The echo of gunfire still resonated in the air when John holstered his weapons with slow, almost ceremonial movements. The silence that followed was dense, charged with a tension no one dared break. Hernán's mutilated men moaned in the distance, dragging themselves toward the vehicles. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the sweet perfume of the French vineyards, creating a dissonance that seemed to reflect the internal chaos of each person present.
John turned toward Damián, who watched him with a mixture of calculation and something that could have been respect—or fear. The young man's gaze was serene, but there was a firmness in it that cut deeper than any weapon.
"I apologize if I offended you in your own home," John said, voice deep and measured. "But I won't follow someone who doesn't respect their own."
Damián didn't respond immediately. His fingers drummed on his whisky glass, a nervous tic that betrayed his usual composure.
"I came here alone, without my men," John continued, "as a show of good faith. And with your attitude, you don't give me enough confidence to follow you. Much less if you allow your daughter to be treated this way."
He paused. The air seemed to become heavier.
"She, more than anyone, deserves respect. As the daughter of Europe's most important capo."
The words fell on Damián like stones to the bottom of a well. Each syllable resonated within him, unearthing something he had buried long ago: the image of Michelle as a child, running through the mansion's gardens while he watched from afar, always busy, always calculating the next move. When was the last time he had truly looked at her? When had she stopped being his daughter and become just another piece on the board?
Europe's most powerful criminal felt, for the first time in decades, the unbearable weight of doubt.
Hernán, oblivious to his partner's internal storm, began to speak, but Damián silenced him with an abrupt wave of his hand.
"We're going to calm down," he finally said, recovering some of his calculating personality. "Let's wait for the waters to settle and talk about what just happened here."
John barely nodded.
"All right. Excuse me."
His gaze met Damián's briefly, then Hernán's—who immediately looked away. As he turned, his eyes fell on Michelle.
She looked at him with an expression he couldn't fully decipher: anguish, gratitude, something deeper that had no name. Her parted lips barely trembled, as if she wanted to say something but the words refused to come out.
John made a subtle gesture, almost imperceptible, as if asking permission to withdraw. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. If he did, all the control he had built during two years of infiltration would crumble like ash.
⸻
He walked through the mansion's corridors with measured steps, aware of every gaze that followed him. Passing by a side table, he took a bottle of Scotch whisky without stopping. The crystal was heavy, cold against his palm.
He went out to the back garden, where an infinity pool reflected the French sky—still gray, threatening rain. He sat on the edge, letting his legs hang over the turquoise water. He opened the bottle and drank directly, without a glass, without ceremonies.
The alcohol burned his throat, but not as much as the question hammering his mind:
What the hell am I doing?
He had lost control. That was undeniable. In two years of infiltration, he had never broken protocol. Never acted on emotion. And now, in front of Damián Corvelli, Europe's most dangerous criminal, he had drawn his weapon to protect a woman who was technically his target.
No. Not just that.
He had been willing to kill for her.
The image of Michelle being groped by Hernán had unleashed something primitive in him, something that transcended reason and logic. An ancient fury, as if his soul remembered having lost that woman once and refused to allow it again.
I'm putting the mission at risk. Mia. The entire team.
He took another long drink. The whisky was beginning to warm his chest, but it didn't silence his thoughts.
And the worst part is I don't regret it.
⸻
The whisper of a dress on the grass pulled him from his trance.
John barely turned his head, maintaining his external serenity though his pulse quickened. A red dress—the color of dried blood or expensive wine—slid toward him like an apparition. Black hair falling in waves over pale shoulders. Golden eyes that shone with a mixture of gratitude and something that seemed like pain.
Michelle stopped a meter away, hesitating. Then, with a decisive movement, she sat beside him. Not too close, but enough for John to feel the warmth of her body.
The silence between them was different from the mansion's silence. This wasn't uncomfortable. It was… expectant. As if the air itself held its breath.
"Thank you," she finally said, voice soft but firm. "For protecting me."
John didn't look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the vineyards extended until they were lost in the mist.
"It's not necessary," he responded.
"I know. But still… thank you."
She paused. John felt the weight of her gaze on him.
"You should be careful with my father. And with Hernán."
Now he did look at her. Their eyes met, and for a second the world stopped. She had parted lips, slightly flushed cheeks. Beautiful. Vulnerable. Dangerous.
"I know," he said. "You don't need to warn me."
