The air in the De Cruze mansion felt different that night. The luxury that usually felt like a shield now felt like a shroud. Mario sat in the dark of his study, the silver locket resting on the mahogany desk between him and the DNA report. The crest—a lion entwined with a serpent—seemed to mock him in the moonlight.
"Pablo," he whispered. The name felt like a foreign object in his mouth. It was soft, melodic, and entirely at odds with the man he had become.
Desderia stood in the doorway, watching him. She had changed out of the silk gown into one of Mario's oversized cashmere sweaters. She looked small, but her presence was the only thing keeping the room from collapsing under the weight of the revelation.
"You haven't moved in three hours, Mario," she said softly, walking toward him.
"I spent my life hating them," Mario said, his voice hollow. "Every person I killed, every shipment I burned, every night I spent awake planning their demise... I thought I was avenging my family. But they are my family."
He looked up at her, his green eyes—Sanchez eyes, he now realized—bright with a terrifying realization. "The men who ordered the fire at St. Jude's... they were my father and mother. They burned me alive, Desderia. They didn't even know I was there."
Desderia reached out, covering his hand with hers. "They didn't know because they sold you, Mario. The De Silvas told the Commission—they handled the 'disposal.' Your parents thought you were dead or gone long before the fire. That doesn't make them innocent. It makes them monsters who don't recognize their own blood."
Mario stood up abruptly, sweeping the locket off the desk. It clattered against the far wall. "I don't care about their excuses! I am Mario De Cruze! I built this! I am not a pawn in their dynasty!"
The doorbell rang—a low, melodic chime that vibrated through the floorboards. In a house guarded by three perimeters of elite mercenaries, the doorbell didn't ring unless someone was expected.
Carter's voice came over the intercom, sounding strained. "Boss. You need to come to the gate. Now."
At the edge of the driveway, bathed in the harsh white glare of the security floodlights, stood a single black town car. Standing beside it, draped in a coat of silver fox fur that looked like spilled moonlight, was Isabella Sanchez.
She was alone. No guards. No Martin.
Mario walked down the stone steps, his hand hovering near the small of his back where his weapon stayed tucked. Desderia followed a few paces behind, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Isabella didn't move as Mario approached. Her face, usually a mask of aristocratic coldness, was trembling. When Mario stopped five feet away, she let out a broken, jagged sob.
"My son," she breathed.
"I am not your son," Mario spat. "I am the man who destroyed your Mediterranean supply line last week. I am the man who has a sniper pointed at your head right now."
Isabella didn't flinch at the threat. She stepped forward, ignoring the way Carter shifted his weight to intercept her. She reached out, her fingers hovering inches from Mario's cheek.
"The eyes," she whispered. "I told Lorenzo... I told him the day you rose in the Commission that you looked like my brother. I thought it was a cruel trick of the light. We were told the De Silvas had sent you to a school in South America. They said you died of a fever a year later."
"They sold me," Mario said, his voice a low growl. "They sold me to traffickers for a seat on the Council. And when I escaped, I ended up at St. Jude's. The place you burned."
Isabella's face went ghostly pale. She swayed, her hand clutching her chest. "We... we didn't know. We were told the orphanage was empty. That it was a squat for the Irish gangs."
"It was full of children," Mario hissed, stepping into her space, his height looming over her. "I watched them die because of your greed. Do you think a DNA test changes that? Do you think I'm going to come home and sit at your table?"
"Your father wants to name you the heir," Isabella said, her voice desperate. "Martin is... he is weak. He is cruel without purpose. But you—you built an empire from nothing. You are the true Sanchez. Lorenzo is ready to go to war with the De Silvas for what they did to you. He wants to bring you home."
Desderia saw the flicker in Mario's eyes. It wasn't longing; it was a cold, calculating brilliance.
