"Yes, friend. I told you that you made a big mistake," the redhead said, closing the distance with casual arrogance.
Giulano gently set Thirteen down against a brick wall, took the bag from Bishop, and walked forward to meet him. No point in wasting time with pride and posturing—not when every second counted.
"Tell me what you want," he said simply.
"You know what I want," the redhead shouted, then his voice dropped to something more dangerous. "But I don't know what you want, Marcus. You are Marcus, right?"
How did he know that name? Giulano filed the information away for later. "You want the money. I want the girl to live. But none of us is walking away if you think otherwise." He dropped the bag at his feet, watching the boy's eyes track the movement.
"Actually, I think otherwise," the redhead replied, and Giulano understood the weight behind those words.
I think otherwise. That meant only three possibilities: Red Serpents wanted Thirteen to die and leave the money. They wanted her to live and Giulano keeps the money. Or they wanted both—her death and the cash. As the redhead bent to pick up the bag, his intentions became crystal clear. These kids weren't offering anyone a ride to the hospital.
"You see, Marcus," the redhead continued, slinging the bag over his shoulder, "you walked into Red Serpents territory. You beat me infront of my boys. In my streets. That makes you my business." He gestured to his crew, and several of them stepped forward, weapons becoming more visible.
Giulano felt that familiar calm descend—the cold calculation that had once terrified entire organizations. Behind him, Thirteen's breathing was getting shallower. Danny and Bishop stood frozen, waiting for his signal. Thirty of them. Three of us standing. One of ours bleeding out. No guns. No hope.
"If we die here," Giulano said softly, his voice carrying across the silent street, "this town burns. And our names become legends. Are you sure you want to be the matchstick that starts that fire?"
The redhead studied him for a long moment, then burst into laughter—but there was something forced about it, something that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Who said I wanted to kill you?" He shouldered the bag of money and gestured to his crew. "Mount up, boys. We got what we came for."
The Red Serpents climbed onto their bikes, engines roaring to life in the narrow alley. As they prepared to leave, the redhead called back over the noise: "Good luck with your friend, Marcus. Hope she makes it."
But the mockery in his voice made it clear—they had no intention of helping. They'd taken their revenge and claimed their prize in one move. Clean and efficient.
As the sound of motorcycles faded into the distance, Giulano rushed back to where Thirteen lay slumped against the brick wall. Her face had gone gray, lips barely moving as she struggled for each breath.
"Stay with us," Bishop whispered, his voice breaking as tears carved tracks down his dirt-stained cheeks.
But Giulano could see it in her eyes—that distant look he'd seen too many times before. She was already somewhere else, somewhere beyond their reach.
"What's your real name?" he asked softly, kneeling beside her and taking her cold hand in his. The question surprised even him. In all their planning, all their conversations, he'd never asked.
Her eyes fluttered open, focusing on him with visible effort. "Sela," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Sela Diaz."
Sela. Not Thirteen. Not the street legend who'd earned her nickname the hard way—joining the crews at thirteen after her foster parents died in a house fire. Thirteen years old and alone, with nowhere to go but down. The streets had swallowed her whole, given her a new identity, a reputation built on necessity and survival.
"Sela," Giulano repeated, and something in the way he said her real name made her smile—just barely, but it was there.
"Nobody's called me that in..." she started, then coughed, specks of blood on her lips. "In nine years."
Nine years since anyone had seen her as more than just another street soldier. Nine years since anyone had cared enough to ask who she really was beneath the mask, beneath the legend.
Danny dropped to his knees beside them, his hands shaking. "We can still get you to a hospital. We can—"
"No," Sela whispered, squeezing Giulano's hand with what little strength she had left. "It's okay. I'm tired, you know? Been running so long."
She'd been running since she was thirteen. Running from the memory of flames consuming the only home she'd ever known. Running from the social workers who saw her as just another case file. Running from the pain of being utterly, completely alone in the world.
"My foster mom," she continued, her voice growing softer, "she used to make these pancakes on Sunday mornings. With blueberries. I can smell them right now."
Bishop sobbed openly now, his tough-guy facade crumbling completely. Even Danny was crying, this girl who'd been nothing but fierce determination and sharp wit reduced to memories of Sunday morning pancakes.
Giulano felt something breaking inside his chest—not Marcus's heart, but his own. The heart of a man who'd forgotten what innocence looked like until he saw it bleeding out in an alley because of choices he'd made.
"Tell me about them," he said quietly. "The pancakes."
Thirteen's eyes grew distant, but peaceful. "She'd let me help flip them. Always burned the first one, but she said that was good luck. The burned one was for... for the angels."
Her breathing became more labored, but she kept talking, clinging to the memory like it could carry her home.
"She'd sing while she cooked. Old songs in Spanish. I didn't understand the words, but I understood the feeling. Like being wrapped in something warm and safe."
"What was her name?" Giulano asked, thumb gently stroking the back of her hand.
"Maria. Maria Santos. She said I was her baby, even though I wasn't really hers." A tear slipped down her cheek. "Told me I had a purpose. Something important to do."
"You did have a purpose," Giulano whispered fiercely. "You saved us today. You were brave when it mattered."
"Was I?" she asked, and for a moment she sounded exactly like what she was—a twenty-two-year-old girl who'd never had the chance to be young.
"The bravest," Bishop choked out. "The fucking bravest, Sela."
She smiled at the sound of her name on his lips. "I like how that sounds. Been so long since I was just... me."
The alley grew quiet except for the distant sounds of the city and Thirteen's increasingly shallow breaths. Somewhere a church bell was ringing, marking time that was running out too fast.
"Will you tell them?" she whispered. "If anyone asks about me someday... will you tell them my real name was Sela?"
"I promise," Guilano said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "I'll make sure they remember Sela Diaz."
She nodded, seeming satisfied. Her eyes drifted closed, then opened again with effort. "Marcus?"
"I'm here."
"That thing you did... taking those bullets for Danny. That was real, wasn't it? You're not like the rest of us."
Giulano met her gaze, seeing too much understanding there. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." She touched her chest weakly. "And by the way I like your shoes."
"Yes," he whispered. "I can give them to you."
"I know it." She smiled again, peaceful now. "You care so much."
Her hand went limp in his, but her eyes stayed open, staring at something beyond them all.
"Sela?" Bishop whispered.
But she was gone. The church bells were still ringing in the distance, and somewhere in the city, life went on. But in this alley, beside a girl who'd never had a real chance at happiness, three souls were forever changed by the weight of her absence.
Giulano didn't cry. He'd forgotten how. But in that moment, he learned something every king must—you don't build an empire without burying your soldiers.