The González name had once commanded respect across three states and two countries. For decades, they'd been Gulac's equivalent of royalty—wealthy merchants who'd built their fortune on legitimate businesses and social connections. They weren't criminals; they were pillars of the community.
That changed in the early nineties when Federico González, Giulano's grandfather, was shot outside his textile factory. The old man had refused to pay protection money to some upstart gang, believing his reputation and wealth would shield him. They'd found him with three bullets in his chest and his dignity intact but worthless.
The murder broke something fundamental in Giulano's father, Guilano González Sr. The gentle businessman realized that money without power was just numbers on paper. Before cancer took him twenty years later, he'd passed along a simple truth to his son: "Respect without fear is just politeness, mijo. And politeness gets you killed."
Now Giulano stood outside Lulu Supermarket, broke as the day he was born, carrying that lesson like a loaded gun.
The bell chimed his entrance, and Maria looked up from arranging canned goods with the systematic precision of someone who took pride in small things. Her face lit up when she saw him—genuine pleasure, not the calculated charm he was used to from people who wanted something.
"Hey," she smiled, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "I thought you were going to disappear on me."
"Do you always help people and they disappear?" Giulano countered, pulling out thirty dollars—more than he could afford, but reputation mattered even in poverty.
Maria studied the bills like they might be counterfeit, then handed him six dollars back. "I didn't ask for interest. I asked for faithfulness, and you've proven yourself."
The gesture hit him harder than any punch from yesterday's fight. In his former life, loyalty was purchased with fear or greed. Maria's kindness had no angle, no ulterior motive—it was pure as mountain water and twice as rare.
If Pedro ever finds a girl like this, Giulano thought, I wish he does.
"Thank you, Maria." He pocketed the change. "By the way, do you know Danny Reindgers?"
"Sure." She tilted her head toward the window. "You looking for him? He's probably behind that block right now—the old Martinez building. That's where he usually hangs out."
"Thank you again."
Stepping back onto the street, Giulano took a moment to study Tony's Pizza across the road. Peeling paint, grease-stained windows, and a neon sign that had given up on half its letters. Friday afternoon, Victor Restrepo would walk through those doors carrying five thousand dollars and a death sentence. The location was perfect—multiple exit routes, minimal foot traffic, and the kind of neighborhood too scared or too tired to call the cops.
He crossed the street and circled behind the Martinez building, a three-story monument to urban decay. Half the windows were boarded up, and the rest were cracked spider webs of glass. In the alley behind it, he found Danny exactly where Maria had predicted.
"Marcus?" Danny looked genuinely surprised. "How'd you find me?"
"Not a hard question for someone your age to figure out," Giulano replied. "I want to meet the team."
Danny's grin was sharp as a blade. "Perfect timing. That's exactly where I was heading." He started walking deeper into the alley. "Come on. Time to meet the future kings of West Antiok."
The meeting spot was a basketball court behind an abandoned school—Roosevelt Elementary, according to the faded sign hanging by one rusty chain. The court had no nets, just bent rims that looked like broken teeth. The concrete was a moonscape of cracks and potholes, and someone had spray-painted "BLEED FOR WHAT YOU EAT" across the backboard in letters three feet tall.
Motivational, Giulano thought, scanning the urban wasteland. Really sets the tone for team building.
He and Danny arrived five minutes early—punctuality was a habit Giulano couldn't shake, even in his reduced circumstances. In his former life, being late to a meeting was a sign of disrespect that could end careers. Or lives.
"They'll be here," Danny said, reading his impatience. "They're just... unpredictable."
"Charming," Giulano replied, his eyes automatically cataloging shadows and sight lines. Old habits died hard.
A minute later, they started to trickle in like smoke through broken windows.
First came Timo—seventeen, maybe eighteen, all sharp angles and nervous energy. He wore a hoodie three sizes too big that made him look like a scarecrow in urban camouflage. His eyes never stopped moving, sweeping the court like he expected snipers on every rooftop. When he nodded at Danny, it was barely perceptible. He lit a cigarette that smelled more like burning newspaper than tobacco, and Giulano realized the kid was probably smoking whatever he could find. Paranoid but aware. Could be useful.
Next was Thirteen—lean muscle wrapped in attitude, buzzcut hair, and combat boots that had seen actual combat. Her black tank top read "NO GODS, NO BOSSES" in faded white letters. She was older than the others, maybe twenty-two, with the kind of hard-earned confidence that came from surviving things that killed weaker people. She sized up Giulano like a predator evaluating prey.
"So this is our new legend?" she said, jerking a thumb in his direction. "The Red Serpent Slayer?"
"Depends who's telling the story," Giulano replied evenly.
She smirked, and he caught a glimpse of gold teeth. "If you die Friday, can I have your shoes?"
"She claims to be the mayor's cousin," Danny whispered to Giulano. "Also claims she once killed a man with a toothbrush."
"Which claim is true?"