Michelle sketched a slight smile, almost sad.
"I know you can defend yourself very well. But…" She stopped. Her fingers played with a lock of hair, nervously twisting it before placing it behind her ear.
"I wouldn't want something bad to happen to you."
John opened his eyes, barely, but it was enough for her to notice. Those words… that genuine concern in her voice… pierced him like a shot to the center of his chest.
Without thinking, his mind betrayed him with a memory that wasn't his:
Elena, seated in Westminster's great hall during the knights' banquet. Jon was among the soldiers, sharing a table with them. She watched him from her place, and without realizing it, her fingers twisted a lock of dark hair, placing it behind her ear while her lips whispered a silent prayer for his safety.
John blinked, returning to the present.
"Don't be nervous," he murmured, almost without thinking.
Michelle had made the same gesture.
Exactly the same.
How do I know that?
His heart struck his chest forcefully. It couldn't be coincidence. It couldn't be.
Michelle watched him now with a strange expression, as if she too had seen something. Her eyes widened barely.
"How…?" she began to say, voice trembling.
How do you know that?
The words didn't come out. They remained trapped in her throat, along with all the questions she had been accumulating since she first saw him.
Is it you? Is it really you, Jon?
She opened her mouth again, trying to form the words. Her breathing accelerated. Her hands trembled.
"I… need to ask you something," she finally whispered.
John looked at her fixedly, waiting. His own heart beat forcefully, as if it knew what she was about to say.
"Do you also…?"
⸻
"Excuse the interruption!"
Alfred's voice cut the moment like a knife.
Both turned their heads. The old man approached with slow but firm steps, carrying a silver tray. On it rested three portions of a cake that seemed taken from a fairytale: layers of vanilla sponge cake interspersed with raspberry cream, covered by a Belgian chocolate glaze that shone under the evening light. Fresh raspberries crowned each portion, along with mint leaves that added a touch of vibrant color.
"I thought you might enjoy a bit of sweetness after so much intensity," Alfred said, with a warm smile that wrinkled the corners of his eyes.
Michelle exhaled, relieved and frustrated at the same time. The tension from the previous moment dissolved, but with it went the opportunity to ask the question that had been burning her soul for years.
"It's young Michelle's favorite," Alfred continued, placing the tray between them. "Since she was five years old."
John felt an immediate warmth toward the old man. Something in his presence—in the way he moved, in the serenity of his voice—felt profoundly familiar to him. As if he knew him from before.
"Thank you, Alfred," John said, taking one of the plates. "It looks delicious. Why don't you sit with us?"
Alfred smiled, pleased, and took a seat on Michelle's other side. The evening breeze moved the leaves of nearby trees, creating a soft symphony that enveloped the moment.
"You know?" Alfred began, with a nostalgic voice. "I remember when Miss Michelle was barely seven years old. She was such a curious child, always getting into trouble."
Michelle blushed, covering her face with one hand.
"Alfred, please…"
"Oh, no, no," the old man laughed. "These stories must be told. There was one time she decided to 'help me' in the kitchen. She ended up covered in flour from head to toe, and the cake… well, let's say it looked more like an abstract sculpture than a dessert. I'd never laughed so hard."
John smiled—a genuine smile that lit up his eyes. Michelle laughed, a clear, musical laugh that made something in John's chest loosen.
"I just wanted to surprise you with something special," Michelle protested, voice still tinged with amusement.
"And you did, my child," Alfred responded with tenderness. "That was the most special day of my life."
John watched them in silence. The way Alfred looked at Michelle—with a deep, pure paternal love—the genuine joy in her eyes… everything felt authentic. Real. Human.
This is what I've been missing, he suddenly thought. This is what I forgot existed.
Years of infiltration, of violence, of living among criminals, he had forgotten that the world still contained moments like this. Simple. Beautiful.
Without realizing it, he smiled. Not with his mouth, but with his eyes.
Michelle noticed. Her gaze met his, and for an instant—just an instant—both allowed themselves to simply exist in that moment. Without a past. Without memories they didn't understand. Without missions or lies.
Just two souls recognizing each other across time.
⸻
Meanwhile, inside the mansion, Hernán watched as his men were loaded into the vehicles. Two of them had lost consciousness from shock and blood loss. The others moaned pitifully.
