The cathedral smelled of ozone and ancient dust. Mario stood over Desderia, his body a shield against the red laser dots dancing across the altar. He had his Glock raised, but he was staring at the man stepping through the shattered oak doors: Lorenzo Sanchez.
The Patriarch looked older than he had at the summit, but his presence was a physical weight. Behind him stood a small army of Red Blood enforcers, their silenced submachine guns leveled at Mario's chest.
"Put the gun down, Pablo," Lorenzo said, his voice echoing in the rafters. "I won't have my son's blood on these floors. Not again."
"I am not your son!" Mario roared, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "You sold me! You let Martin burn that orphanage!"
Lorenzo's expression didn't flicker. He looked at Martin, who stood smugly in the shadows behind his father. "Martin has been... disciplined for his past 'exuberance.' But the blood remains. You are a Sanchez. And that girl," he gestured to Desderia, "is carrying a Sanchez heir. You think I'll let my grandchild be born in a gutter or a hotel room?"
Mario looked at Desderia. She was pale, her hand still resting on her stomach. He realized with a sickening jolt that he couldn't fight his way out of this—not without catching her in the crossfire.
"If I come with you," Mario said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "she stays untouched. She finishes her degree. She is the Queen of the North Side, not a prisoner."
"She will be a Sanchez," Lorenzo countered. "She will have everything. Wealth, protection, and a name that makes the world tremble. But she will stay within the family."
Mario slowly lowered his weapon. He felt the "Ghost" dying inside him, replaced by a cold, calculating father. He took Desderia's hand.
"We go," he whispered to her. "But we don't stop fighting. We just change the battlefield."
Five Years Later: The Sanchez Compound
The sun beat down on the private gardens of the Sanchez estate, a sprawling fortress on the outskirts of the city. To the world, it was a paradise. To Desderia, it was a prison made of marble and roses.
A high-pitched giggle broke the silence.
"Papa! Look!"
A five-year-old girl with Mario's piercing green eyes and Desderia's unruly dark curls sprinted across the lawn. This was Sabrina. She was the light of the compound, the only innocent thing in a house built on skeletons.
Mario stepped out from the patio, a glass of water in his hand. He looked different—his suits were more expensive, his face more lined, but when he looked at Sabrina, the ice in his soul melted. He swept the girl up into his arms, spinning her around until she shrieked with delight.
"Careful, piccola," Mario laughed, kissing her forehead.
Desderia watched them from the shade of the porch. She had finished her law degree—Lorenzo had kept that part of the bargain—but she wasn't allowed to practice in a courtroom. Instead, she acted as the "Legal Architect" for the Sanchez empire, moving their money through so many layers of offshore accounts that even the federal government couldn't find a thread.
She hated it. Every document she signed felt like a betrayal of Alice's memory.
"She looks more like you every day," a voice said.
Desderia turned to see Secilia. Over the last five years, Secilia had become Desderia's only ally. She was the one who smuggled in outside news and helped keep Martin's "accidents" away from Sabrina.
"She has his temper," Desderia noted, watching Mario teach Sabrina how to throw a proper punch at a soft target. "And his stubbornness."
"She'll need it," Secilia said, her voice dropping. "Martin is getting restless. Lorenzo's health is failing, and the Council is whispering. They want Mario to take the seat, but Martin... he's been meeting with the remnants of the De Silva survivors. He's planning something, Desderia."
Desderia felt the familiar cold dread. They had been safe for five years, but it was a peace bought with a ticking clock.
"Does Mario know?"
"Mario knows everything," Secilia replied. "He's been building a 'shadow' escape route for months. He's just waiting for the right moment to disappear."
Suddenly, the heavy iron gates of the garden swung open. Martin walked in, flanked by two guards. He looked at Sabrina with a predatory hunger that made Desderia's blood run cold.
"Beautiful afternoon for a family gathering," Martin sneered, walking toward Mario. "Though it's a shame the party has to end so soon."
Mario put Sabrina down, pushing her gently toward Desderia. "Go to your mother, Sabrina. Now."
"What do you want, Martin?" Mario asked, his voice returning to that "Ghost" rasp that hadn't been heard in years.
"The Commission has made a decision," Martin said, pulling a black envelope from his pocket. "Father is being retired. Effectively immediately. And as for the heir... they've decided that a 'Ghost' who spends his time playing house isn't fit to lead the Red Blood."
Martin stepped closer, leaning in to whisper so only Mario could hear. "I found your escape boat, brother. The one in the harbor? It's currently at the bottom of the lake. There is no way out this time."
Mario didn't flinch. He simply looked at Desderia and gave her a single, sharp nod. The signal.
The peace was over. The war had finally come home.