"Home," Mario mused. He looked back at Desderia, then back at his mother. "Tell Lorenzo this: If he wants me, he can have me. But not as a son. As a partner. I want the De Silva family eliminated by sunrise. I want their assets, their territories, and the head of the man who sold me. Do that, and maybe I'll show up for Sunday dinner."
Isabella nodded frantically. "He will do it. He would burn the world for you now that he knows."
She turned to get back into the car, but paused, her eyes landing on Desderia. Her gaze sharpened, the motherly grief replaced by the cold calculation of a Mafia Queen.
"And the girl?" Isabella asked. "Is she part of the deal?"
Mario stepped in front of Desderia, his body a solid wall of protection. "She is the deal. Touch her, and I'll finish what the fire started."
Isabella stared at Desderia for a long moment, a chilling smile touching her lips. "She has spirit. But remember, Pablo... in our world, spirit is the first thing we break."
The car sped away, leaving them in the ringing silence of the night.
Inside the mansion, the air was thick with a new kind of tension.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Mario," Carter said, pacing the foyer. "You're inviting the Red Blood into our house. Martin isn't going to sit back while you take his birthright."
"I don't want their birthright," Mario said, turning to Desderia. "I want them to destroy each other. I'll use the Sanchez resources to wipe out the De Silvas, and then I'll take the Sanchez family down from the inside. It's the perfect Trojan horse."
Desderia shook her head, her amber eyes filled with worry. "You're talking about them like they're just pieces on a board, Mario. But they're your blood. And Isabella... she didn't look at you like a business partner. She looked at you like a possession she just got back."
"I am nobody's possession," Mario snapped.
He walked toward her, his movements restless. He grabbed her hands, his grip tight—almost frantic. "I need you to stay in the estate. No more university. No more cafes. Martin is going to be looking for a weakness, and you are the only one I have."
"Mario, I have a life—"
"You have a target on your back!" he roared. He immediately softened, pulling her into his chest, his face buried in her hair. "Please. Just until I finish this. I can't do this if I'm worried about you."
Desderia leaned into him, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. She realized then that the "Ghost King" was terrified. Not of the Sanchez family, but of the fact that for the first time in twenty years, he had something to lose that wasn't made of money or stone.
While Mario and Desderia found a fitful sleep in each other's arms, the city was screaming.
The Red Blood had moved with the fury of a biblical plague. Lorenzo Sanchez had personally led the hit on the De Silva compound. By 4:00 AM, the once-mighty De Silva family was a memory. Marcus managed to escape into the night, bleeding and broken, but his father and his generals were gone.
In a dark corner of a private club, Martin Sanchez sat alone, a glass of bourbon in his hand. His knuckles were bruised from the "work" he'd done that night, but his mind was elsewhere.
His sister, Secilia, stepped out of the shadows. She looked at her brother with a mixture of disgust and fear.
"Father is talking about a coronation," Secilia said quietly. "He's calling the Commission. He's going to announce that Pablo is alive."
Martin didn't look up. He squeezed the glass until it shattered in his hand. Blood dripped onto the table, mixing with the expensive whiskey.
"Pablo died in that fire," Martin whispered, his voice trembling with a murderous rage. "Whatever walked out of that hotel isn't my brother. It's a parasite. He thinks he can just show up and take what I've spent my life earning?"
"He's better than you, Martin," Secilia said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Even the De Silvas couldn't kill him. Even the fire couldn't kill him. If you try to move against him, he'll bury you."
Martin looked up, a slow, sickening smile spreading across his face.
"I don't have to move against him," Martin said. "I just have to move against the one thing that makes the Ghost look human. The girl. The law student."
He stood up, wiping the blood from his hand onto a silk napkin. "Secilia, dear... go find out everything you can about Desderia Davids. Her friends, her family, her secrets. If Mario wants to be a Sanchez, he's going to have to learn the first rule of our family."
"What's that?" Secilia asked, her voice trembling.
"We kill the things we love," Martin said. "Before someone else can use them against us."