The drive was a blur of adrenaline and dread.
I pushed the Lamborghini past one hundred twenty on Pacific Coast Highway, weaving through traffic with surgical aggression. Every red light felt like a personal insult. Every slow driver a potential catastrophe. The ocean flashed beside me, blue and endless, indifferent to the war raging in my chest.
My phone rang again and again on the passenger seat—Petros, no doubt. He would tell me to slow down. To wait for confirmation. To bring more men. To think.
I ignored it.
There was no room for caution.
Not when my son’s voice—my son’s voice—had finally broken the silence after three long years.
Whatever waited for me at that chapel, I would face it.
And God help anyone who stood between me and my child.
What if he was hurt?
The thought hit like a blade between my ribs, sharp and sudden. My grip tightened on the steering wheel until the leather creaked beneath my palms.
What if this was a trap?
That one followed immediately, coiling around the first. California families weren’t subtle when they wanted blood, but they were patient. They liked theater. Messages. And nothing sent a clearer message than luring a king into enemy territory with his own child as bait.
And then—the worst one, the one I tried and failed to bury—
What if the woman who killed Maria was somehow involved?
The questions stacked, relentless, clawing at me with every mile I tore through. My jaw locked. My pulse pounded so hard it blurred the edges of my vision. I forced my breathing steady, the way I had learned to do in cages and basements and interrogation rooms where panic meant death.
Think later. Act now.
St. Maribel’s Chapel rose into view at the end of the street—white stucco glowing in the slanted afternoon light, red-tiled roof immaculate, palm trees swaying gently as if this were any other peaceful California day. A place for vows. For flowers. For smiling photographs that pretended the world was kind.
I slammed the brakes.
The Lamborghini screamed in protest, tires chirping as the nose dipped. I barely waited for the car to settle before throwing the door open. The convoy behind me skidded to a stop in perfect, violent symmetry.
SUV doors flew wide. Men poured out—fifteen of them, dark suits, weapons concealed, faces carved from discipline and intent.
Petros emerged from the lead vehicle, already moving fast. He took one look at me—tailored suit, blood-red tie, expression carved from stone—and slowed, confusion flickering across his face.
“Boss,” he said, jogging up. “I was calling to tell you—we tracked him here. You already knew?”
“Yes.” I didn’t slow. My gaze was locked on the chapel doors. “Did you find who ordered the hit?”
Petros fell into step beside me. “Thompson family. We have confirmation—intercepts, witnesses. It was meant to send a message. Just give the word and—”
“Let me see my son first,” I cut in.
The words were quiet. Flat. They landed like a death sentence.
Petros stopped talking instantly.
“If he’s harmed,” I continued, voice dropping another degree, “there won’t be enough left of them to declare war on.”
He nodded once. No argument. He knew better.
The two guards stationed at the chapel doors stiffened as they took in the sight of twenty armed men advancing with lethalpurpose. Fear flashed across their faces—then recognition. Real recognition. The kind that drains color from skin.
