Axel's fingers hovered over his phone before he finally made the call. The line clicked as Allyza picked up.
"Allyza, it's Axel. ---- Dad was shot, but he's stable now. The familia's not taking this lightly. We're hunting Nate and Alejandro. No mercy will be given to anyone who has to do with anything."
There was a pause on the other end, then Allyza's voice was steady, sharp.
"Understood. I'll keep a close watch on Dan for you. If anything feels off, you'll be the first to know."
Axel sighed, grateful. "Thanks. I can't afford any distractions while I'm dealing with this."
Allyza didn't hesitate.
"Neither can she. I'll make sure she stays safe—and focused."
After ending the call, Allyza immediately dialed Danielle.
"Danielle, let's meet for coffee. I miss Leo haha."
Danielle sensed the urgency in Allyza's voice.
"Okay. When?"
"Hmm tell when you're free, then we'll see from there."
—
Monday morning came quietly. Caden arrived at Horizon's sleek office building, his face composed but his mind still racing. With Alonzo sent home under strict medical care and the media blockout firmly in place, no news had slipped through the cracks. The usual hum of activity buzzed around him, but the tension beneath it was palpable.
"Good morning, Caden," a colleague greeted, unaware of the storm that had recently passed.
He nodded, forcing a steady smile. No one can know what's really going on. Not yet. He already handled the media, sealing the walls tight. Now, it was time to focus on what came next.
As he settled into his office, his phone buzzed with a message from Nadia—silent support, a reminder that the family's fight wasn't over. The battle just shifted, he thought. And we have to be ready.
The week rolled in steadier than the last. With Caden back in the fold, the workload that once threatened to drown Danielle finally eased. He quietly picked up the reins on several strategic fronts, allowing her to breathe just a little.
May had been doing exceptionally well—so much so that Horizon Holdings formally absorbed her under Danielle's division. She now carried the title of Executive Assistant, with compensation and benefits that matched the weight of her new role.
"Dan, we've cleared the bottleneck on regional approvals," May said during their call. "Also, Solo's settled into my old coordination role just fine."
Danielle leaned back in her chair, scanning over the report. "Good. He's reliable—next best thing to you."
May smiled through the screen. "We've also onboarded two more CSRs. They're remote-based, but both come with telco and logistics backgrounds."
Things are finally starting to take shape, Danielle thought. The machine's running. Slowly. Quietly. But forward.
And for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself a moment to sip her coffee—hot, this time.
Valentine's Day arrived with little fanfare at Horizon Holdings, but that didn't stop Danielle from doing what she did best—quiet gestures that spoke volumes.
Across every remote workstation and on-site hub, from Manila to Madrid, neat packages of locally sourced chocolates arrived with sleek black-and-gold ribbons. Inside was a small card in crisp handwriting:
"For the heart behind the hustle. Happy Valentine's Day."
She kept it simple, personal. No logos, no fanfare. Just a note and a reminder that their work—no matter how unseen—was never unappreciated.
May received hers just past nine in the morning, already in a call. She unwrapped the box quietly and smiled. "Of course she remembered," she murmured, setting it beside her coffee.
—The envelope sat on his desk when he returned from a quick meeting—unmarked except for his name in clean, deliberate print.
Caden paused, brow arching. He didn't usually receive mail. Not like this.
He unwrapped the parcel slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as the scent of dark chocolate met him. Beneath the ribbon, a folded note:
"You've held so much together. A little sweetness for the weight. – D."
No grand declarations. No excessive flourish.
Just enough.
He placed the note back in the box and set it aside with care—unopened chocolate and all—like it was something to be saved for later. A quiet reminder that someone saw the weight he carried, and answered it with grace.
She sees everyone. Even now, when she's barely sleeping.
That same week, in a private dock in Valencia, the yacht sat waiting—its hull glistening under the pale sun, fully stocked, engines humming low. The plan was simple: Nate and Alejandro would slip past the mainland and vanish toward Morocco, contacts arranged on the other side.
But the Real de Lara familia was always five steps ahead.
From the cliffside above, Caden gave a sharp nod.
Axel watched through binoculars, silent.
Below, shadows moved—men loyal to the old guard, the bloodline, not the law. By the time the gangplank lowered, it was over.
