"Shoot, Junior! Shoot!" Grand Pablo's voice cracked with desperation across the warehouse floor.
The old man's weathered face twisted in panic as he gestured frantically to his men—the boss's son was in mortal danger. "Kid's only sixteen," he muttered, more to God than to anyone listening, "why did the boss force us to bring him on this fucking job?"
Pablo's legs pumped harder as he sprinted toward where young Giulano González stood frozen. The boy held his father's chrome-plated .45 like it was made of molten lead. His whole body locked in terror while death stared him down from fifteen feet away.
This was supposed to be the kid's baptism by fire. Instead, it looked like his funeral. The rival gunman—some nobody from the Maximo crew—had his piece already cocked and aimed. Pablo could see it in the man's eyes: he knew exactly whose son he was about to execute. Killing González Sr.'s boy would make him a legend in certain circles. A very brief legend, but a legend nonetheless.
"My boy has a bulletproof soul," González Sr. had said just that morning, his voice thick with pride and something that might have been fear. "Nothing in this world can touch what God has blessed."
Bullshit, Pablo thought as he watched the Maximo man's finger tighten on the trigger. The kid was going to die, and Pablo would be next for letting it happen.
Young Giulano stood there like a statue, gun heavy in his small hands, sixteen years old and facing down his first real moment of violence. The moment that would define everything that came after—if there was an after.
"My son will die any death but bullets," the old man had whispered to Pablo before they left the house. "I know his fate. Whatever else happens, not bullets."
The words echoed in Pablo's head as he realized the terrible truth: he was too far away. Too slow. Too fucking old to save a boy who'd never asked to inherit this life. The gunshot exploded through the warehouse like thunder—
And now in a different body, in a different life, Giulano woke up. Marcus Chen's teenage heart hammered against his ribs as the dream—the memory—faded like smoke. Friday was today. His new crew was depending on him. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Grand Pablo's voice still echoed across the decades:
Shoot, Junior. Shoot. This time, he wouldn't freeze. This time, he'd be ready.
He was still sitting on his mattress when someone knocked at the door. Three sharp raps—Danny's signal.
Too early, but Danny had come. The morning light barely crept through the cracked window of Marcus's one-room apartment, casting long shadows across the peeling walls. Today was the day, and there was no way they were going to mess this up. Danny slipped inside, a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The weight of it told Giulano everything he needed to know—Danny had delivered.
"Marcus," Danny said, his voice tight with nerves as he sat on the edge of the mattress. The springs creaked under his weight. "Aren't you afraid?"
Giulano studied his friend's face. Danny's hands trembled slightly as he set the bag down, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool morning air. Giulano had seen that look countless times—the expression of a soldier before his first real battle.
"A little bit. Maybe because of you guys," Giulano replied, keeping Marcus's youthful uncertainty in his voice. Inside, the old king felt nothing but cold calculation. "Are you?"
"Yes, I am afraid. But this is worth the try, isn't it?" Danny's voice cracked on the last word.
"Yes, it is." Giulano reached over and squeezed Danny's shoulder—a gesture Marcus would make, though Giulano's mind was already three steps ahead. "Is the team ready?"
Danny nodded, pulling out a cheap burner phone from his jacket. "Yes. I've got you a phone. Hope the plan is ready."
Giulano took the device, feeling its weight. He'd commanded empires with phones worth more than this entire building. Now, this plastic rectangle would coordinate his first step back to power.
"The plan is ready," he said, his voice gaining the quiet authority that had once made rich men tremble. "Three guns and six bullets—that's all we have, and it's enough. Thirteen and Bishop enter through the back door wearing masks. Thirteen carries the rifle with three bullets, Bishop holds the fake gun to sell the illusion of superior firepower. I go through the front door with a hat pulled low, pistol with one bullet—one shot is all I'll need."
Danny leaned forward, caught up in the clinical precision of it all.
"Knives positions himself just outside the bank," Giulano continued, "ready to signal if cops show early. Timo waits across the street with the second rifle—two bullets, positioned for clean shots if things go sideways."
"Have you considered all the options?" Danny asked, though something in his voice suggested he already knew the answer.
Giulano's lips curved into a smile that didn't belong on Marcus's young face. "I've considered scenarios you can't even imagine. You'll be inside, playing customer, watching the tellers and security. You're my eyes and ears. When I give the signal, you know what to do."
"How are you guys going to flee from the scene?" Danny asked, and Giulano's smile widened.
"Wrong question, Danny." He stood up, pacing the small room like a caged predator. "It's not about fleeing. It's about leaving with our money and our dignity intact. The Red Serpents may think this is their neighborhood. After today, they'll know different."
He turned to face Danny, and for a moment, the younger man saw something ancient and dangerous flicker behind Marcus's eyes.
"I'm going to speak to the team before we set off. And Danny?" Giulano's voice dropped to a whisper. "After today, everything changes."