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The car ride from the airport is quiet, the road winding up through the mountains, the higher elevation bringing a noticeable drop in temperature. I roll down the window, letting the cool, crisp air wash over me, the hallmark smell of pine and the distant ocean mingling. It's refreshing, a much-needed cleanse from the residue of Manila's violence.
We arrive at the Santos estate, nestled atop one of Caba's lush hills, its grandeur understated yet undeniable. The house, a blend of Spanish colonial architecture and modern luxury, sits like a king surveying his domain. The estate is alive despite the hour, lights glimmering, offering a warm glow against the night.
Don Melchor leads us into his study, a room with an expansive view of the darkened ocean beyond, its waves whispering secrets in the distance.
"Welcome to Caba, Marco. It's been too long," he says, motioning for me to take a seat. The room is rich with the scent of aged wood and leather, comfort and power intermingled.
I settle into the offered chair, accepting a club soda from one of the maids. The glass is cool, a contrast to the warmth of the room.
"We're facing a critical situation," Don Melchor begins, his tone serious, the importance of his words hanging in the air. "Our rivals are getting bolder, targeting the routes critical to our operations. The ones we use for transporting weaponry, the kind that can shift the balance of power in fragile regions. Your father's business."
I nod, understanding the importance of his words. "They're not just after territory; they're after the chessboard itself."
"Exactly," he agrees. "We can't let that happen. Our family and people rely on those routes' security and stability. It's about more than just business; it's about maintaining order."
The conversation shifts to family, the ties that bind us to this life, and the responsibilities we carry to our blood and those who stand with us. It reminds me of the weight on my shoulders and the legacy I must protect at all costs.
The night deepens, and we raise our glasses in a silent toast, a “¡Salud!” to the battles ahead and the strength to face them. The club soda's fizz is sharp, a fitting end to a day marked by violence and vows.
Retiring to my room, the comfort of the bed is a stark contrast to the turmoil within. Lying there, staring into the darkness, I'm caught between the world I know and the one I'm fighting for. The sounds of the ocean and the scent of pine offer a momentary escape, a brief respite from the anarchy.
But as sleep claims me, I know there's no escaping the path I'm on. Tomorrow, I'll wake to Caba's beauty and the challenges that await. For now, I let the darkness take me, drifting off with the resolve to fight, survive, and protect what's ours.
Dawn breaks with a palette of colors I've only seen in paintings, pulling me from a restless sleep. The unfamiliarity of this place tugs at my consciousness, coaxing me out of bed with a mix of curiosity and an inherent need to familiarize myself with my temporary stronghold. My body moves on autopilot, descending the staircase to venture into the sprawling backyard with an ocean view.
The air is different in the morning; it carries the scent of salt and the subtle hint of morning dew on the grass. The ocean, a vast expanse of moving glass under the early sun, stretches beyond the limits of sight. It's a moment of tranquility before the storm of my mission engulfs me again.
As I step onto the dew-kissed grass, lost in the serene beauty of my surroundings, a sudden collision jolts me back to reality. My frame, towering at six foot five, unwittingly intercepts the path of a petite figure whose momentum comes to an abrupt halt against mine.
Instinctively, my hands reach out, steadying the woman before me. "Whoa, I didn't expect to find anyone else at this hour. Sorry about that," I say, trying to inject a bit of humor into the situation. "I guess you could say we've both stumbled upon a beautiful morning, huh?"
She looks up at me, her expression unreadable, not a flicker of amusement in her eyes. There's a moment, brief and charged, when her gaze holds mine, a silent assessment that leaves me oddly unsettled. She's sweaty, as if she's been running for miles or perhaps running from something—a thought that tightens my chest with concern and curiosity.
"Is everything all right?" I find myself asking, the words slipping out more out of genuine feeling than an attempt to continue my earlier aborted attempt at conversation.
Her study of me is intense, almost analytical, and I realize I can't get a read on her. This inability to gauge her thoughts and predict her next move or reaction is disconcerting. For a moment, we're just two strangers, caught in an unexpected encounter, surrounded by the beauty of a world that seems to hold its breath.
Her response slices through the morning air, her voice stern and commanding, contrasting with her petite frame. "My apologies, sir. If you'll please exc—" But I can't let that formal address hang between us, not when the informal circumstances of our meeting seem to demand something less structured.
"Sir?" I scoff, unable to hide my amusement. Glancing at her from head to toe, I note the determination in her posture, the sweat glistening on her brow—a runner's badge of honor. "I don't think I'm much older than you."
She inhales sharply, perhaps surprised at my interruption or the casual dismissal of the distance she tried to impose with that “sir.” "I'm returning from a run on the beach and have obligations to tend to. If you'll excuse me," she says, her tone brooking no argument.
Before I can formulate a response, she turns on her heel and walks away, her pace brisk, leaving me to stare after her in a mix of bewilderment and intrigue. The encounter, brief as it was, unsettles me in a way I hadn't anticipated. Her presence, the assertive edge to her voice, and the mystery of her early morning run along the beach swirl into a curiosity that I find myself unexpectedly eager to indulge.
Yet, as she disappears from view, blending into the landscape of this sprawling estate that overlooks the ocean, I'm reminded of my purpose here. The serenity of the morning, disrupted by our chance meeting, now feels like a distant memory, replaced by the reality of the tasks ahead. Still, her image lingers, a puzzle piece in a game where the rules are yet to be defined.
Chapter Three
Pia
I glide silently through the vast expanse of the mansion, my footsteps muffled by the plush carpets that line the floors. The house is shrouded in the quiet of the early morning, just as I had anticipated, allowing me to embark on my run without disturbing the other inhabitants. As I climb the staircase to my room on the third floor, the solitude feels like a cloak, shielding me from the complexities of my new reality.
Once inside the sanctuary of my room, I head straight for the shower, eager to wash away the remnants of my morning exertion. The water cascades over me, and with it flows a torrent of memories from the final leg of my journey to Don Melchor's stronghold. The realization that Cypress intended to hide me with who my father would consider the enemy is a thought that twists in my gut. It's a betrayal, yet one born out of desperation and, strangely, trust.
The surprise of it all isn't just in the destination but in the knowledge that Cypress, whose life has been untouched by the shadows of the underworld, knew precisely where to take me. How did she navigate these murky waters so confidently? The question looms large in my mind, a puzzle piece that refuses to fit.
I shake away the thoughts, refusing to let uncertainty cloud my focus. Today is not the day for doubts. Drying off, I dress carefully, choosing an outfit that balances respect and self-assurance. I need to remember who I am, even in this foreign environment.
