names of nuns weren't exactly common knowledge in criminal circles.
"You're still awake this late?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice as she closed the distance between them.
Guilano stayed silent. In his experience, it was better to gather information than to reveal ignorance. Let her talk. Let her tell him what Marcus Chen was supposed to know.
It's easier to listen without speaking than to speak and leave questions unanswered.
The nun reached him and, without warning, pulled him into a embrace. Guilano's body went rigid—he wasn't used to displays of affection, and certainly not from strangers. But Marcus's body seemed to remember this gesture, seemed to expect it.
"I know sometimes we haven't been treating you well, Marcus," she said, holding him tight. "But that doesn't mean we hate you." Her voice carried the weight of years of saying goodbye to children who'd grown too old for the system. "I know tomorrow won't be an easy day, but Marcus... you're grown now. It's time you move out. We'll always be checking on you."
Tomorrow. The pieces started falling into place. Marcus had been about to age out of the orphanage system. No wonder the kid had been ready to jump—facing the world alone with no money, no connections, no family. Just another statistic waiting to happen.
But now Marcus Chen had something the original never possessed: the mind of Guilano González. The strategic thinking of a man who'd built an empire from nothing and the burning desire for revenge that could move mountains.
"Sister," Guilano said carefully, testing how the word felt in Marcus's voice. "I... I was just thinking about tomorrow."
She pulled back to look at him, and he saw the worry in her eyes. "Are you scared?"
Scared? Guilano almost laughed. He'd been shot, stabbed, betrayed, and murdered. He'd clawed his way to the top of Gulac's criminal hierarchy and held it for twenty five years. But looking at this woman's face, seeing the genuine care there, he realized Marcus would be terrified.
"A little," he admitted. It wasn't entirely a lie. This situation was unlike anything he'd ever faced.
"That's normal," she said softly. "But you're stronger than you think, Marcus. You've survived seventeen years in this place. You can survive whatever comes next."
If only you knew, Guilano thought. If only you knew what's really survived. If only you knew what my real problem is.
Then it hit him—an opportunity disguised as a problem. Nobody would suspect that he didn't know where his room was. After all, he'd spent nearly a decade at Saint Mary's and this was his last night here. Where he was supposed to sleep on his last night would never be questioned. Would it?
"By the way, the Father wanted a word with you," the nun said as she turned to leave for another room. "A blessed night, Marc."
Marc. Even the nickname felt foreign on his consciousness.
Oh great, Guilano thought as he watched her disappear down the dimly lit corridor. No worries, I'm going to sleep anywhere I can find.