"I—"
"Despicable!"
Before Garcia could answer, Roberta raised her arm and stood in front of Vela.
Under the crackling firelight, she lifted her eyes. On that once-delicate face, now interwoven with wounds, bruises, and blood, fury churned violently.
"The young master is still a child!"
"If you want a pledge of allegiance, I'll give it!"
She stepped forward, glaring viciously at the scheming "oriole" behind the scenes.
As a FARC veteran and cleaner who had handled countless dirty jobs, Roberta knew all too well the vile nature of such organizations.
Letting Garcia personally deal with Abrego was nothing more than a compulsory test—a final exam that would tear the Lovelace family completely away from the Manizales Cartel and burn every possible retreat.
No matter what answer he submitted, once the pledge was made, they would be dragged into a vortex of money and guns, sex and slaughter, unable to escape. The harder they struggled, the deeper they would sink. Their future—and even their lives—would rest in someone else's hands.
"You?"
Vela smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid you're not qualified."
That was a lie.
She wanted this loyal hound of a maid.
But in negotiation, the last thing you should do is reveal your true intentions.
Vela waved a hand indifferently. "Step aside, loyal hound. I'm asking the heir of the Lovelace family."
"No!" Roberta staggered forward protectively, clearly agitated.
One moment she growled with a twisted expression, the next she scanned the surroundings like a cornered beast.
It looked like a display of deep loyalty between master and servant.
In truth, murderous resolve had already risen in her heart. She was prepared to seize the ringleader and exchange her life for his.
Still struggling?
Taking in every micro-expression and subtle movement, Vela curled her lips with interest. "Is the grenade hidden in the lining beneath your skirt your last resort?"
What?
How did she know?!
Roberta froze in shock.
Garcia was equally stunned.
Faster than any interrogation came Ivan's fist.
Because of her concern for Garcia, the loyal maid failed to guard in time.
Bang!!
Sweat sprayed into the air.
The punch struck her face like a heavy hammer. "Urgh!" The world spun violently. Her body fell backward uncontrollably. Her ears rang, darkness clouding her vision, consciousness blurring.
At that critical moment, muscle memory took over.
The instant her back hit the ground, she rolled sideways, then planted all four limbs, knees bent, back taut, stabilizing herself in a stance like a starving hound pouncing on prey.
"Hah—hah—"
Kneeling on one knee, Roberta spat out bloodstained saliva, her breathing chaotic.
Without adjusting her state, she instinctively searched for Garcia's position.
But the moment she raised her head, a black gun barrel filled her vision.
Nova.
"Quiet down, bitch."
Blocking her line of sight, Nova pressed the handgun against Roberta's forehead and forced her down again. With a vicious expression and mocking sneer, she snapped, "When the master is speaking, the servant doesn't interrupt. After being adopted for so many years, haven't you learned basic manners? The Lovelace family's upbringing is truly concerning."
"You—!"
Blood dripped along her jawline. Roberta trembled with rage but could do nothing.
Her attempt at bargaining—her last-resort self-detonation—had been exposed.
She had failed to approach and seize Vela. The young master was present. In this situation, with her trump card revealed, she did not dare detonate the concealed grenade. She had even lost the confidence to force better terms through aggression.
It had all happened in an instant.
"Roberta!" Garcia cried out in alarm.
Instinctively he tried to rush forward, only to be restrained by surrounding mercenaries. Ivan and the others moved in swiftly. Within moments, they bound Roberta tightly with paracord.
Seeing this, Garcia could only turn to Vela, his voice trembling.
"Please don't hurt her. She has no ill intent. She's just... a little clumsy. She's not good at expressing herself..."
"I can tell." Vela waved her hand, signaling the mercenaries to ease up. Though inwardly touched by the awkward yet sincere bond between master and servant, she spoke firmly, "Enough. We don't have much time. Make your decision."
Garcia pressed his lips tightly and turned to look at the middle-aged white man forced to kneel on the ground.
White suit. Floral shirt. Face swollen and bruised. His right hand clutched where a bullet had torn through it, blood seeping out. He trembled, eyes unfocused, muttering indistinct Colombian slang.