He turned toward Damián, who remained standing by the window, observing the back garden where John, Michelle, and Alfred shared cake by the pool.
"How could you allow this?" Hernán hissed, voice loaded with contained rage.
Damián didn't take his eyes from the garden.
"Allow what exactly?" he asked in a neutral tone.
"That… that bastard humiliated us like that! Me! My men!"
Now Damián did look at him. His eyes were cold as ice.
"Hernán, tell me something. Did you see what he did?"
"Of course I saw it! That's why I'm furious!"
"No. I don't mean that." Damián approached, lowering his voice. "I'm asking if you understood what he did."
Hernán frowned, confused.
Damián sighed, like a teacher disappointed with a slow student.
"John disarmed eight of your men in less than three seconds. Without apparent effort. And then he aimed his weapon at me—Europe's most powerful criminal—and I…" he paused, as if the words cost him, "I obeyed."
Hernán swallowed. Now that he put it that way…
"We must eliminate him tonight," Hernán said with renewed determination. "When he's asleep. We can poison him or simply execute him while he sleeps. It's the only safe way."
Damián looked at him as if he'd just suggested burning himself alive.
"Are you an idiot?" he asked, with genuine perplexity.
Hernán blinked, offended.
"John Becker presented himself alone before me on neutral territory," Damián continued, with forced patience. "Without escort. Without backup. That's trust. If we killed him under these conditions, do you have any idea what would happen?"
Hernán opened his mouth but didn't know what to say.
"The Albatros Cartel," Damián said, pronouncing each word slowly, "is one of the three most powerful cartels in Mexico. And Mexico, in case you didn't know, is the drug trafficking powerhouse in America. The Albatros control practically all of Sinaloa, the narco capital. And John is their leader."
He paused to let that sink in.
"But that's not the worst part. The Albatros belong to the Pacific Circle."
Hernán blinked.
"The… Circle of what?"
Damián closed his eyes, as if praying for patience.
"You know nothing," he murmured. "I don't understand how you're here. And to think I told John you were brilliant…"
He turned toward Hernán with a severe expression.
"The Pacific Circle is the world's most powerful criminal organization. It rivals Europe's most established mafias. It's composed of nine groups: first-tier cartels and criminal organizations, and John is one of their leaders."
Hernán felt his blood freeze.
"If we kill John," Damián continued, "we wouldn't just declare war on the Albatros Cartel. We'd declare war on the entire Pacific Circle. The European mafias, including mine, couldn't sustain that conflict. We'd collapse."
Hernán bit his nails, a nervous tic he'd had since childhood.
"Damn…" he whispered.
"Besides," Damián added, "John isn't just an exceptional drug trafficker. His military skills are exceptional. And more importantly: he's our only real entry door to the Pacific Circle. If we manage to consolidate that alliance, the Corvelli organization would become a genuine global empire."
He approached Hernán, fixing his gaze.
"For now, John Becker is untouchable. Irreplaceable. And above all, highly dangerous. We can't let our guard down even a millimeter."
Hernán nodded slowly, still biting his nails.
Damián poured himself another whisky, letting the amber liquid shine against the light. But his thoughts weren't on Hernán or business.
John's words resonated in his mind like church bells:
"She, more than anyone, deserves respect. As the daughter of Europe's most important capo."
When was the last time someone had spoken to him like that? When was the last time someone had challenged his authority… not out of ambition or fear, but out of principles?
Unconsciously, he sought Michelle with his gaze.
He found her by the pool, laughing. A genuine laugh, without masks, without guards. Alfred was telling her something with animated gestures, and John watched the scene with an expression Damián hadn't seen from him before: warmth.
Something stirred in the criminal's chest. A strange sensation, almost forgotten. As if a muscle atrophied from years of disuse was trying to move again.
When was the last time I saw her this happy?
He couldn't remember.
Have I been a good father?
The question struck him with the force of a gunshot. For the first time in decades—perhaps in his entire life—Damián Corvelli questioned something beyond power and control.
He looked at his daughter, so beautiful and strong, smiling beside the man who had just publicly humiliated him. And he felt something he couldn't fully identify.
It was pride. And fear. And a terrible understanding:
John Becker is good for Michelle in a way I never could be.
The idea produced a confused mixture of relief and jealousy in him. But more than anything, it made him doubt.
Do I really want to marry her off to Hernán?
⸻
Hernán's phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket brusquely, still annoyed.
