The community radio crackled to life like a dying robot, dragging Giulano from the kind of sleep that felt more like a coma. Every muscle in his body screamed protest—yesterday's street fight had introduced Marcus's soft body to the harsh realities of West Antiok diplomacy.
Who the hell still uses community radio? he thought, rolling off the mattress with all the grace of a bag of cement. What is this, 1987?
"...President Heshim, who has served Gulac faithfully for seven years across two terms, was found dead this morning in his private residence..."
Giulano froze. The radio's tinny voice continued its death announcement while his mind raced through possibilities. Heshim had been their puppet—a spineless career politician who'd learned to dance to Belar's tune. His sudden death wasn't coincidence; it was a message.
"...Born in Kuwait, President Heshim immigrated to Gulac as a child and rose through the ranks of public service..."
"Theo, Theo, Theo," Giulano muttered, a grim smile playing across Marcus's face. Theodore Bezio, his former right-hand man, was making moves. Classic Theo—always preferred the dramatic gesture to subtle persuasion.
The new Belar empire needed a new president, which meant the power struggle had already begun. Theo would want someone more compliant than Heshim, someone who understood that the presidency was just an expensive costume party where the real decisions were made elsewhere.
For a moment, Giulano's thoughts drifted to his family. Isabella, with her sharp wit and sharper tongue. His daughters, Sofia and Carmen, probably planning their next European shopping expedition. And Pedro—his son, his heir, his greatest disappointment and deepest pride rolled into one complicated package.
But they were safe. He'd built that system himself—layers of protection, numbered accounts, safe houses scattered across three continents. Theodore might have hated Giulano González, but he'd always had a soft spot for the family. Hell, he was probably already positioning himself as their protector.
Day one in paradise, Giulano thought, surveying his twelve-by-twelve kingdom. The hundred-dollar bill lay on the floor where it had apparently fallen from his pocket during yesterday's panic. He grabbed it like a lifeline, finally understanding what people meant when they talked about found money.
His body felt like he'd been hit by a truck driven by a very angry gorilla. Every breath reminded him that Marcus's ribs weren't built for combat. He needed a shower, badly. The combination of dried sweat, fear, and that mysterious smell from the Chinese restaurant downstairs had created an aromatic profile that could probably be classified as a war crime.
The bathroom was optimistically named—it was more like a closet with delusions of grandeur. He turned the tap hopefully and was rewarded with two drops of water that fell with the enthusiasm of tears at a funeral.
"Oh, shit." West Antiok's municipal water system had apparently given up along with everything else in this town. The morning was already ninety degrees, and without air conditioning, his room felt like a sauna designed by someone who really hated people. This is what rock bottom looks like, he thought. And it's got plumbing issues.
A knock at the door triggered reflexes older than Marcus's body. Giulano's hand automatically reached for where his gold-plated Beretta should have been—a gift from himself for his fortieth birthday, engraved with "To the King" in flowing script.
His fingers found nothing but empty air and the harsh reality of his new circumstances. I need a gun, he realized. And a phone. And about ten thousand dollars. But mostly a gun.
"Who is there?" he called, squinting through the peephole at the distorted fish-eye view of the hallway.
"Marcus, it's Danny."
Giulano opened the door to find the kid looking remarkably fresh for someone who'd been used as a punching bag less than twenty-four hours ago. Youth was wasted on the young.
"Thought you might've gotten lost," Giulano said, stepping aside to let him in.
"Nah, man. These are my streets."
Danny dropped onto the mattress like he owned the place. "I know every crack in the sidewalk, every broken streetlight, every place the cops don't bother patrolling—which is basically everywhere." He glanced around the sparse room. "How'd you even afford this palace?"
"The orphanage helped out," Giulano replied, then cut to what mattered. "Danny, I need three things: a job, a phone, and a gun. But the gun comes first."
Danny's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Damn, Marcus. Yesterday you were throwing punches like Bruce Lee, today you're shopping for firearms. What's next, asking about rocket launchers?"
"How much does a gun cost around here?"
"Honestly? No clue. But I know someone who knows someone." Danny rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a small water bottle. "You look like you need this more than I do."
Three hundred and fifty milliliters of lukewarm water had never looked so precious. Giulano accepted it like communion wine.
"You're a lifesaver, Danny."
"Don't get all emotional on me," the kid said, but he was grinning. "Besides, I came here with business. Got a job for you."
Giulano paused with the water bottle halfway to his lips. In his experience, jobs offered by teenagers in towns like West Antiok rarely involved filling out tax forms. He took a sip anyway.
"Let's hear it."