"Whatever doesn't kill a man makes him stronger." Grand Pablo could hear his boss's voice echoing through time. "A man is not a man if no gun has ever been pointed at him."
Grand Pablo knew the truth of those words, but there are moments where fear and faith occupy the same heartbeat. The young boy had been frozen, and the enemy's finger was already squeezing the trigger. Pablo could only watch—frozen himself in that terrible instant. "Shoot, Junior! Shoot!"
Click. The man's chamber was empty, and that's when young Giulano fired without thinking. The Maximo gunman dropped like a stone, blood pooling beneath his head on the concrete floor.
Pablo stumbled to a stop, chest heaving, watching the boy lower the smoking gun with steady hands. The terror was gone from Giulano's eyes, replaced by something harder. Something that would one day conquer nations.
"Kid," Pablo gasped, pulling the boy into a fierce embrace. "You have a bulletproof soul."
But now, decades later in another world, another kid faced the same choice. The difference was that Giulano had never risked his life for another person before—people had always risked theirs for him. But watching the second guard's gun swing toward Danny, hearing Pablo's voice echo across the decades, he understood something fundamental: some things are worth dying for.
I have lived long enough, he thought, and Marcus Chen's body launched itself between the bullets and his friend.
The impacts hit like sledgehammers. Two bullets caught him in the chest, spinning him sideways into the wall. But as he hit the ground, he felt something impossible—the bullets had stopped. Not in his flesh, but against it. Like his father had said all those years ago: bulletproof soul.
Danny's rifle barked twice in response. The bodyguard dropped, then Victor Restrepo as he tried to run.
"Fuck!" Danny shouted, seeing two members of their crew down. Marcus lay motionless. Thirteen was wounded and losing blood fast, but still breathing. Bishop crouched behind the counter, as stunned as the terrified customers.
"For God's sake, you fools, leave!" Tony sobbed from the floor.
But something had snapped in Danny. The careful, nervous kid was gone. What remained was something harder, colder. He grabbed Thirteen's rifle and walked over to where Tony knelt, pressing the barrel against the old man's temple.
"Please," Tony whispered, tears streaming down his face. "I have a family. My daughter, my wife—please, I just make pizza."
Danny's finger moved to the trigger. After what they'd just been through, it felt like justice.
"Don't shoot, Danny."
The voice carried absolute authority. Danny turned to see Marcus standing behind him, and for a moment—in the shadows—he could have sworn he was looking at someone much older, much more dangerous.
"Rise up, B," Marcus called to Bishop, who was still frozen behind the counter.
Danny stared at his friend—at the torn jacket, at the complete absence of wounds where bullets should have killed him. "How—?"
"Questions later," Marcus said, already moving toward Thirteen. "She's bleeding out."
He turned to the terrified customers cowering in the corners. "You're all safe now," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd commanded respect his entire life. "Leave ten minutes after we do. Tell them it was a robbery gone wrong. You never saw our faces."
He pulled his hat lower, shadows hiding his features. "Danny, grab the money and that rifle. We're leaving. Now."
As they lifted Thirteen between them, Danny couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just witnessed something impossible. But Marcus Chen—whoever he really was—had just taken two bullets for him and walked away.
They escaped through the back door, Marcus and Danny supporting Thirteen between them. The wound was worse than it looked—Giulano had seen enough bullet wounds to know. Her chances without immediate surgery were dropping by the minute.
"Put her down," he said to Danny, scanning the alley. "Where's your gun?"
Danny had left the rifle at Tony's in his panic. Giulano felt something crawling up his spine—that old instinct that had kept him alive through decades of war. The air itself felt wrong. Predatory.
"Call Knives and Timo," he ordered Bishop, applying fresh pressure to Thirteen's shoulder. "Tell them to execute the backup plan. Now."
He pulled off her mask and saw that look in her eyes—the same glazed expression he'd worn the night he died. Too much blood lost. This was how people used to die while he counted money in his office.
"Danny, hold this." He pressed Danny's hands against the makeshift bandage. "Where's the nearest doctor?"
Danny, who knew these streets better than anyone, pointed toward the main road. "There's a clinic six blocks—"
Giulano lifted Thirteen, feeling how light she'd become. "Bishop, take the money and disappear. We'll find you later."
But as they prepared to separate, his instincts screamed louder. Something was coming.
They rounded the corner and found them waiting—about thirty young men spread across the narrow street. Some carried bats, others had guns poorly concealed under their jackets. At their head stood the redheaded kid who he beat on his first day in West Antiok, wearing the crimson bandana that marked him as Red Serpents leadership.
Giulano's mind clicked into place. The Red Serpents wanted that money, but they were smart enough not to start a war with the Murphies directly. Let some unknown crew do the dirty work, then take the prize. Clean hands, full pockets.
"Well, well," the redhead called out, his voice carrying that particular brand of confidence that came from having numbers. "Looks like we got ourselves some heroes."