"Hello?" he responded in a curt tone. "What's happening?"
His expression changed immediately. Irritation gave way to surprise, then to fury.
He stood abruptly.
"What? How was that possible?"
Damián watched him with renewed interest.
"All right," Hernán said, jaw clenched. "We'll see how to resolve it."
He hung up and threw the phone against the sofa.
"Damn bitch!"
"Bad news?" Damián asked calmly.
Hernán turned toward him, face reddened.
"The SCU. And that damn bitch Hartmann again."
Damián tensed imperceptibly. That name…
"They just seized at the port of Dunkirk the ten tons of cocaine you'd asked me to transport from France to the United Kingdom."
Hernán paced back and forth, gesticulating violently.
"Aaagh! Damn it! Damn, damn, damn bitch!"
Damián remained motionless, but his mind worked at dizzying speed.
Mia Hartmann.
That name haunted him like a ghost. Three years ago, when she took over as Head of the Special Crimes Unit in Europe, everything had changed. Seizures multiplied. Operations became precise, almost surgical. Several minor mafias had fallen completely.
And worst of all: she was incorruptible.
"Calm down," Damián finally said. "John returns to Mexico in four days. We can ask him to bring that merchandise from there."
Hernán stopped, processing. A slow smile spread across his face.
"Ooooh, you're right. Thank goodness."
"Even so," Damián continued, in a severe tone, "you must be more careful with such large losses. And increase your security protocols."
Hernán nodded, still with relief painted on his face.
Damián turned to the window again, observing his daughter. His expression hardened.
"For three years, since Hartmann took over, everything has become complicated. Before we had infiltrated agents in almost all agencies. Now…"
He gripped the glass tightly.
"Intelligence work increased. Operations' effectiveness skyrocketed. Seizures, arrests… entire mafias falling. It was obvious she was going to become a problem."
He paused, and his voice became darker.
"Since she was a simple agent, she was like a stone in my shoe. Even with what I did to her, she's still on top of me."
He looked at Michelle again, and something in his gaze became somber.
"I thought that after that, she would be destroyed psychologically and emotionally. That she wouldn't bother anymore."
His fist closed until his knuckles turned white.
"But no!"
Hernán watched him, confused by the sudden intensity.
Damián said nothing more. He drank his whisky in one gulp and left the room, leaving Hernán alone with his thoughts.
⸻
That night, during dinner, the tension at the table was palpable.
The table was long, of dark wood polished to a shine. Silver candelabras projected warm light over fine porcelain plates. The menu was exquisite: roasted lamb with Provençal herbs, accompanied by truffled mashed potatoes and glazed vegetables. The aroma was intoxicating.
But no one seemed to fully enjoy it.
Hernán sat rigidly, avoiding looking at Michelle. His pride was wounded, his ego bruised. But there was also something else: a genuine fear of John he couldn't fully disguise.
John, seated across from Michelle, ate with measured movements, almost mechanical. He cut the lamb with precision, each gesture controlled. But inside, his mind was a whirlwind.
Why am I here? Why do I continue with this farce?
He knew the answer. And he hated it.
Michelle, for her part, barely touched her food. She moved her fork from one side to the other, pushing the vegetables without real purpose. Every few seconds, her gaze slid toward John, only to quickly look away when she felt he might notice.
Why did he protect me like that? Why did he risk everything?
Her heart beat too fast.
Damián, seated at the head of the table, observed everyone with the attention of a chess player evaluating the board.
Finally, Hernán broke the silence.
"John," he said, voice forcedly casual, "I think we should make peace."
John looked at him without expression.
"I won't treat any woman like that again," Hernán continued, though the words sounded rehearsed. "We must get along well. Be good colleagues."
"All right," John responded in a neutral tone. "I hope that's the case."
"It will be," Hernán insisted, extending his hand across the table.
John shook it. The grip was brief, firm, empty of warmth.
Damián nodded, satisfied.
"I'm very glad things are improving," he said. Then he turned toward John, and his expression softened in an unusual way. "And I want to thank you, John, for opening my eyes regarding my relationship as a father."
Michelle looked up, surprised.
"Therefore," Damián continued, voice firm, "I've decided to suspend the marriage."
Michelle's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
"Michelle should marry whoever she loves," Damián said, looking at her directly. "A good man for her. I understand that now."
Hernán blinked.
