Giulano stood in Marcus's closet—if you could call three wire hangers and a cardboard box a closet. The kid's fashion sense had apparently died before he did. Every shirt screamed "I shop exclusively at church donations." He held up a lime-green polo with a mysterious stain shaped like the map of India. Jesus Christ, Marcus, did you dress in the dark?
After five minutes of archaeological digging, he found a black t-shirt that didn't look like it had survived a paint fight. The rest went into a backpack that had seen better decades. In his previous life, he'd owned more watches than Marcus had owned total pieces of clothing and servants always packed for him. Now he was packing like a freshman heading to community college.
He paused at Marcus's desk, where a framed photo showed the boy grinning next to some science fair project—a volcano that probably barely bubbled. Poor bastard was proud of that piece of shit. For a split second, something twisted in Giulano's chest. Guilt? Impossible. He'd buried that emotion years ago, right next to his first victim.
The bathroom mirror reflected a stranger. Soft jaw, kind eyes, few scars. Marcus Chen looked like he apologized for breathing too loudly. Meanwhile, Giulano González had once made grown men piss themselves with a glance. He'd commanded the Belar empire—a criminal octopus with tentacles in every dirty corner of Gulac. Born into the González dynasty, he'd weaponized his bloodline to forge something unprecedented: unity among chaos.
The Belars weren't just another crime family; they were the shadow government. When grocery stores raised bread prices, Belar took a cut. When politicians made speeches, Belar wrote the words. They'd even put a puppet in the president's chair—a man so deep in their pocket he needed a mining helmet to see daylight.
And now? Now Giulano was Marcus Chen, whose biggest accomplishment was apparently not dying in his sleep.
The distance between his current reality and his old life felt astronomical. Theodore Bezio might as well live on Mars. Hell, even his own son Pedro wouldn't recognize him in this skin—which was probably for the best, considering Pedro had likely celebrated his father's death with champagne and hookers.
From penthouse to shithouse in one cosmic joke.
Giulano grabbed the backpack. Time to face Wesley and pretend gratitude came naturally.
The priest's office smelled like old books and older coffee. Wesley looked up from a stack of papers, and Giulano noticed the man's eyes were bloodshot. Even saints needed sleep, apparently.
"All packed?" Wesley asked, then caught himself studying Marcus's face. "You look... different. Determined."
If only you knew, padre. "Just ready for whatever comes next."
Wesley nodded, but something flickered across his expression—doubt, maybe concern. The man had good instincts; Giulano filed that away for future reference.
The farewell scene nearly broke his cover. A parade of snot-nosed kids lined up to hug "Marcus" goodbye, each one treating him like their personal superhero. Little Maria pressed a crayon drawing into his hands—a stick figure labeled "MARCUS THE BEST" in purple scribbles. Sister Margaret, the nun he had met the previous night, hugged him with the strength of a linebacker.
"You take care of yourself, Marcus," she whispered. "You're special, you know that?" Lady, you have no idea how special.
But watching their genuine tears, seeing their unguarded love for this dead boy, something uncomfortable squirmed in Giulano's stomach. These people actually gave a shit about Marcus Chen. When was the last time anyone had cried over Giulano González? His own funeral had probably been a relief party.
Wesley's Honda Civic was a far cry from Giulano's former fleet of armored Mercedes. The vinyl seats were cracked, the radio only picked up Christian rock, and something under the hood wheezed like a dying walrus. But it ran, which put it ahead of half the cars in West Antiok.
The city transformed as they drove—a slow-motion car crash of urban decay. Glass towers gave way to boarded windows. Manicured lawns became patches of dirt decorated with broken bottles and used needles. By the time they hit West Antiok proper, even the graffiti looked depressed.
"This is it," Wesley said, pulling up to a building that had clearly given up on life sometime during the Clinton administration. "I know it's not much, but—"
"It's perfect," Giulano lied smoothly. The building looked like it was held together by stubbornness and prayer. Half the windows were boarded up, and the front door hung at an angle that defied physics. A sign reading "LUXURY APARTMENTS" had been vandalized to read "SORRY APARTMENTS," which was honestly more accurate.
Room 3B was on the second floor, accessible via stairs that creaked ominous warnings with each step. The door opened to reveal twelve feet by twelve feet of pure ambition-killer. A mattress sat on the floor like a deflated dream. A card table posed as furniture. The single window offered a spectacular view of the dumpster behind Wong's Chinese Takeout.
"Not bad for a fresh start, right?" Wesley said, but even he sounded unconvinced.
Giulano looked around and almost laughed. He'd gone from marble floors to linoleum that was probably older than Marcus. The irony was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.
"Wesley, this place is..." he paused for effect, "...going to be perfect for what I need to do."
They hugged—Wesley's embrace was genuine, which made Giulano feel like a fraud wearing a dead man's face.
"Look, Marcus," Wesley said, stepping back. "I need to tell you something. I chose West Antiok specifically because it's off the García family's radar. They run the east side, but they think this place is beneath them. That gives you breathing room."
The Garcías. Giulano knew them well—mid-tier players who'd always been too small-time for Belar attention. Now they were apparently kings of their own little dunghill.
"I appreciate the heads-up."
"I don't have many real friends," Wesley admitted. "You've been one of them. Take care of yourself, okay?"
After the priest left, Giulano sat on the mattress and surveyed his kingdom. The previous tenant had left behind a cockroach the size of a small dog, which scurried across the floor like it was late for an appointment. From the Chinese restaurant below, the smell of questionable meat and industrial-strength MSG drifted up through the floorboards.
He pulled out his war chest—a crisp hundred-dollar bill that Wesley had slipped him. In his old life, he'd spent more than that on lunch. Now it was supposed to launch his comeback tour. From emperor to beggar in one cosmic punchline.
But Giulano González hadn't built an empire by accepting limitations. He'd done it once with every advantage money could buy. Now he'd do it with nothing but hunger and a dead boy's face.
West Antiok stretched out below his window—a forgotten wasteland where broken dreams went to die. But every wasteland needed a king, and every king needed a kingdom.
The cockroach paused in its travels, as if sensing the shift in the room's energy. Giulano nodded at his new roommate.
"You and me, buddy. Time to build something beautiful."
The cockroach resumed its journey, apparently unimpressed by the declaration of war. Fair enough. Everyone would learn respect soon enough. The renowned Giulano González was back in business and it was time to rise from the dead.