The terrace doors slammed open behind him. Lourdes stormed out first, black dress whipping around her thighs like a battle flag. Her heels cracked against the stone with every step, mascara streaked into war paint. Victor followed, shirt half-tucked, face blotched crimson, the guards trailing at a safe distance. Elias and Valentina brought up the rear—Elias's fists clenched, Valentina's eyes glittering with unshed tears and calculation.
Jamieson didn't turn. He kept his gaze on the black sea, fingers drumming the balustrade.
"You want to talk?" Lourdes's voice sliced the wind. "Fine. Talk."
He pivoted slowly. The alpha mask was locked in place, but inside the turmoil still churned.
"I want the truth," he said. "All of it. Starting with his name."
Victor barked a laugh that cracked in the middle. "You don't get to demand anything, bastard."
Lourdes rounded on Victor. "Shut your mouth." Then to Jamieson, softer, pleading: "Mijo, it was one weekend. One mistake. I was twenty-nine, lonely, your father was—"
"Don't." Jamieson's voice cut like a blade. "Don't call him that. And don't call me mijo."
The words landed between them like a live wire. Lourdes flinched as if shocked.
Victor stepped forward, chest puffed. "You think a dead man's scribble makes you king? I'll tie this up in courts for a decade. Every peso, every gun, every dock—gone."
Jamieson finally faced them fully. "Try. The soldiers outside answer to the envelope. The banks in Panama answer to the envelope. The captains on the water answer to the envelope. You're loud, Victor, but you're broke the second I freeze your accounts."
Elias surged forward. "You're a fucking cuckoo, Jamie. You don't even know how to run a lemonade stand."
Jamieson's hand shot out, caught Elias by the throat, lifted him until his toes scraped stone. "I learned on your father's docks while you were snorting lines in Georgetown. Let's not test who knows more."
He dropped Elias, who coughed and staggered back into Valentina's arms.
Lourdes's fury finally ignited. "Enough!" She slapped Jamieson—hard, open-palmed, the crack echoing off the villa walls. His head snapped sideways, cheek stinging, but he didn't move.
"You dare," she hissed, voice trembling with rage and something that might have been heartbreak. "You dare stand there with his money in your pocket and treat me like I'm the enemy? I carried you. I bled for you. I lied for you every day of your life."
Jamieson tasted blood where his tooth had cut the inside of his cheek. "You lied to me. Every day. Every 'good night, mijo.' Every time you let Victor grind me into the dirt for existing."
Victor sneered. "You existed because I allowed it. Be grateful."
"Grateful?" Jamieson's laugh was low, lethal. "For nineteen years of kneeling? For watching Elias take what I starved for? For learning my own mother spread her legs for a stranger and called it love?"
Lourdes's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob. But her eyes blazed. "You want to make a spectacle? Fine. Keep the money. Keep the guns. Keep the empire." She stepped close, close enough that her perfume flooded his senses—jasmine, betrayal, sex. "But you will never have me again. Not my touch. Not my voice. Not my name in your mouth."
She spun on her heel, dress flaring like a matador's cape. Victor grabbed her wrist. "We're leaving. All of us. Let the bastard choke on his throne."
Elias rubbed his throat, glaring murder. "Enjoy the view from the top, little brother. It's a long fall."
Valentina lingered half a second longer, lips parted as if to speak, then thought better. The four of them stormed back through the doors in a whirlwind of silk and fury. The guards didn't stop them—Jamieson's subtle nod ensured that.
He stood alone on the terrace, the slap still burning, the envelope heavier than lead. The storm inside him howled louder than the wind.
---
Three Days Later – The Funeral
The cathedral in Cartagena's old city was a fortress of stone and stained glass, every pew packed with mourners in black. Politicians, generals, narcos in Brioni suits—faces Jamieson now recognized from the ledgers. Don Armando's casket lay on a catafalque draped in crimson, flanked by Colombian flags and bouquets of white lilies that couldn't mask the scent of gun oil.
Jamieson stood at the front, black suit tailored to his frame, shoulders square, jaw carved from granite. The priest's Latin droned over the crowd. Jamieson didn't hear it. His eyes tracked the family in the first pew.
Victor sat rigid, knuckles white on the hymnal. Elias beside him, sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes. Valentina's veil couldn't hide the tremor in her hands. Lourdes—Lourdes was a statue in black lace, face pale, lips bloodless. She hadn't looked at Jamieson once since they'd arrived.
The eulogies were a parade of lies. Old allies praised Don Armando's "legitimate" shipping empire. No one mentioned the containers that left Buenaventura heavy with product. No one mentioned the bodies fertilizing the jungle.
When it was Jamieson's turn, the cathedral hushed. He stepped to the pulpit, boots silent on the marble. His voice carried without a microphone.
"Don Armando Castillo built an empire with his bare hands," he began. "He taught me that blood is a choice, not just a birthright. He chose me. I will honor that choice with every breath."
A murmur rippled through the pews. Victor's head snapped up, eyes blazing. Lourdes finally looked at him—eyes red-rimmed, unreadable.
Jamieson continued. "The family will mourn in private. The business continues under new management. Anyone who disagrees can speak to the men at the doors."
He stepped down. The organ swelled. The casket was carried out to the crypt beneath the cathedral, where generations of Castillos lay in marble tombs.
Outside, the sky cracked open with rain. Black umbrellas bloomed like mushrooms. Jamieson stood under the portico, watching the family climb into separate limos. Lourdes paused at the bottom step, rain streaking her veil.
For one heartbeat he thought she might speak. Might apologize. Might beg.
Instead she lifted her chin, eyes cold as the grave. "You wanted to be king," she said, voice barely audible over the downpour. "Rule alone."
She slid into the back of Victor's limo. The door slammed. Tires hissed on wet cobblestones as the convoy pulled away.
Jamieson stood in the rain until his suit soaked through, until the cathedral bells tolled the final note. The empire was his. The family was gone.
Inside his chest, the betrayal roared on, louder than any funeral bell.