"Oh. Damn."
But curiously, he didn't seem that bothered. Rather, he seemed relieved. As if a weight had been lifted from him.
John felt everything inside him shift. As if someone had taken his internal organs and shaken them violently. Air stuck in his lungs. His heart struck his ribs forcefully.
No. I can't. I shouldn't.
But externally, he showed nothing. Not a blink. Not a tremor. His face remained serene as stone.
"What do you mean?" Michelle asked, voice trembling. "Why?"
"John made me open my eyes," Damián responded simply.
Michelle felt her heart shake inside her chest. As if an invisible hammer struck each beat, amplifying it until her entire body vibrated with it.
It was for me. He did this… for me.
She turned her head toward John, unable to contain herself. Her cheeks burned, flushed. Her eyes shone with a mixture of gratitude, confusion, and something much deeper.
John didn't look at her.
He couldn't.
He knew that if their eyes met now, in front of Damián, everything would collapse. The facade would fall. And with it, two years of work. The mission. Everything.
But above all, he knew that if he looked at her, he couldn't hide what he felt.
Damián observed his daughter looking at John like that—vulnerable, blushed, with her heart in her eyes—and smiled.
It wasn't a cruel or calculating smile. It was genuine. Warm, even.
So that's how things are, he thought.
And for the first time in a long time, Damián Corvelli felt at peace with a decision.
⸻
Alfred, who had been serving dessert in silence, placed Michelle's plate before her carefully. As he leaned back, he inclined barely, just enough for only she to hear:
"Good news, isn't it, my child?"
Michelle blushed even more, if that was possible. Alfred withdrew with a discreet smile.
Damián, from his position at the head of the table, clapped once, calling everyone's attention.
"Good," he said. "Tomorrow we return to the United Kingdom to continue operations. Besides, Hartmann is stepping hard on our heels. We must improve the security scheme."
He turned toward John.
"John, could you help me with that? They told me your protocols are impenetrable. Not even the Mexican Navy or the DEA have managed to infiltrate them."
John nodded, though Hartmann's name resonated in his mind like an alarm.
Mia…
"Understood, sir," he responded. "I'll gladly help you."
Damián smiled, satisfied. Then he looked at Michelle.
"I want you to participate too, daughter. This will be useful for you."
The unspoken truth floated in the air: he wanted her and John to spend more time together.
Michelle, nervous, played with her napkin.
"All right, Dad."
Damián then turned toward Alfred, who remained standing near the dining room entrance.
"Alfred, I need you to find someone to fulfill your duties."
Michelle looked up, alarmed. John too.
"Do you plan to fire me, sir?" Alfred asked in a calm tone, though his gaze was penetrating.
"No," Damián responded. "But from now on you'll serve only Michelle. As her assistant, servant, and personal protector."
Alfred made a slow, elegant bow.
"Thank you very much, sir. It's a complete honor for me."
Michelle couldn't disguise the joy that lit up her face.
"Thank you very much, Dad," she said, looking at him with a genuine smile. Then she turned toward Alfred with a radiant expression.
Alfred returned her look with a paternal warmth that made something in John's chest tighten.
The following four days passed with an intensity no one had anticipated.
John, Michelle, and Damián worked side by side designing a new security scheme for Corvelli operations. Meetings extended from dawn until well into the night, with maps spread over oak tables, laptops showing encrypted transport routes, and whiteboards filled with diagrams that only the three of them could decipher.
John proposed a system of independent cells: hermetically sealed compartments where no operative knew beyond their specific function. Alternative routes traced in real-time through algorithms that changed every twelve hours. Communication codes that self-destructed after each use. Phantom delivery points that only existed during thirty-minute windows.
Damián, accustomed to decades of criminal experience, couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"This is…" he stopped mid-sentence, observing the complete scheme laid out before him. "This is brilliant."
John barely nodded, adjusting another parameter on the laptop.
"It's the bare minimum if we want to stay one step ahead of Hartmann."
The name fell between them like a stone in still water. Damián clenched his jaw but said nothing.
Michelle, seated on the other side of the table, watched John with a mixture of admiration and something deeper. The way his mind worked—methodical, precise, relentless—reminded her of someone. Of Jon. But not just that: it reminded her why she had fallen in love with him centuries ago.
With each passing day, the distance between them shortened.
