Son of José Víbora – former head of the Colombian cartel. The same man Matteo had killed for ordering his parents’ deaths.
Revenge, served cold and patient.
Tomás had been clever. He never touched anything directly. He moved through stray gangs, independent crews, men with nothing to lose and everything to prove. He’d lit fires and stepped back, watching the most powerful families in the world bleed each other slowly.
A ghost with a vendetta.
When the truth landed, the room went quiet in that way it always did before something irreversible.
No one had known Víbora had a son.
Offers poured in almost immediately. The Bratva sent word first – support, men, weapons. The Yakuza followed, efficient as ever. The Italians, my family included, made it clear they were ready to end it together. Even the West Coast reached out, sensing blood in the water.
We declined and let them all know we’d handle it from here.
This was personal.
Tomás Víbora had wanted revenge. And this time, there would be no strays left to hide behind.
The night we left, the air felt charged – sharp with intention.
Maria and Zach moved with quiet precision, checking weapons, securing holsters. Matteo stood beside me as I slid my jacket on, the familiar weight of a loaded gun settling against my ribs like an old promise. Zane was already calm, detached, eyes empty in that way that meant he was fully locked in. Trevor said little, but his jaw was tight, focus absolute.
Natalia stayed behind in New York with Amaya, Kali posted at the townhouse like a shadow that wouldn’t sleep. It was the only way. Natalia kissed Trevor before we left, whisperedbe careful, and he promised we would.
We flew south under darkness and silence, crossing borders like they were nothing more than lines someone else had drawn.
Tomás Víbora’s yacht floated off the East Coast of Santa Catarina like a jewel dropped into black water – sleek, arrogant, too exposed for someone who claimed tobe untouchable. The ocean was restless that night, waves slapping the hull softly, masking our approach.
“No security,” Zach murmured. “Weird.”
I felt it too. Something was wrong.
We came in from an untraceable motorboat. Zane went first – silent, efficient, already gone by the time I followed. We moved like muscle memory, every step practiced, every breath controlled.
Room by room, we cleared the yacht. Crew quarters. Security room. Lounge. Matteo moved like a predator unleashed – calm, brutal, terrifyingly focused. Maria was lethal beside Zach, their movements synchronized without needing to look at each other.
And still – too easy.
“He’s expecting something,” I whispered.
“Or someone,” Matteo replied quietly.
We reached the main deck. Glass walls. Open doors. A half-finished drink sweating on a table, still cold.
Just silence and the sound of the ocean breathing around us.
My grip tightened on my weapon.
When we reached the upper deck, a man stood at the edge of the helipad, one foot already on the step, linen shirt fluttering in the wind. And he was smiling.
Matteo raised his gun. Zach and Trevor fanned out instinctively. Zane melted to the side, eyes scanning for angles that didn’t exist. I trained my sights on Tomás’s chest, finger steady, heart strangely calm.
I knew we should’ve shot him. But the guys wanted Tomás alive.
“Hands up,” Matteo ordered. “Walk down. Slowly.”
Tomás lifted his hands slowly – not in surrender, but mockery.
