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I take a deep breath and decide: "Okay, I'll stay and listen. If it becomes too much, I'll leave. But I promise, this will be the last time I involve myself in such matters. My love for you, Marco, outweighs my need to engage in these battles."
Marco's gentle touch on my face, a soft caress, pulls me back to the present, to the core of our connection. "My Pia, my incredible girl," he murmurs, a vow of unity amidst the uncertainty of our lives.
"Yes, Marco. I am yours," I affirm, my heart swelling with a love outshining the shadows that vie to encroach upon us.
As dinner commences at Don Melchor's subtle nod, a hush falls over the table, the clinking of cutlery the only sound amidst our collective contemplation. When the staff retreats, leaving us in a strained silence, the conversation hesitantly resumes.
My father, a rare participant in such personal exchanges, leans closer, his voice low. "He seems good to you," he observes, his tone holding a trace of something akin to approval.
I muster a smile, the novelty of this dialogue with him not lost on me. "He is," I affirm, a simple truth encompassing the depth of my feelings for Marco.
The moment is briefly interrupted as Don Melchor steps away to take a call, leaving me with an opening to speak with Marco. "Cypress was shaken up by everything. I want her by my side at the wedding," I say, hoping to bring something positive.
Marco's response is warm, his smile reaching his eyes. "I look forward to meeting her," he assures me, and I feel a flicker of something like normalcy in the chaos surrounding us.
Upon Don Melchor's return, his news anchors us back to reality. Marco's prompt, "What is it, Tito?" pulls the revelation from him.
The severity in Don Melchor's voice sends a cold shiver down my spine as he delivers Gerald's chilling message. "Gerald has threatened to kill your wife, Don Angelo, unless Pia is handed over to him."
My father's immediate denial, born of disbelief and refusal to acknowledge Gerald's capacity for such treachery, echoes around us. "That's his mother. He wouldn't."
But the harsh truth claws its way out of me, dispelling any illusions that Gerald might have familial loyalty. "This is Gerald. If he says he'll kill Mom, he means it. His thirst for power knows no bounds, respects no familial ties."
Marco's comforting touch, a silent attempt to soothe my rising fury, barely registers. The revelation of Gerald's ultimatum, a grotesque demonstration of his ambition and cruelty, leaves us grappling with the unthinkable. My assertion lays bare the stark reality of the situation, a bitter acknowledgment of the lengths to which Gerald will go to seize control.
Chapter Sixteen
Marco
I zero in on the imminent threat—Gerald and Jon Marc. Taking down El Diablo was one thing, but I'm under no illusion that this next step will be straightforward. They're driven, desperate to assert their power, and believe Pia is their leverage. Surrendering her is not an option. The only path forward is to neutralize them.
I deliberately avoid Pia's gaze, needing to focus. "They've made their intentions clear through their willingness to negotiate, using the threat against Doña Mendoza as leverage," I state, eyeing Don Angelo. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, he remains stoic, betraying no hint of concern for his wife's safety. It's a chilling, albeit impressive, display of control.
"We'll do everything in our power to prevent any harm to her. But our priority is safeguarding Pia and your family," I assure Don Melchor, who confirms that precautions are already in place, including the safety of Pia's closest friend, Cypress. This news offers relief in the storm, knowing Pia won't be burdened with additional worry over her friend's well-being.
Turning to Pia, our eyes meet, and we exchange a silent understanding. "As much as I'd prefer to have you in a safe house, staying here is the wiser choice," I explain. Though the situation weighs heavily on her, her nod signifies her trust in my judgment.
Facing the assembled family and allies, I lay out our stance. "We're not handing over Pia, nor will we entertain any negotiation with Gerald and Jon Marc. It's not the way of La Serpiente Dorada. Our only viable strategy is to compel them to reveal themselves, to draw them out into the open."
The sharp and decisive nods I receive confirm their agreement. This is the only way forward. As much as I've come to appreciate the Philippines, I'd return under different circumstances, not chased by the specter of conflict and bloodshed.
"Marco, what timeline do you want to adhere to?" Papá asks.
"Papá," I acknowledge his inquiry with a nod, the importance of timelines now deeply impressing me. In the underworld's lexicon, my father has orchestrated his empire with precision, his adherence to timelines not just a preference but a cornerstone of his dominion. "Twenty-four hours," I announce, locking eyes with those gathered. "I want this resolved in less than a day." The unspoken desire to return home, to step away from the shadows of conflict, hangs heavy between us.
I glance at Pia, my heart set on our future. "Then, you and I will get married," I continue, watching the smile on her lips fail to reach her eyes. Her evasion sends a ripple of concern through me, a mix of disappointment and resolve to settle in. I make a mental note to bridge the gap her withdrawal has created.
"Let's break for an hour," I suggest, eager to strategize with my core team for a unified approach. The table agrees, though Pia and I have lost our appetite for dinner. Her excuse, to seek solace in the fresh air prompts a collective pause, and without hesitation, I follow her.
Outside, beneath our tree—a landmark of our shared moments—I halt her escape. "Wait. Talk to me. What's going on?" When her gaze meets mine, it is a tempest of emotions, her anguish bare.
Her confession cuts more profound than any blade. "I don't know if I can bear knowing your plans…or this side of you," she admits, her voice breaking with the enormity of her fears.
The plea for normalcy, for a semblance of peace amidst the storm of our lives, forces my eyes shut.
Breathe, Marco. A mantra to steady the tumult within. Just breathe, I remind myself, steeling my heart for the conversation ahead, determined to navigate the chasm her words have opened.
"Like I said before, it's entirely your choice," I affirm, trying to bridge the distance between us. I reach out to Pia, seeking the comfort of her touch, but she recoils, wrapping herself in a self-embrace instead. Her gaze remains on the horizon, the vast ocean mirroring the chasm that seems to be widening between us. "Talk to me," I implore again, yet she remains silent, her headshake a clear sign of her internal struggle.