They no longer treated each other with the tense formality of their first encounters. Now there were subtle jokes, glances that lasted a second longer than necessary, accidental brushes of hands when reaching for the same document.
On the third day, while reviewing maritime routes in the Atlantic, Michelle pointed out a weak spot on the Portuguese coast.
"Here," she said, leaning over the map. "If the SCU intercepts the shipment in Lisbon, the entire chain is exposed."
John approached, studying the point she indicated. Their shoulders almost touched.
"You're right," he murmured. "We need a detour. Maybe through Tangier."
Michelle turned her head, and suddenly their faces were centimeters apart. Both remained motionless, breathing the same air.
Time stopped.
Damián, from the other side of the room, noticed the moment. He said nothing. He just smiled to himself and continued reviewing files on his phone.
Michelle pulled away first, blushing.
"Yes… Tangier could work."
John nodded, his heart pounding forcefully in his chest.
⸻
Damián's trust in John grew exponentially.
He no longer saw him just as a valuable partner. He saw him as someone he could genuinely trust. Someone who wasn't looking to betray him out of ambition, but who operated from a code of honor Damián had forgotten existed.
On the night of the third day, after Michelle retired to sleep, Damián poured two glasses of whisky and sat across from John in the study.
"You know?" he said, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. "I've worked with hundreds of men in my life. Most would betray me if the price were right."
John looked at him without responding, waiting.
"But you…" Damián took a sip. "You're different. I don't know what it is, but there's something about you that inspires loyalty. Respect."
He paused.
"For the first time in a long time, I feel I can freely trust someone outside my family."
John felt a stab of guilt pierce his chest like a knife, but also satisfaction—the mission was going according to plan in that respect. But his face remained serene.
"It's an honor that you think that of me," he responded in a deep voice.
Damián raised his glass.
"To trust."
John raised his.
"To trust."
The glasses clinked with a crystalline ring that resonated in the study's silence.
And John drank, knowing that each sip was one more lie.
⸻
On the fourth day, as evening fell, John went out to the mansion's back patio. The sun set behind the English hills, staining the sky with orange and purple tones.
He walked to a secluded corner, where a group of ancient trees created dense shade. He took out his encrypted phone—a modified model that changed frequencies every thirty seconds—and dialed.
Two rings.
"Hartmann," responded the cold, familiar voice.
"I'm leaving at dawn," John said in a low voice. "I'll see you at the coordinates I sent you, Inspector. At one of the safe houses."
There was a brief pause.
"Understood," Mia responded.
The line cut off.
John put away the phone and exhaled slowly. The weight of what he was doing—of the betrayal he was orchestrating—pressed on his chest like a concrete slab.
But he had no choice.
Or so he told himself.
He turned around, walking back toward the mansion with a calm stride. He didn't notice the figure that remained motionless behind one of the trees, hidden among the evening's elongated shadows.
Alfred Moreau had heard every word.
The old man remained still, gaze fixed on John's back as he walked away. His expression was inscrutable, but his eyes—those eyes that had seen too much, that knew too much—shone with a profound understanding.
He said nothing. He only observed.
⸻
The next morning arrived with a thick fog covering the gardens like a shroud.
John descended the stairs with a light backpack over his shoulder. He wore casual clothes—dark jeans, leather jacket, military boots—but his bearing was still that of a predator.
Damián waited for him in the main vestibule, along with Michelle and Alfred. El Perro—Damián's personal guard, a burly man with a face marked by scars—stood near the door, watchful as always.
"It's been a real pleasure, young man," Damián said, extending his hand with a genuine smile. "I hope to see you soon. I'll be waiting for the shipment."
John shook his hand firmly.
"Twenty tons of cocaine and a shipment of long weapons," he confirmed. "Within the next ten days."
Damián nodded, satisfied. Then, to John's surprise, he pulled him into a brief but solid embrace.
They separated, and John turned toward Michelle.
She stood a couple of meters away, hands clasped in front of her. She wore a gray turtleneck sweater and jeans, hair loose falling over her shoulders. Her golden eyes looked at him with an intensity that stole his breath.
The moment was awkward, but different from previous ones. There was no longer that unbearable electric tension. Now there was… familiarity. Closeness.
"Take care of yourself, okay?" she said, voice soft.
John sketched a slight smile.
"I always do."
They looked at each other for one more second. Then both turned around almost simultaneously, as if an invisible thread connected them even in that.
