Two days.

The city didn’t stop moving for him. The streets still buzzed with scooters, vendors still shouted about fresh bread and fish, and church bells still rang at noon. But for Mateo, every second ticked like a countdown.

Ricardo’s deadline.

Kill Lorenzo, or prove himself useless.

The weight of that choice sat heavily in his chest as he walked through the narrow alleys toward the warehouse on Via Ferrante. The place Ricardo used for his “tests.” The place where loyalty was measured in blood.

Mateo’s boots crunched over gravel. His coat was heavy, his knife hidden at his belt, his gun tucked at the back of his jeans. He knew tonight would decide his life.

Inside the warehouse, men were already waiting. Ricardo sat on a wooden chair like a king on a throne, cigar smoke swirling around him. His dark eyes cut straight to Mateo the second he walked in.

“You’re late,” Ricardo said, voice low but sharp.

Mateo bowed his head slightly. “Traffic.”

Ricardo’s lips twitched into something close to a smile, but his eyes stayed cold. “You know what happens tonight, Cruz. Two nights I gave you. Two nights to prove you are still mine.”

Around him, the men shifted. Alvarez leaned against a pillar, his arms crossed. Two others polished their guns as though this were any other business meeting.

Mateo’s pulse throbbed in his temples. He said nothing.

“Have you chosen?” Ricardo asked finally.

Mateo forced himself to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

Ricardo leaned back, smirking. “Then let’s see your loyalty.” He snapped his fingers.

The door at the far end opened and there he was.

Lorenzo.

Dragged inside by two guards, wrists bound, lip split, but still smirking like the devil himself. His eyes landed on Mateo immediately, unreadable, no fear, no panic, just that sharp, reckless fire.

“Well,” Lorenzo said, voice hoarse but mocking. “Is this your idea of a date, Cruz? Should’ve brought wine.”

The men around them laughed, but Ricardo raised a hand, silencing them. His gaze returned to Mateo. “There he is. Your choice. Do it.”

The words hit like a brick. 

Do it.

Mateo’s fingers itched toward his gun, but his chest felt like it was caving in. Lorenzo stared at him, unblinking, as if daring him to move.

“Well?” Ricardo pressed. “Prove to me you are not soft. Prove you are not weak.”

Mateo’s jaw locked. He pulled the gun free, the metal cold in his hand. He stepped closer until he stood right in front of Lorenzo.

The room was silent except for the drip of water from the leaking pipes above.

Mateo lifted the gun, pointing it straight at Lorenzo’s chest.

Ricardo’s smile spread.

“Do it, Mateo.”

Lorenzo leaned forward despite the gun, his voice low, meant only for him. “If you’re going to kill me, look me in the eyes when you do it.”

Mateo’s throat burned.

He remembered Lorenzo on the pier, his body nearly falling into the sea.

He remembered his voice, sharp and alive: You didn’t want me dead.

He remembered the way Lorenzo had said it, like truth, not question.

Mateo’s hand trembled.

Ricardo’s voice snapped like a whip. “Now!”

Everything inside Mateo screamed at once and then he moved.

But not the way Ricardo expected.

Mateo spun, grabbed the guard to his left, and slammed the butt of his gun into the man’s face. Blood spattered. Shouts erupted.

“Cruz!” Ricardo’s voice roared through the chaos. “What are you doing?”

Lorenzo’s eyes widened as Mateo shoved the gun into the second guard’s ribs, fired, and dropped him where he stood. In the chaos, he cut the ropes at Lorenzo’s wrists.

“Move!” Mateo barked.

For once, Lorenzo didn’t argue. He grabbed the fallen guard’s knife and stood at Mateo’s side.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” Lorenzo muttered with a crooked grin.

“Shut up,” Mateo growled.

Ricardo’s roar shook the warehouse. “Traitor!”

Bullets exploded around them. Mateo shoved Lorenzo behind a stack of crates, firing back at the men rushing them. Sparks flew as bullets tore through steel.

“You’ve lost your damn mind!” Lorenzo shouted, ducking down beside him.

Mateo reloaded, jaw tight. “Shut up and fight.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Lorenzo lunged out, slashing at a man who got too close, his blade finding flesh. He laughed under his breath, wild even in the middle of gunfire. “I knew you weren’t just Ricardo’s lapdog.”

“I’m nothing,” Mateo snapped, firing again. “Nothing but dead if we don’t get out of here.”

Another wave of men came at them. Ricardo’s voice thundered above the gunshots: “Bring them down! Bring me Cruz’s head!”

“Your boss sounds pissed,” Lorenzo muttered, ducking as bullets whizzed past.

“He’s not my boss anymore,” Mateo shot back.

That made Lorenzo grin again, even with blood smeared across his face. “Finally.”

They fought their way through the chaos, Mateo’s shots precise, Lorenzo’s movements sharp and reckless. Two men against a dozen, but desperation lit them both like fire.

“Left side!” Lorenzo shouted, shoving Mateo down as a bullet split the air above his head.

Mateo fired back without hesitation, dropping the shooter. “I told you to shut up!”

“And I told you,” Lorenzo said with a sharp laugh, “I don’t listen.”

A bullet grazed Lorenzo’s arm, tearing fabric. He hissed in pain but smirked anyway. “That's all you got?”

Mateo grabbed him by the collar, yanking him behind cover. “You think this is a game? They’re trying to kill you.”

“They’ve been trying to kill me since I was born,” Lorenzo shot back. “At least now I’ve got company.”

“You’re insane,” Mateo muttered.

“Probably,” Lorenzo agreed, flashing a bloody grin, “but so are you. You just haven't admitted it yet.”

Another guard charged them. Mateo raised his gun, but Lorenzo darted forward first, ramming his knife into the man’s chest. The guard collapsed with a choking sound.

“See?” Lorenzo panted, dragging the knife free. “Teamwork.”

“Remind me never to trust your definition of teamwork,” Mateo said, shoving him toward the side door.

“Remind me never to trust you at all,” Lorenzo shot back, even as he followed.

At last, they burst through the side door into the cold night air, lungs heaving. Mateo slammed the door shut behind them, blocking it with a steel rod.

They didn’t stop running until they hit the empty dockyard, the sea black and restless under the moon.

Only then did Lorenzo grab Mateo’s arm, spinning him around. His chest rose and fell, eyes blazing.

“You had the chance,” Lorenzo spat. “You could’ve killed me and saved yourself. But you didn’t. You turned on him. Do you realize what that means?”

Mateo’s chest heaved. He stared at the man in front of him, the man who had been his test, his doom, and now, the only reason he’d made it out alive.

“I know exactly what it means,” Mateo said, voice low.

“Then why?” Lorenzo demanded, stepping closer. “Why risk your life for mine?”

Mateo swallowed hard. His gun was empty, his soul heavier than ever.

“Because,” he said finally, “I’d rather die fighting Ricardo than live with your blood on my hands.”

Lorenzo froze, words catching in his throat. His usual smirk faltered, replaced by something raw.

For the first time, silence stretched between them—not sharp, not mocking, but heavy with something unspoken.

Mateo turned away, staring at the black horizon. His chest ached with the truth he could no longer bury.

Behind them, distant shouts echoed, the hunt already beginning.

Lorenzo stepped beside him, close enough their shoulders brushed. His voice was quiet, but steady.

“Then we run. Together.”

Mateo didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because for the first time, there was no plan, no loyalty, no way back.

Mateo knew one thing for certain:

Ricardo wouldn’t stop until they were both dead.