Alejandro was dragged onto the pier, sputtering curses in three languages. Older, slower, and resigned, he barely resisted. He'd gambled and lost. The weight of that truth had already settled in his bones.
Nate, however, ran.
Or tried to.
He broke into a sprint the moment the trap sprung— frantic, slipping as he tried to leap from dock to boat, a duffel half-zipped slung over one shoulder.
"Get the fuck away from me!" he screamed, veins bulging in his neck. "You don't know who I am—I'm a Real de Lara!"
A quiet figure in black was already waiting by the edge of the water. Nate slammed into him and bounced back like a ragdoll, landing hard on the concrete, a sharp cry tearing from his throat.
"You brought this on yourself," the man said coldly, slipping Nate's phone into a Faraday pouch with surgical precision.
"No—NO! I can pay! I'll pay all of you!" Nate barked, eyes wild now. He scrambled to his knees, clutching the hem of one of the men's jackets. "Double, triple—name it! I have accounts. I'll wire it right now!"
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a metal money clip and waving it like a white flag. Then his watch, tossing it like a chip into a pot. Still no response. His hand trembled as he yanked the chain off his neck.
"There! Just fucking take it! Please—please, don't turn me in."
His voice cracked.
Then something worse.
A low sound, humiliating and unmistakable, escaped him—his body betraying him as the adrenaline drained and panic fully took over.
He had shit himself.
His pants, the expensive linen kind, sagged in the back. The silence from the men surrounding him grew heavier, colder. One of them stepped back half a pace, not out of pity—just disgust.
Nate froze. Realized. The full shame flooded in.
"Don't look at me—fuck, don't look at me like that!" he screamed, voice breaking, trying to wipe at himself with trembling hands. "This isn't over! This isn't—!"
He never finished the sentence. Two men grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back toward the waiting vehicle, his feet scraping the ground. No one spoke. No one pitied. His sobs echoed softly off the pier.
Alejandro turned away, unable to look.
Up on the cliff, Axel lowered his binoculars slowly.
No blood. As promised, Lolo. But no mercy either.
Caden didn't look back.
The tide rolled in quietly. And the yacht, once gleaming with promise, sat silent—no destination, no escape.
Just another broken plan.
Just another broken man.
The quiet crunch of gravel under leather shoes filled the air as Axel and Caden walked away from the cliffside.
The wind was light. The morning sun filtered through overcast skies, casting silver streaks on the asphalt ahead. The matte black Aston Martin sat idling, parked with precision along the winding coastal road that overlooked the private dock.
Neither of them said a word at first.
Axel slipped his sunglasses back on. A tailored black suit hugged his frame—clean lines, crisp shirt, no tie. His knuckles were faintly red. Not from violence. From gripping the truth too tightly.
Caden, beside him, matched the energy. A dark grey suit, navy undershirt, no jacket. Hands in his pockets, brow drawn. The wind tousled his hair, but not enough to loosen the tension in his jaw.
They didn't look at each other. They didn't need to.
The work was done.
Behind them, Nate was being driven away—hysterical, broken, and reeking of his own failure. Alejandro had already been loaded into another vehicle. And the yacht, once a promise of escape, now floated like a ghost at sea.
Caden broke the silence first.
"He shit himself."
Axel let out the ghost of a chuckle. "Figures."
They reached the car. Axel unlocked it with a flick of his wrist, the engine purring like a beast held on a leash. For a moment, they just stood there—two men carved from different corners of the same story, bound not by origin, but by the damage it left behind.
Caden glanced sideways, voice quiet. "You think it's over?"
Axel slid into the driver's seat, fingers tapping the wheel once.
"For him? Yes. For us?" A pause. "No."
Caden exhaled, stepping in on the passenger side. The leather seats swallowed them both in silence. Just brothers now. Not the heirs. Not the hunters. Just men, tired and alive.
Axel shifted gears. The car roared to life.
As they pulled away from the cliffs, the ocean to their left, the scent of salt and victoryless triumph lingered in the air. The sun broke through the clouds, catching the edge of Axel's sunglasses.
They didn't look back.
There was nothing left to see.
Beneath the Real de Lara estate—hidden behind reinforced doors and away from the polished marbled halls—was the dungeon.
