One month later, one random morning, Monica stepped out of the bathroom with a strange look on her face.
Raphael was leaning against the headboard, flipping through a magazine.
"What's up?"
Monica didn't speak. She just handed him the pregnancy test.
Two bright red lines.
Raphael glanced at it, then set the magazine down.
"Oh."
Monica stared at him. "That's it? Just 'oh'?"
Raphael thought for a second.
"Congratulations?"
Monica punched him hard in the arm.
"Fuck you! This is yours!"
"I know."
"You know shit!"
She sat on the edge of the bed, voice suddenly small. "I… I'm not ready…"
Raphael looked at her.
Anger, panic, confusion—all mixed together on that beautiful face.
A former undercover cop who had run off to Brazil with a murderer and a wanted man was now standing there looking like any ordinary scared girl.
"What's there to get ready for?"
Monica looked up.
"What?"
"I said, what's there to get ready for?"
Raphael sat up straight. "The house is big enough. We've got plenty of money. You don't have to worry about the future. Just have the baby."
Monica stared at him, stunned.
"You… you're serious?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
She stared at him for a long time, then suddenly cursed.
"You fucking asshole!"
"You've called me that a lot."
"Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!"
After she finished yelling, she collapsed into his arms and pressed her face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Life went on.
Monica's belly grew bigger every day.
Raphael went with her to every prenatal appointment, listening as she spoke fluent Portuguese with the doctors.
On the way home he'd always take a detour to buy her favorite açaí bowl from the little shop she loved.
At night she would randomly start crying for no reason.
The doctor said, "Hormones. Totally normal."
Raphael would just hold her until she cried herself out.
The next morning she'd be back to her fiery, energetic self.
At four months they found out the gender.
A girl.
Monica was so happy she couldn't sleep that night, rolling around thinking of names.
"How about Isabella? Or Sophia? Or Maria? A lot of girls in Brazil are named Maria…"
Raphael lay beside her with his eyes closed.
"Whatever."
"Whatever? This is your daughter!"
"Then name her Whatever."
Monica paused, then slapped his chest.
"Be serious!"
Raphael opened his eyes and looked at her.
In the moonlight her eyes were still so bright.
Her belly was already showing, a new, round silhouette under the silk robe.
"Martina."
Monica stopped moving.
"Martina?"
"Yeah. Goddess of war."
Monica looked confused.
"Why the goddess of war?"
"Because her mom's a cop and her dad's a highly skilled wanted criminal."
Raphael smiled. "She's definitely going to get into fights. Might as well wish her victory in advance."
Monica almost laughed, but then thought about it.
"Martina."
She repeated it a few times. "Martina… I like it."
"Then Martina it is."
---
One afternoon in the fifth month, Raphael went to a café on Copacabana to buy Monica the açaí bowl she loved.
While waiting in line, he casually glanced across the street.
A black Mercedes was parked there.
The door opened and a fat man stepped out.
Big slicked-back hair, thick gold chain, expensive linen suit, four bodyguards behind him.
Raphael's gaze lingered on the man's face for one second.
Then it moved on—past the newsstand, past the ice-cream vendor, past—
And stopped.
Beside the Mercedes stood a younger man.
Mid-twenties, tall, sharp features, the arrogant smirk of someone who had been spoiled rotten since birth.
He leaned against the car door, cigarette in hand, talking to one of the guards.
Raphael's pupils tightened.
He had seen that face before.
Not on the street. Not in real life.
In a movie.
Dante Reyes—the big villain from Fast & Furious 10.
And the fat man—
Hernan Reyes.
The Rio drug lord from Fast Five, the guy who owned the hundred million dollars hidden in the police station vault.
Raphael stood at the café entrance, açaí bowl in hand, watching the black Mercedes slowly pull away.
His face showed nothing.
But inside, the Force stirred quietly.
---
That night, Monica noticed something was off.
"What's wrong?"
Raphael leaned on the terrace railing, looking at the distant Christ the Redeemer statue.
"Nothing."
Monica walked over and put her hand on his arm.
"You've been weird all afternoon."
Raphael was silent for a few seconds.
"Saw a couple of people."
"What people?"
"People who might cause us trouble later."
Monica's grip tightened.
"Should we deal with them?"
Raphael turned and stared at her.
No fear. No hesitation. Just calm acceptance.
As if she had asked, "Should we go buy milk?" instead of "Should we kill them?"
"You're not scared?"
Monica smiled.
"Scared of what? I'm carrying your child, our bank accounts are full of your money, and for the last few months all I've done is eat and sleep. I stopped being a good person a long time ago."
She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. "Whatever you do, I'm with you."