Abrego.
The mastermind behind Garcia's kidnapping.
"Why did you kidnap me?" Garcia couldn't help asking what was, frankly, a naive question.
Koko, who had been watching the spectacle, couldn't help shaking her head.
Of the thirteen major gangs in South America, the Lovelace family had produced quite the saint.
Hearing the young, slightly immature voice, Abrego struggled to open his swollen eyes.
"S-spare me, Young Master Lovelace. I was only following orders. Let me go. I admit my mistake. I'm willing to defect to the Lovelace family. I know the location of the cartel's treasury in Southeast Asia..." he pleaded weakly.
"..."
Garcia fell silent. One arm folded across his chest, he glanced at Vela out of the corner of his eye.
He seemed to be seeking her opinion.
But Vela merely crossed her arms, her expression blank, as if it had nothing to do with her.
Watching her face, Garcia seemed to understand.
This time, there was no father or Roberta to shield him from the storm. He had to face the darkness of the world himself and shoulder the family's burden.
I can do this.
He took a deliberate deep breath and began reciting.
"Una bendicion por los vivos. Una rama de flor por los muertos." (A blessing for the living. A bouquet of flowers for the dead.)
At first, his voice was low, hesitation and struggle flickering in his eyes. But soon, resolve hardened within him.
His once tremulous tone grew stronger, clearer.
"Con una espada por la justicia, un castigo de muerte para los malvados..." (With a sword for justice and a punishment of death for the wicked...)
"Spanish," Koko murmured.
Balalaika nodded. "It seems to be the Lovelace family motto."
So he's made up his mind.
"Faster than I expected." Vela lifted her slender wrist slightly. The watch chain slid from her sleeve, revealing a silver-white dial engraved with a falling-leaf motif. "Forty-nine seconds. Very good."
She meant it.
Worthy of the young leader who, in the original timeline, would take command of the Lovelace family in its darkest hour.
Though still childish, often tearful and inexperienced, he possessed genuine talent and reliability. His mind was sound, his heart sincere. For someone so young, he already carried the weight of years. No wonder a Triad strategist once remarked that his hair would turn white before adulthood.
Very much worth investing in.
Vela turned her head and asked, "Who has a Glock?"
"Boss." A medium-built mercenary stepped forward, drawing a Glock 19 from the thigh holster strapped to his leg.
"Thank you," Vela said as she took the pistol, weighing it lightly in her hand.
The G19 was light. Its frame was injection-molded from engineering polymer, compact and well-balanced, designed with recoil control in mind and known for its low malfunction rate. It was an excellent firearm for beginners.
"Asi llegaremos en el altar de los santos... (Thus we arrive at the altar of the saints)" Garcia continued reciting, his voice steady now. He looked at the lamb awaiting slaughter with pity in his eyes.
Clack. Clack.
Footsteps approached.
"Need help?" Vela asked.
"No. I'll do it myself." Garcia sniffed stubbornly.
Vela readily agreed.
Click. The pistol was chambered and handed to him.
Garcia accepted it with both hands.
Taking a deep breath, he raised the gun and aimed at Abrego.
Seeing that pleading was useless, Abrego snapped and began spewing obscenities. "You little bastard, altar boy's sissy pet! You even know how to use that thing?! Don't blow your own head off—ha—ha—" The laughter turned into pained groans as his wounds throbbed.
But someone even more agitated was Roberta.
"No."
"No, no!"
"Ivan! You used to be a soldier! This is inciting murder! Young Master Garcia is still a child!!" Roberta's voice, distorted by fury, echoed across the scene. Grinding her teeth, she twisted her head to glare at Ivan Dragunov, who knelt behind her, pinning her down.
What did it mean to deliver death as punishment to the wicked? According to the family creed, it meant killing.
Roberta loved him deeply and thus rebuked him fiercely. She could not bear to see the young Garcia's hands stained with blood, repeating her own path.
She was growing desperate.
"Sorry," Ivan replied in his usual taciturn tone.