John walked toward the door. Alfred watched him with that analytical, penetrating gaze that seemed to see beyond the surface. But he didn't say a word.
"Alfred," John said, inclining his head in a sign of respect. "It's been a pleasure meeting you."
"The pleasure has been mine, Mr. Becker," Alfred responded with a slight bow. "Have a safe journey."
John nodded. Then he turned toward El Perro, who returned a brief gesture of recognition.
And with that, John Becker crossed the threshold and disappeared into the morning fog.
Alfred remained motionless, observing the closed door. His expression was calm, but his eyes contained something deeper. Something ancient.
Michelle went up to her room without saying a word. Damián returned to his study.
⸻
Fifteen hours later, John landed in Mexico.
The flight had been clandestine, tracing an erratic route at low altitude over the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico to avoid radars. Three stops at unauthorized airstrips: one in the Azores, another in Barbados, the last at an unmarked point on the Veracruz coast.
Each stop lasted barely the time necessary to refuel. Each time, men armed with assault rifles guarded the perimeter while John remained in the cabin, not disembarking.
When he finally touched solid ground at a clandestine landing strip on the outskirts of Mazatlán, Sinaloa, the sun had already set behind the mountains.
Two armored trucks waited for him. John got into the first without a word. The convoy advanced along dirt roads, crossing crop fields and small villages where residents looked away when they saw the vehicles pass.
Half an hour later, they arrived at a safe house.
It was a luxurious but discreet residence, two stories, with white walls and red tile roofs. Surrounded by palm trees and bougainvillea, it looked like a common vacation house.
John got out of the truck and walked toward the main door. He carried only his backpack and a tired expression.
He opened the door.
And before he could react, a woman with long black hair and dark brown eyes grabbed him by the waist forcefully, pulling him toward her. The wig and contact lenses couldn't hide the cold gaze John would recognize anywhere.
"I missed you," she murmured in a hoarse voice, pressing her body against his.
John understood the situation in a fraction of a second.
Someone is watching us.
He went along without hesitation. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer. Their faces approached, breaths mixing.
"Me too," he whispered.
And they kissed.
It was an intense, passionate kiss, designed to convince any observer they were lovers reuniting after weeks of separation.
John kicked the door closed without breaking the kiss.
⸻
Two blocks away, inside a black sedan with tinted windows, Michelle Corvelli lowered her binoculars with trembling hands.
Her heart pounded forcefully. Her stomach had become a tight knot. Her hands trembled.
She dialed her father's number.
Two rings.
"Reporting in," she said in a tense voice. "Everything normal. He's just with a woman. Must be his lover, his wife, or one of his women."
"With a woman?" Damián responded, tone curious. "And what's she like?"
Michelle swallowed.
"Around thirty-five to forty years old. Long dark hair. Dark eyes."
There was a pause.
Then Damián let out a laugh.
"I see. Our John likes women more mature than him."
Michelle felt something inside her break.
"Yes," she murmured, voice smaller than intended. "But she's beautiful. Very beautiful."
Damián laughed again, amused.
"Don't tell me you're jealous."
Michelle gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, and hung up.
She sat in the back seat, breathing heavily, eyes burning.
Jealousy.
That's what she felt.
Burning, irrational jealousy that scorched her chest like acid.
But beyond jealousy, there was something worse: confusion.
Doubts.
For years—since she was a child—she had dreamed of Jon. Of a man whose face she couldn't see clearly, but whose presence filled every corner of her soul. A man who loved her with a devotion that transcended life and death.
And when John Becker appeared, her heart recognized him immediately.
She was certain. Completely certain.
But now…
Now she saw him kissing another woman. Entering a house with her. Closing the door as if that were his place.
What if I was wrong?
The doubt sank into her chest like a dagger.
What if Jon isn't John? What if I just imagined it? What if all this… is just madness?
Tears threatened to flow, but she refused to let them fall.
Jon wouldn't do this to me.
She had been faithful to him. For centuries. Without knowing if he existed. Without knowing if she would ever find him again.
She had been faithful even in this life, where she shouldn't remember him.
But he…
She closed her eyes tightly, trying to control the tremor in her hands.
No. There has to be an explanation.
But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, the image of John kissing that woman—passionately, without hesitation—was engraved in her mind like fire.
And it hurt.
It hurt more than anything physical could hurt.