Page 13 of Born of Vengeance

And Valderrama would be there.

Not a whisper. Not a file.

In person.

Rafael stared at the message.

This wasn’t just an opportunity. It was an invitation to his enemy’s world.

He burned the message.

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Later that night, he opened an old box from beneath the floorboards.

Inside: a watch, scratched and faded; a silver chain with Ana’s ring on it; a folded photograph of the two of them at Ipanema, laughing. And a passport—fake, expertly made, under a different name: Luis Navarro.

He held the ring a moment longer than the others.

Then set it down.

He wasn’t doing this for justice anymore.

Justice would have stopped after the first man. After the first bullet.

This was something else.

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He repacked the weapons.

Changed his clothes.

And when he looked at the mirror again, he didn’t see Rafael Silveira anymore.

He saw the man who would walk into a room full of monsters…

...and choose who died first.

Chapter 7 – The Party of Masks

The Cordillera estate didn’t appear on maps.

It sat high in the mountains, surrounded by mist-thick forest and ringed with motion-triggered floodlights. Two roads led in—both patrolled. The third option was the sky.

Rafael arrived in a chopper.

The ID belonged to a private contractor named Julián Ferraz—a mid-level security consultant who owed his life to bad decisions and worse debts. Rafael had intercepted him two nights earlier in Cali. Julián would wake up in a cheap motel with a busted nose, no memory, and a note that read: “Stay quiet. Stay alive.”

Rafael had cleaned up well. Black suit, lean cut. Tactical earpiece in place. Credentials forged with precision. His weapon—compact, silent—was tucked in a holster beneath the blazer. Enough to get him in. Enough to get him out. Maybe.

The guards at the gate barely looked twice.

________________________________________

The estate was a cathedral of wealth.

Fountains lined with blue-tile mosaics gurgled beneath marble statues. Waiters in white gloves passed silver trays of champagne. String quartets played beneath hanging lanterns that swayed in the warm night air. Guests mingled in designer tuxedos and hand-tailored gowns, each one more powerful—or more dangerous—than the last.

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