Without hesitation, he suddenly locked his arm around Roberta's neck in a rear naked choke, securing it firmly. He knew how dangerous she was. Even bound, her bite force could shatter a combat knife. If she lost control and sank her teeth into the boss, it would be the end.
The entire Lovelace family would be doomed.
Better safe than sorry.
"It's okay," Garcia suddenly said.
Without turning his head, he tried to reassure her. "I don't know what you went through in the past, Roberta. But now we're family, aren't we? We face it together." Even though his hands were visibly trembling.
The next moment—
"In the name of the Virgin Mary, I swear to deliver the hammer of justice upon all evil!"
Garcia roared and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The gunshot rang out.
Abrego was struck in the chest and collapsed with a thud.
A vivid crimson bloom spread rapidly across his white suit.
Garcia stood frozen, lowering the muzzle slowly.
—I killed someone?
His throat tightened. His heart pounded violently. He forced back the tidal surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm him.
"Hah... hah..."
Taking deep breaths, suppressing the nausea, he turned stiffly and handed the G19 back.
"Good boy." Vela's voice was warm and smooth. She stepped forward and gently patted Garcia's shoulder.
"You pass."
"As the heir of an old-established crime family, when someone challenges you, you must answer with iron and blood. If even a kidnapping can be brushed aside so lightly, then the name Lovelace deserves to fade away." She spoke casually while taking back the G19, subtly guiding him out of his ivory tower—urging him to accept the family's dark legacy, retaliate against the Colombian mafia, and restore the clan's authority.
"Don't answer yet. Take a moment." Vela gestured for the accompanying EMT to step forward and help steady the young master's emotions.
As the EMT led Garcia aside, offering him water and glucose tablets while providing professional psychological guidance, Vela glanced at Abrego, who lay on the ground still coughing blood and twitching in pain.
The kid was too softhearted. He hadn't aimed for the head. He hadn't even hit the heart.
Unwilling to mar the face?
He didn't realize that lingering like this was its own form of cruelty.
Vela paused.
Then she raised the pistol coldly.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Two shots to the chest. One to the head.
Ensuring the kill—and ending his suffering.
Garcia, who had just been drinking water and undergoing counseling, flinched at the gunshots.
He stole a glance at Vela.
Only now, as his mind gradually settled, did he dare to truly examine the woman before him.
A wine-red casual outfit that radiated expense at a glance.
Fine material. Exquisite tailoring. Even someone clueless about fashion could sense from the vivid yet refined dye and intricate yet balanced patterns that the wearer possessed immense wealth and status.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Striking features. Her figure was impeccable, her proportions flawless, with balanced lines and naturally rounded contours in all the right places. Not too thin, not too heavy. Garcia knew little about aesthetics, yet he instinctively felt she was strikingly beautiful.
Pleasing to the eye.
If one ignored the sharp, commanding aura she carried.
She didn't look like a villain at all.
Garcia stared blankly. The starlight of the night sky and the blazing firelight of the collapsing building reflected upon her. The interplay of light and shadow lent her silhouette an air of secrecy and grandeur. Everything might have seemed beautiful—
If one could ignore the charred ruins of the bar, the armed mercenaries encircling them, the burning wreckage of vehicles, the corpses lying in pools of blood, and the furious curses of a certain unlucky man.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
"Unlucky, unlucky, unlucky!!"
"Damn that maid! Why the hell is my place wrecked again?! Heavens above, Earth below, Jesus Christ, Guanyin, Mazu, Buddha—open your eyes! Why am I always the unlucky one?! Couldn't you go wreck Roan's nightclub just once instead?!"
The Vietnamese-accented string of curses echoed through the now-quiet fireground, jarringly loud.
"Ah." Vela had just switched the G19's safety back on and was about to inspect what remained of the Yellow Flag when she spotted a large black "rat" darting out from the side door, cursing as he ran.
Taking a closer look: male, medium and slightly short in stature, wearing a filthy bartender's uniform, a full-face gas mask on his head, a Remington 1100 shotgun slung over his back, clutching a cash register box nervously. He looked every bit like a refugee fleeing disaster.
