"Marc... Marcus..."
The voice pulled Guilano from the darkness of exhausted sleep. His eyes felt like they were sealed with lead, but he forced them open to see a tall figure standing over him—black cassock, white collar gleaming in the morning light.
Mierda. He'd collapsed against the orphanage wall like some common drunk. The stone had left impressions on Marcus's pale cheek, and his teenage body ached in ways that reminded him just how far he'd fallen.
"You slept outside?" The priest's voice carried genuine concern mixed with bewilderment. "Marcus, what happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
If only you knew, Guilano thought, struggling to his feet. Every movement sent fire through his ribs. The morning sun was harsh, unforgiving—nothing like the filtered light of his former penthouse office.
"Good morning, Father," Guilano managed, his voice hoarse with Marcus's adolescent crack.
"Don't be so formal." The priest's weathered face creased into a smile. "Call me Wesley, like always. Though I have to say, if you weren't Marcus Chen, I'd swear you'd been drinking all night. Your eyes... there's something different about them."
Wesley. The name from the suicide note hit Guilano like a physical blow. This wasn't just any priest—this was Marcus's closest friend, the one the boy had written his final letter to. But Guilano had expected another teenage orphan, not this middle-aged man with intelligent eyes and calloused hands. What kind of kid becomes best friends with a priest?
"Sorry, Wesley," Guilano said carefully, studying the priest's face for clues about their relationship. "I didn't sleep well. Today's... a big day."
"Yes, leaving Saint Mary's. I know." Wesley's expression grew serious. "Marcus, I've been thinking about our conversation yesterday. About your calling. I think you were right—maybe you should consider the seminary. I've spoken to Bishop Hernandez, and there might be a place for you. You don't have to face the world alone."
Seminary? Guilano's mind reeled. Marcus Chen had wanted to become a priest? The irony was almost too much to bear—a boy so pure he'd considered holy orders, now possessed by the velvet hand behind Gulac.
"Wesley, I appreciate everything you've done for me," Guilano said, choosing his words carefully. "But I've made up my mind. I'm leaving today."
The priest's face fell. "Why? Yesterday you seemed so committed to discernment, to finding your path with God. What changed?"
Guilano remembered the suicide note, the name that had meant something to Marcus. "It's about Elena Luciano."
The effect was immediate. Wesley's expression shifted from confusion to understanding, then to something that looked almost like fear. His hands, which had been relaxed at his sides, clenched into fists.
"Ah." The single word carried the weight of unspoken knowledge. "Now I understand."
"Thank you, Wesley. And I'm really sorry—"
"I know enough." Wesley's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Marcus, I won't stand in your way—I learned long ago that young men in desperation can't be reasoned with. But you know what you're walking into, don't you? If you hunt the lion and somehow manage to kill it, perhaps you'll find peace. But what happens when the lion kills you first?"
Guilano looked at this priest—this man who clearly knew more about Marcus's situation than he'd initially let on—and felt a ghost of the old authority creep into his voice. "Then I still find peace."
Wesley studied him for a long moment, as if seeing something new in Marcus's face. "You're different this morning. More... resolved. Yesterday you were torn between service and independence. Today you speak like a man who's already chosen his path."
Too close, Guilano thought. I need to be more careful.
"Some decisions make themselves, Wesley."
The priest nodded slowly, then reached out and placed a heavy hand on Marcus' shoulder. It was a gesture that spoke of years of friendship, of watching over a troubled boy, of fighting battles that couldn't be won.
"I tried everything to keep you here," Wesley said quietly. "Called in favors, bent rules, even convinced Sister Margaret to lobby the diocese. Saint Mary's would have found a way to let you stay past eighteen. But you're determined to walk back into that world, aren't you?"
"What world?" Guilano asked, though he suspected he already knew.
Wesley's eyes grew sad. "The world that put those scars on your back. The world that taught a boy to flinch when doors slam."
Scars. Guilano made a mental note to examine Marcus's body more carefully. This boy had secrets, pain that ran deeper than just being unwanted.
"It is not going back, Wesley. This is moving forward," Guilano said, and found that the words felt true even if the reasons were different than Wesley imagined.
The priest released his shoulder and turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused without looking back.
"Marc, Antonio García was here last night."
The name hit Guilano like ice water in his veins. Antonio García—heir to the family that controls Antiok. The pieces were falling into place now, and the picture they formed was dangerous.
"What did he want?" Guilano kept his voice steady, but his mind was racing through possibilities.
"You know what he wanted." Wesley's shoulders sagged with the weight of knowledge he'd carried too long. "The same thing he's always wanted from you. The same thing his family has wanted since you were twelve years old."
Twelve. Marcus had been dealing with the García family for five years. Long enough to accumulate debts, enemies, obligations that could get a person killed. No wonder the boy had been ready to jump.
"Did you tell him I was leaving?"
"I told him you were sleeping." Wesley finally turned around, and Guilano saw something in the priest's eyes that might have been pride. "I told him you were under the church's protection until morning. But Marcus... that protection ends when you walk out those doors."
The priest left then, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Guilano stood alone in the doorway, feeling the weight of his history settling on his shoulders like a coat made of lead.
He wasn't just inhabiting a young boy's body—he was inheriting his war. The García family had been hunting Marcus for something, and now they'd be hunting him. In the criminal world, there were only three kinds of people who dealt with the mafia: allies, slaves, or corpses.
And Guilano González had just woken up to discover he was already one of the three. But which one?
The morning sun climbed higher, and somewhere in the distance, Guilano could hear the sound of engines—cars moving through Antiok's narrow streets, searching.
Time to find out what Marcus Chen had done to earn the attention of the old accord. Time to discover whether the boy had been their victim or their asset. Either way, Guilano thought as he prepared to step back into the world that he loved so dearly, it is time to start hunting.