The summit was held at The Crimson Vault, an underground estate owned by the Commission that governed the city's shadows. It was a place of neutral ground, where blood was supposedly forbidden, but the air always smelled of old iron and even older grudges.
"You don't have to do this," Mario said as the SUV pulled into the subterranean garage. He was checking the slide of his Glock, his movements mechanical and perfect.
Desderia sat beside him, dressed in a floor-length black silk gown that felt like armor. Her hair was swept up, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat—and the tiny, high-frequency transmitter Mario had insisted she wear.
"If I stay in the car, I'm a victim," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "If I walk in there with you, I'm a witness. You taught me that, remember?"
Mario paused, his green eyes flicking to hers. For a moment, the coldness cracked. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "If things go wrong, Carter will take you out the north exit. Don't look back. Don't wait for me."
"Mario—"
"Promise me, Desderia."
She swallowed hard. "I promise."
The Great Hall of the Vault was a masterpiece of intimidation. A massive rectangular table of black obsidian sat in the center, surrounded by the heads of the Five Families.
At the far end sat the Sanchez patriarch, Lorenzo, and his wife, Isabella. They were the "Red Blood" royalty—old, elegant, and terrifyingly calm. Beside them stood their eldest son, Martin, who looked at Mario with a hatred so visceral it felt like a physical heat.
Across from them sat the De Silvas, their faces pale and furious after the incident at the university.
Mario walked in with his head held high, Desderia on his arm. The room went silent. The "Ghost King" had arrived, and he had brought a "commoner" to the holiest of mafia altars.
"Mario De Cruze," Lorenzo Sanchez said. His voice was like gravel being crushed. "You break our peace. You assault the heir of the De Silva line. You disrupt our trade. Do you seek a war?"
Mario pulled out a chair for Desderia, then sat down, leaning back with a deceptive casualness. "I seek the truth, Lorenzo. The De Silvas sold information that belonged to me. They harbored a traitor who murdered one of my people." He glanced at Marcus, who sat with a heavily bandaged jaw. "I merely collected the interest on a debt."
"The girl," Isabella Sanchez said, her voice sharp and melodic. She was staring at Desderia with an intensity that felt... strange. It wasn't just malice; it was curiosity. "Why is she here? She is not of our blood."
"She is my shadow," Mario said. "Where I go, she goes."
Martin Sanchez scoffed, leaning forward. "She's a gutter-rat from the foster system. I've seen her file. She's the daughter of a dead-beat and a ghost. You brought her here to insult us?"
Desderia felt a surge of heat in her cheeks. She looked at Martin—the man who would one day be her executioner, though she didn't know it yet—and lifted her chin. "I am a student of the law, Mr. Sanchez. And from what I see in this room, you're all terrified of a girl who knows how to read the fine print of your 'treaties.'"
A low murmur went around the table. Mario's hand found hers under the table, his fingers entwining with hers. It was a silent 'well done.'
"Enough," Lorenzo barked. "There is a matter of history to settle. The De Silvas claim you have been targeting their shipments not for profit, but for revenge. They say you harbor a grudge for the St. Jude's incident."
Mario's eyes turned into emerald ice. "St. Jude's was an act of cowardice. Whoever ordered that fire didn't just kill children; they created me. And yes, I intend to see the debt paid in full."
Isabella Sanchez flinched. She looked at Mario—his profile, the way he held his shoulders, the specific shade of his eyes. She looked at her husband, a flicker of doubt crossing her face.
"We did what was necessary for the trade," Lorenzo said dismissively. "The priest refused us."
"And you sold the survivors into trafficking," Mario countered, his voice a low, lethal vibration. "A family friend of yours, wasn't it, De Silva? You handled the 'disposal' of the boys who survived the fire."
The elder De Silva shifted uncomfortably. "We followed orders."
The tension in the room was a physical weight. Desderia watched the interplay, her legal mind mapping the connections. The Sanchez family ordered the hit. De Silvas executed the 'clean-up.' They are all connected.
But then, something happened that wasn't in the script.
Martin Sanchez, eyes narrowed, reached into his jacket. Carter was halfway to his holster before Martin pulled out a small, transparent evidence bag. Inside was a silver locket—one Mario had dropped during the university scuffle.
"This was found on the pavement," Martin said, sliding it toward his father. "It has the Sanchez crest on the inside. Only three were ever made. One for me, one for my sister Secilia... and one for the brother we lost in the 'accident' twenty-four years ago."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Lorenzo picked up the locket with trembling fingers. He looked at the crest, then at Mario. "Where did you get this?"
Mario didn't blink. "I took it from the man who tried to kill me when I was eight. I kept it as a reminder of whose throat I needed to slit."
He didn't know. Desderia realized it at that moment. Mario thought he had stolen a trophy. He didn't realize he was holding his own birthright.
Isabella Sanchez let out a choked sound, her hand flying to her mouth. "Pablo?" she whispered.
Mario stood up, the chair screeching back. "My name is Mario De Cruze. I am the Ghost who is going to haunt your family until there is nothing left but ash. This summit is over."
He grabbed Desderia's hand and pulled her toward the exit.
"Mario, wait!" Desderia hissed as they reached the hallway. "Did you see their faces? They didn't look angry—they looked like they'd seen a ghost."
"They have," Mario growled, his pace frantic. "They've seen the man who's going to kill them."
But as they reached the SUV, Desderia looked back. Standing in the shadows of the garage was a young woman she hadn't seen before—Secilia Sanchez. She wasn't looking at Mario. She was looking at Desderia with a mixture of pity and terror.
Secilia mouthed a single word before disappearing into the darkness:
"Run."
Inside the SUV, the silence was heavy. Mario was staring out the window, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might break.
"Mario," Desderia said softly, reaching for his hand. "The locket. If what Martin said is true..."
"It's not," Mario snapped. "I am an orphan. I am the son of no one. They are trying to mind-game me, Desderia. They want to weaken my resolve before the final strike."
"But what if—"
"I said NO!" He turned to her, his eyes wild. He grabbed her by the shoulders, not roughly, but with a desperation that broke her heart. "If I am one of them... if their blood is in my veins... then I am the very thing I've spent my life trying to destroy. Do you understand? I cannot be a Sanchez. I won't be."
Desderia didn't pull away. She leaned in, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling the "Ghost" into her light. "You are who you chose to be, Mario. Not who they made you."
Mario buried his face in her shoulder, his breath hitching. For the first time, the ruthless boss was gone. There was only a man terrified of the truth.
In the front seat, Carter's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and his face went pale.
"Mario," Carter said, his voice trembling. "The DNA tech I hired to check the locket... he just sent the preliminary results. He cross-referenced it with the public records of the Sanchez family."
Mario didn't look up. "Tell me."
"It's a 99.9% match, Boss," Carter whispered. "You aren't just their enemy. You're their son. You're Pablo Sanchez."
The world tilted. Mario pulled back from Desderia, his face a mask of horror.
At that moment, the war changed. It was no longer about revenge. It was about a family that had spent twenty years trying to kill its own heart.