It was morning, and sunlight streamed through the window of a luxurious penthouse. We see a man in a suit, with a lean, muscular build, and a fade haircut that accentuated his dark skin and blue eyes. The most striking feature was the tattoo covering his entire back: biblical verses with an image of Christ in the center, weeping blood. It was strange and disturbing.
He was finishing getting ready when his cell phone rang. Answering, he heard James on the other end of the line, "Good morning, Marc." "Don't screw around, I told you not to call me Marc," an irritated Marcos said, now fully dressed and walking into the living room, still on the phone.
"Why are you calling me at this hour?" he asked, grabbing a cup of coffee from the coffee maker. "Sanders wants us at the office... at ten," James said casually. Marcos, sipping his coffee, told James to pick him up at home and hung up.
Marcos sat on the living room sofa. His penthouse was simple, lacking many decorative items. "What a shitty life," Marcos said to himself.
He abandoned the cup on the coffee table and went outside to wait for James. After leaving the penthouse, he took the elevator, which stopped two floors below his, and a woman entered. She was noticeably shorter than Marcos, with dark skin and curly hair that exuded a lavender and jasmine perfume, a soft and comforting fragrance for Marcos.
The woman looked at him and said, "Rough night?" trying to strike up a conversation.
Marcos wasn't sure how to respond when strangers initiated conversations like that, so he simply nodded. "You know, when I have a tough night at work, I count to ten and take a deep breath."
Marcos didn't have time to reply because the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and the woman left, but not before leaving a card in his hand, saying, "Maybe a drink can brighten your day," and she hurried out of the elevator as the doors closed.
Looking at the card, Marcos saw "Dream Night" written on it and remembered it was a famous bar in the city. He put the card in his suit pocket.
In the garage, in front of a BMW, stood a man also in a suit. He was tall and muscular, with long, blond hair, a lighter skin tone, and stubble. Upon seeing Marcos, he quickly said, "My car, I drive." Marcos chose not to argue with James and got into the passenger seat, putting on classical music. "Classical music? In my car? That's unacceptable!" James changed the music to heavy metal. "This is going to be a long trip," Marcos whispered.
Sanders's building was a monolith of glass and steel, cold and intimidating. Marcos felt a weight in his chest whenever he looked at that damn building from the outside. After all, he knew how much blood and pain it took to build Sanders's empire.
In the building's lobby, they were stared at by everyone, not with envy or admiration, but with fear. That's all they saw in the eyes. James was the most affected by it; despite everything his profession forced him to do, he hated the spilled blood and the cries of anguish that followed.
The security guards in the hallway on the top floor were tense shadows, with weapons visible, making it clear that anyone who tried anything would never see the light of day again.
The office door was plain and unadorned. Before they approached, one of the guards gave two light knocks on the door. Sanders's voice, hoarse and tired, came from inside, "Enter."
The simplicity of that office contrasted with all the luxury Sanders could afford. The bare walls, the stained glass coffee table, the lack of any personal touch... a reflection of his own simplicity.
Sitting in a large chair was Sanders, watching the city's movement. The only luxury was the shelves filled with hardcover books, with titles in foreign languages that Marcos couldn't recognize.
In the corner of the office, there was a luxurious but worn leather sofa, where a man in a gray suit sat, with a cold and thoughtful look, observing every move of James and Marcos.
James quickly sat on the sofa, greeting the man next to him, who snorted and ignored the interaction. James smiled and didn't try to say anything else to the man; he knew Danvers wasn't one for conversations. He then shifted his focus to Sanders.
"Old man, tell us what's the problem. Nico's dead, and his area is in your hands. Why all this nervousness?" James said, still next to the other man on the sofa, while Marcos remained rigidly standing. Sanders said, "My sons, we thought Nico was with the cartels; it was a mistake on my part." Marcos and James exchanged glances, and Marcos asked, "Who was helping Nico?" Sanders sighed and said, "Beloye Krylo." At that moment, James and Marcos knew they had brought trouble to Sanders.
"Father, what can we do to help?" Marcos asked, concerned. Sanders replied, "My sons, I only ask that you be discreet and stay out of our city areas." Marcos and James wanted to question the orders, but Sanders smiled and reassured them, saying, "I'll negotiate with them and end this. Don't worry about this old man; I've survived two wars; these foreigners won't take me down."
The old man stood up and walked over to them, placing his hand on their shoulders and saying, "Relax, my sons, stay home and enjoy the free time." Thus, Marcos and James left the office in silence; the atmosphere was heavy and oppressive. Beloye Krylo didn't leave deaths unavenged.
Back in the car, James was the first to speak, "We're really screwed." Marcos was sitting in the car, tapping his finger on the door handle, thinking. "We're done for," he said. "Where are you headed?" James asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Just drop me off at my damn house," he said, resting his head against the window. James ignored the other's bad mood and said, "Calm down, brother. Remember Guatemala? It was us against a hundred and fifty." Marcos sighed and didn't respond, and James continued, "We screwed them up and earned those nicknames." Marcos turned, "Those stupid nicknames." James seemed offended.
"Stupid? No, epic. 'Dos Ojos,' we're the best." Marcos replied, "I know, man, but now I have to think, so take me home." Silence filled the car.
While James drove in silence, the city's atmosphere seemed to resonate with Marcos's terrible mood, and it was no longer sunny. Dark clouds foretold a storm, which to him signified a disastrous future. James dropped Marcos off at his house and went to see Maria, leaving a warning, "Let me know if anything happens, brother," and drove off down the street.
At home, Marcos couldn't help but think about his life up to that moment. He went to one of the many books on his shelves and picked up one titled "White Wing." He had read it several times. It told the story of Beloye Krylo.
This gang was originally a family, the Krylo family, until 1991, with the fall of the Soviet Union, when this wealthy family was brutally murdered. Shortly after, all their assets were sold, and in 1992, Beloye Krylo emerged, massacring and taking over every alley and corner of Russia.
The Russian underworld soon fell, and Beloye Krylo spread to Germany, Italy, America, and Japan. What was a small organization became one of the most feared and dangerous groups in the world, and its leader, Maxin Krylo, the most wanted man in the world.
"We're royally screwed." Marcos saw no way out of this situation without facing an army of criminals. James and I are screwed.
In a moment of clarity, Marcos thought, "How does a loser like Nico have contact with Beloye Krylo?" It didn't make sense to him that a worm like Nico had such support.
Sitting on the living room sofa, still lost in thought, Marcos took the card out of his pocket and looked at it: "Dream Night." He was in doubt, but thinking about the woman he met earlier, he decided, "You know what, screw it." He got up from the sofa, grabbed his car keys, ready to check out this bar, hoping it might lighten the mood.