They didn't call it that, of course. Not officially. On paper, it was part of the old wine cellars. "Historical preservation," as the registry noted. But the ones who worked there… knew.
The air was colder down here. Dry. Sterile. Stone walls lined with wooden beams, centuries old. New steel had been installed beneath the bones of the past—discreet security cameras, one-way glass, doors that didn't open without biometric keys.
The van rumbled into the subterranean tunnel without ceremony. No lights flashed. No sirens screamed. Just smooth, practiced efficiency.
Inside, Nate sat shivering, handcuffed, drenched in panic. His clothes damp with sea spray, sweat, and fear. His phone was gone. Alejandro was nowhere in sight. The men who escorted him said nothing.
By the time the van rolled to a stop, he was a wreck—sweaty, trembling, pale.
When the doors opened, the stench hit first.
He'd pissed himself sometime between the coast and here. Somewhere between begging, swearing, and frantic bargaining.
And then, seeing the corridor—bare stone, water-streaked walls, steel grates underfoot—something snapped.
The tension holding his body up gave way, and a wet, shameful sound followed.
He shat himself.
"Oh fuck, no—NO—wait! I didn't mean to—"
No one responded. No one flinched. As if it was expected.
They hauled him out by the armpits, legs barely catching the ground.
The corridor smelled of stone, antiseptic, and silence.
At the first chamber, one of the guards—dressed not in uniform, but in clean black—turned a valve.
A high-pressure hose hissed to life.
"Hey, hey—what the hell, I can walk—"
The blast of icy water hit him square in the chest.
"FUCK—ARE YOU CRAZY? I'M NATE DE LARA! I'M STILL A REAL DE—"
The water silenced him. It struck his face, pushing him back into the corner. He slipped. Hit the floor. Tried to crawl away.
They didn't stop until his designer shirt clung like tissue, shoes ruined, desperation washed off.
"AAAAHHH! STOP! FUCK! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?"
The second blast hit harder. One of the guards tilted the hose to his face, knocking the breath out of him.
It wasn't to clean him.
It was to erase him.
Soaked and coughing, Nate collapsed to the ground—stripped of all dignity.
They picked him up like trash. No eye contact. No words. Just discipline and disgust.
Barefoot now, they led him down the final hallway.
The cell was bright. White. One chair, bolted to the floor. Restraints waiting.
They didn't slam him down. They placed him.
Like a thing.
The restraints clicked shut.
The door hissed closed.
Behind mirrored glass, Caden observed silently. He hadn't flinched during the hosing. His jaw was tight, eyes sharper than ever.
He calls himself a De Lara, Caden thought coldly. But he's always been Alejandro's son.
Now? Now he's nothing.
Not even worthy of a seat at the table.
Just a wet disgrace—alone, humiliated, utterly defeated.
"He's not even worth hating," Caden muttered, almost to himself.
Beside him, one of the old guard—grey-haired, ex-military, Real de Lara loyalist—gave a slight nod.
"He'll stay down here. Until the Don decides otherwise."
No trial. No headlines.
Just removal.
Like dead weight cut loose from a rising ship.
No bloodshed. As Alonzo requested.
But no mercy either.
Alonzo sat quietly in his study, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the room. The old mahogany desk was strewn with reports, but his eyes stared past the papers—focused on something deeper.
That boy, he thought, fingers tightening around his glass of cold tea, he was never truly his own man.
Nate had always been a prisoner of his father's shadow—Alejandro's bitterness, his recklessness. Influenced, Alonzo mused, not evil by nature.
He remembered the boy's face, pale and broken, drenched in shame and fear in that cold cell. It was not hatred that filled him, but a heavy sorrow.
"He's lost," Alonzo whispered softly, almost to himself. "beyond saving. Just like his Papa."
----
A ping from Slack caught Danielle's attention between back-to-back calls.
Nadia:"Hi, Dan! Something's on the way to you. Just a small thing. Happy Valentine's!"
Danielle paused, blinking at the message.
Moments later, a courier rang up her doorbell, shouting.
"Ma'am, may delivery po for you. Flowers, chocolates, and... ice cream?"
She exhaled, a smile tugging at her lips. Of course it's ice cream. Of course.