Who could that be?
A faint smile curved Vela's lips. She called out loudly, "Hello. Boss Bao Paul, perhaps?"
She knew perfectly well who he was.
"Who?!" The man jumped.
His answer came in the form of multiple laser sights snapping onto his forehead.
"Oh shit."
Faced with seven or eight laser beams aimed squarely at his head, Paul dropped to his knees instantly.
"Don't shoot! I surrender!" He threw down his gun and raised both hands, slowly removing the gas mask to reveal a dark face etched with perpetual grievance. Sighing deeply, he lamented, "You people fight your fights—why drag an unlucky bastard like me into it? Can't you see what state this place is in? Small business, no profit to squeeze—" Then he finally saw clearly who stood before him.
"You?!"
"Me." Vela smiled and waved in greeting.
Paul's lips trembled.
He suddenly remembered.
It had been a sunny day, palm trees swaying in the breeze. He'd been pouring strong liquor, entertaining guests, when a difficult customer had slapped him.
All because he'd watered down a bottle and made an off-color joke without thinking, he'd taken a slap so hard it nearly gave him a concussion.
Only afterward did he learn the customer was a major patron.
His backer, the Hotel Moscow, had expressed helplessness.
The memory of him, head wrapped in bandages, going to toast in apology was still vivid.
Though it ended in reconciliation, he had taken a beating for nothing and incurred fresh debt.
Tragic.
Paul felt wronged.
He'd been schemed against by capital!
You're refined, you're noble—then what the hell are you doing in this mud pit called Roanapur?!
Is it my fault you can't stomach the drinks or the talk? When has my service quality ever been low? The people of Roanapur never complained all these years. Maybe look at yourself. If you came to experience the culture of the City of Evil, why not do as the locals do?
"You—don't tell me this time it was you again, you little—" His mouth moved faster than his brain. Years behind the bar had honed his insults to reflex speed. But remembering Vela's earlier ferocity and the fully armed mercenaries around her, he swallowed the curse mid-breath. Face flushed red, he forced out a smile uglier than tears. "Ah... Sister Russell... you rarely visit Roanapur. Don't scare me like that."
"It was an accident." Vela waved, signaling her subordinates to lower their weapons, and walked closer.
"Also... why do you smell so bad?" She wrinkled her nose slightly.
That only made Paul more aggrieved.
"Who blew up the damn trash can just now?!"
Blew up? Vela blinked and glanced sideways at Roberta, who was being restrained and searched by Nova.
"Ahem. She kicked it."
"That damned maid again?!"
...
While Vela ran into an old acquaintance from the City of Evil and began chatting, Nova finished the search. She weighed several oval-shaped grenades in her palm, then walked back to Roberta and crouched before her.
"Hiding grenades under your skirt. Quite the circus trick," she teased.
Deeply humiliated, Roberta glared at Nova with murderous fury.
Don't be fooled by Nova's softness around Vela. She was actually quite dark inside, even a little twisted—particularly fond of fear tactics that shattered an enemy's psyche.
Unfortunately, Vela's directive was to capture alive, and her stance toward the Lovelace family leaned more toward cooperation than destruction. That limited Nova's ability to employ the most vicious tactics to cripple or kill this steadfast hunting hound.
Unless the young master sought death himself.
But clearly, he was lucky—and sensible.
"Risk eliminated." Nova patted Roberta's bloodied cheek, sounding almost regretful as she rose and spoke to Ivan.
Ivan nodded calmly and released the choke.
Cough, cough—ugh—
With a dull thud, Roberta collapsed to the ground, struggling to prop herself up as her body trembled, gasping for air.
Garcia, who had been watching anxiously, did not hesitate. Ignoring the EMT's attempts to continue counseling, he rushed over.
Having exchanged a few words with Paul, Vela saw this and made a subtle gesture toward Balalaika, who was watching with a cigar between her fingers, and toward Koko.
The coercion phase was over.
Now came the temptation.
Just like what she was doing in the world of Code Geass.