Page 1 of Born of Vengeance

Prologue

The sea whispered that night.

Waves lapped lazily against the shore, their rhythm slow and endless, like time itself had exhaled. The sand was cool beneath Ana’s bare feet as she danced just beyond the waterline, her sundress fluttering in the breeze like a flame refusing to die.

Rafael watched from the hammock, a bottle of local beer dangling loosely from his fingers, his eyes following her every move. She laughed—free and full—as if nothing else existed but them, this beach, this moment.

“Promise me,” she said, turning toward him, hair sweeping across her face. “That we’ll come back here. Just us. No war, no duty, no world.”

“I promise,” he replied, and meant it.

She smiled, and for a moment, he thought he could stay like this forever—lost in that warmth.

But promises are made by men who don’t see what’s coming.

And Rafael Silveira never saw what was coming.

Chapter 1 – The Interrogation

Rain hammered the tin roofs like an unrelenting drumline.

Cartagena’s old port district was a maze of narrow alleys, rusted shipping containers, and half-forgotten warehouses. Most of the streetlights were dead, their glass long shattered. Only the occasional flicker of neon from a distant bar spilled across the puddles, bending shadows into twitching shapes.

The man was running.

He wasn’t fast, but desperation gave him speed. His boots slapped the wet pavement, slipping, scrambling, panting through the thick air. His hand clutched his side—he was bleeding. Somewhere between the cantina and the alley behind it, a blade had found its way into his ribs.

He didn’t know how close death was behind him.

A black figure emerged from the rain like it had stepped out of the walls. Silent. Precise.

Rafael Silveira moved with the calm of a man who had no need to rush. He already knew how this would end.

The man glanced back—saw only darkness—and ducked into a side alley, trying doors, whimpering through cracked lips.

One opened.

He slipped inside and shut it behind him, chest rising and falling like a drowning man gasping between waves. He thought it was luck. An escape.

It wasn’t.

The lights inside flickered—then stayed on.

The man turned.

Rafael was already there.

No sound. No announcement. Just presence.

“Por favor...” the man stammered. “I don’t know anything. I swear—”

Rafael struck him once—clean and sharp. The blow snapped the man’s head sideways and sent him sprawling into a stack of crates.

“Sit,” Rafael said. Calm. Not a request.

The man dragged himself upright against a wall, eyes darting. The place was empty. No windows. Thick concrete. One door. Smelled of rust and rat piss. An old fish-packing warehouse, long since abandoned.

Perfect.

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