Matt didn't stop running until the mangroves thickened enough to swallow the sound of engines behind him. His chest heaved, his lungs burned with every ragged breath. The sand and shells under his feet were gone, replaced by tangled roots and thick mud that threatened to swallow him whole. His hands scraped against bark as he pushed forward, and each step left him covered in sweat, dirt, and salt.
Somewhere behind him, the gunfire had stopped. For a moment, he thought Ferus might have survived. But doubt crept in, gnawing at him with cold teeth. He forced it away. He couldn't think about Ferus now—not yet. Right now, it was about surviving.
He crouched beside a twisted mangrove trunk, chest pressed tight to the rough bark, listening. The sound of the tide was loud, mingling with the distant hum of engines and the occasional clink of metal. Every instinct screamed at him to keep moving, but exhaustion tugged at his legs like chains.
Matt pressed his face into the shadowed roots, tears streaming freely now. He let himself cry, not just for Ferus, but for Poppa T, Odette, Gabriel… for every memory of the life he had lost in less than a day.
"They're gone," he whispered, voice hoarse. "All of them… gone."
A single sob escaped, the sound swallowed by the wind.
Then a thought hit him, sharp as a blade: he couldn't let them win. Not Leonardo. Not those men. Not anyone. If Ferus had been captured… then he had to make sure that he, Matt Salvador, would be ready. He would learn, he would train, and he would survive. And when the time came… he would make them pay.
Hours passed. Night deepened. The moon's silver light barely filtered through the dense mangroves, casting ghostly shadows across the muddy floor. Matt moved slowly, carefully, using every stick, root, and shadow to hide himself. He followed the natural curve of the island, keeping low, breathing shallow, and listening for signs of pursuit.
By dawn, his feet carried him to a small freshwater stream that cut through the northern edge of the island. He knelt beside it, cupping water into his hands. As he drank, he stared at his reflection in the rippling water. Dirt smeared his face, tears streaked across his cheeks, and his eyes—once bright—looked hollow, haunted.
"I can't fail," he whispered to himself. "I won't fail."
The stream reminded him of his grandfather, of the stories Ferus had once told him in fleeting moments before everything fell apart. Stories of courage, sacrifice, and cunning. Stories of a man who had faced impossible odds and survived—not because he was stronger, but because he was smarter, patient, and relentless. Matt clung to those lessons, letting them seep into his mind like water into parched soil.
Later that morning, Matt found a small clearing where the sun pierced the canopy. He stopped, knees weak, and sank to the ground. His mind drifted back to the villa, to the laughter that had filled the air the day before. He could almost hear Gabriel yelling at Poppa T about mistakes in cooking, smell the sizzling steaks, see Odette's sparkling eyes. Then the shadows, the smoke, the screaming.
He collapsed fully, hands over his face.
Ferus.
Matt bit his lip, fury igniting inside him. Ferus had been caught because of him. If Matt hadn't been slow, if he hadn't hesitated… maybe things would have been different. But he couldn't go back. He couldn't undo what had happened. He could only move forward, plan, prepare, and survive long enough to save Ferus and make sure no one ever hurt his family again.
Hours blurred into a tense rhythm. Matt scavenged the forest, looking for anything that could help him: sticks for defense, fruits to eat, mud and leaves to hide his scent. His body was exhausted, his muscles screaming, but he forced himself onward.
As he rested briefly near a hidden cove, he thought about what Ferus had told him: Don Leonardo's men weren't just mindless killers. They were calculating, trained, and ruthless. They had taken the villa in minutes. They had almost taken him yesterday. And now, with Ferus captured, the stakes had doubled.
Matt clenched his fists. "I will find them," he murmured. "Every last one of them. I'll bring them down… and I'll get you back, Ferus."
The flashbacks came again, unbidden. He saw Poppa T swinging at the men, Odette screaming, Gabriel falling. He remembered the tattooed arm of the shooter, the echoing commands from the phone. And most vividly, he remembered the moment he had tripped, hidden, and watched his family die.
The memory was sharp, but it fueled him. He wiped the tears from his face, letting rage replace despair.
"I'm not helpless," he said aloud, his voice trembling. "I'm not…"
A rustle in the underbrush snapped him out of his thoughts. Matt froze, muscles coiled. Every shadow was a threat. He held his breath. Then, a small bird took off from the leaves, fluttering into the sun. He exhaled slowly.
"You can't afford mistakes," he whispered. "Not now. Not ever again."
Matt moved further along the coast, where the reef jutted into the shallow waves. He remembered Ferus once telling him stories about his grandfather—how the old man had earned the island by saving the lives of the fishermen during a massive storm, how the reef's natural channels had hidden boats from pirates and smugglers.
"Everything about this island has a purpose," Matt muttered, staring at the coral-lined water. "Every tree, every tide… there's a reason someone wants it."
He picked up a sharp piece of coral, testing its weight in his hand. Not a weapon, but enough to remind him that the island itself could be used to survive.
If Ferus had taught him anything in the short time they'd known each other, it was that knowledge was power—and right now, knowledge could keep him alive.
Night fell again. Matt made his way to a high point on the island—a rocky overlook where he could see the surrounding ocean. He crouched there, shivering in the cool wind, listening for anything unusual.
And he saw it.
Engines. Faint, distant, but unmistakable.
Matt's pulse quickened. His body tensed. The shadows in the distance were returning.
"They're looking for me," he whispered. "They're looking for all of me."
A wave of fear washed over him—but he didn't run immediately. He watched. He analyzed. He counted the lights, the movements. He remembered the attack on the villa, remembered Ferus' warning: patience. Observation. Strategy.
Matt clenched the piece of coral, letting it rest in his palm. He was alone, yes—but not helpless. Not yet.
And he knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.
Because if Don Leonardo's men wanted the Salvador family's legacy… they would have to get through him first.
And Matt Salvador had survived death once. He would survive again.