Raphael looked at her.
In the moonlight her eyes were still so bright.
He wrapped his arms around her waist.
"Give me a few days," he said. "I'll find out where they are first."
Monica nodded.
"Okay."
---
That night Monica slept deeply.
Raphael lay beside her, listening to her steady breathing and the occasional sound of waves outside the window.
This city was huge—twenty million people.
But the men he was looking for wouldn't hide too deep.
---
Three days later, Raphael had all the information he needed.
That same night, after Monica fell asleep, he left the house.
Reyes Estate, West Zone, Rio.
The sprawling mansion sat on a hillside, over a hundred acres, surrounded by high walls topped with electrified wire.
Dozens of armed guards patrolled day and night. Security cameras covered every inch.
The iron gate was closed, two armored SUVs parked behind it.
Raphael stood on the roof of an abandoned building two kilometers away, watching the estate through binoculars.
Dark Perception at full power unfolded the entire compound in his mind.
Main house, guest house, garage, pool, guard barracks—every building's location, every patrol route, every camera blind spot, crystal clear.
He had scouted the place thoroughly during the day.
Main house, third floor, second room on the east side: Dante Reyes.
West-side master bedroom: Hernan Reyes.
Thirty-seven guards total, working in three shifts.
Tonight's night shift: twelve men. Four at the front gate, six patrolling the grounds, two inside the main house.
Raphael lowered the binoculars and checked his watch.
2:17 a.m.
He moved.
Night was the best cover.
Like a black shadow, Raphael slipped through the hillside bushes and approached the rear wall.
There was a camera blind spot there—he had marked it three days earlier.
He vaulted the wall and landed silently on the grass.
The backyard lawn was neatly trimmed, but his footsteps were lighter than a cat's.
He skirted the pool, hugging the shadows of the main house, heading for the fire escape on the side.
Two guards rounded the corner, rifles in hand, chatting quietly.
Raphael pressed against the wall and waited.
Footsteps got closer. Three meters. Two. One—
The second they turned the corner, Raphael struck.
Force choke.
Both men froze, guns dropping with soft thuds.
Their hands clawed at their own throats, eyes bulging, but no sound came out.
Raphael stepped out of the shadows, grabbed both heads, and twisted.
Crack.
Two bodies dropped.
He dragged them into the bushes and kept moving.
The metal fire-escape stairs creaked faintly under his feet, but the occasional music from inside the house covered it.
Raphael climbed floor by floor until he reached the third level.
The hallway was empty. Dim wall lights cast patchy shadows.
Second room on the east side.
The door was unlocked.
Raphael pushed it open and stepped inside.
Air-conditioning hummed. A big bed sat in the center.
Dante Reyes—the guy with the Aquaman and King Triton face—was sleeping.
Mid-twenties, tall, lean, a smug little smile still on his lips even in sleep. Must have been having a nice dream.
Raphael stood by the bed and looked down at him.
The Force slid into Dante's body like invisible threads.
In his sleep, Dante's body jerked violently.
His eyes snapped open, bulging wide. A wet gurgling sound escaped his throat.
He tried to scream, but only air came out.
He tried to move, but his limbs were nailed to the bed.
He stared at the dark figure standing over him, at those eyes that were almost invisible in the shadows.
Terror.
Pure, overwhelming terror.
It lasted three seconds.
Then everything went still.
Raphael lowered his hand.
Dante's eyes were still open, but they had no focus left.
The whole thing took less than ten seconds.
Raphael turned, walked out, and gently closed the door behind him.
The alarm went off.
The piercing siren tore through the night. Raphael didn't know which step had gone wrong—maybe a guard changed shifts early, maybe a camera he hadn't accounted for, maybe Dante's room had a hidden panic button.
None of it mattered now.
He walked down the stairs and into the main hall.
Several guards rushed in from different directions, rifles raised.
The moment the shooting started, Raphael moved.
A Force barrier bloomed in front of him. Bullets froze in mid-air, forming a dense wall.
The guards' faces froze.
Raphael flicked his wrist.
The bullets flew back.
More than a dozen men dropped at once.
Even more poured in from outside.
Raphael didn't stop.
The combat instincts granted by Selene's blessing were fully awake. His speed was almost impossible to track with the naked eye.
Every strike dropped another man.
Force choke. Force push. Force perception—
He moved through the crowd like a precision killing machine.
Two minutes later the hall was littered with bodies.
Raphael walked up the stairs to the third floor and kicked open the west-side master bedroom door.
Hernan Reyes stood by the window, pistol in hand.
His face was deathly pale, but there was still a spark of viciousness in his eyes—the last stubborn pride of a drug lord facing death.