EMILIO VALENCIA'S POV
Emilio Valencia stood by the large window of his father's study, the city lights flickering like distant stars. The world outside looked unchanged, but within these walls, everything had shifted.
That night, a man in a black suit stepped into the private lounge where Emilio and his closest men sat. One of Dante's men. Without a word, he set a folded slip of paper on the table and stepped back.
Emilio's gaze lingered on the note before he picked it up, unfolding it with deliberate slowness.
"You put your hands on my blood. That means you owe me. I don't forget debts, and I don't accept apologies easily. But I'll give you a chance to try. Come to me before I come looking for you. —D."
Silence gripped the room.
Dante wanted an apology.
Not just retribution, not just repayment—he wanted Emilio to bow.
A muscle shifted in Emilio's jaw as he carefully folded the paper and set it down. His men watched, waiting for his reaction. The messenger was a tall man, cold-eyed, who had ruthless authority. He left as quickly as he arrived, his silence more menacing than any spoken threat.
Emilio exhaled slowly, hands clenched at his sides. The air in the room felt heavier, suffocating. His mind raced, but he fought to maintain his composure.
Ramon entered, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. He took one look at Emilio and narrowed his eyes. "You didn't say anything?"
Emilio scoffed. "What was I supposed to say?"
"He thinks you'll fold."
"I'm not going to." The words came out low, almost a growl.
Ramon stepped closer, his voice even. "Then don't let him see that fear. It's what he expects."
Emilio turned, frustration and determination flashing in his eyes. "He wants me to kneel like I'm some weakling playing at power. If I apologize, I'll look like a boy unfit to lead."
"Then send a message." Ramon's voice dropped, heavy with meaning. "Not just to Dante—to everyone. You get one shot to show them who you are. Don't waste it."
Emilio's chest tightened. This wasn't just about survival. It was about claiming his place.
He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip. "And I'm not someone who kneels."
Ramon, his father's old consigliere, moved toward the fireplace, arms crossed. "Dante wants an apology."
Emilio smirked. "He can want whatever the hell he likes."
"He won't let this go."
"I know." Emilio's fingers tightened around the note.
This started because his man, Rossi, put Dante's cousin in the hospital. A cousin who was nothing but a reckless brat riding on borrowed power. Luca had always been a problem waiting to happen, running his mouth and picking fights, thinking his last name made him untouchable.
But now, Dante was demanding payback.
Emilio wasn't his father, Miguel Valencia, the man who built their empire from nothing., And he doubted himself a lot, but he sure as hell wouldn't bend to Dante Falcon.
Even if refusing meant war.
Ramon arms folded, scoffed. "An apology? That's as good as kneeling in front of the entire city."
And that was exactly what Emilio feared. If he caved, his men would see weakness. Others would test him. Challenge him. Turn against him.
"He won't stop until he gets what he wants," Ramon warned. "And if we refuse, he'll make sure the next hit is more than a warning."
Ramon narrowed his eyes. "So what? We roll over? Let Falcone humiliate us?"
Emilio dragged a hand down his face, his mind racing.
"The Valencia family does not kneel," he said at last, voice steady. "Not to Dante. Not to anyone."
"Then what's the move?" Ramon asked.
Emilio leaned back, eyes dark. "Dante wants a meeting? He'll get one. But not as a man begging for forgiveness."
Ramon smirked. "Now that sounds more like Valencia."
But Ramon's gaze lingered, unreadable. That unsettled Emilio more than anything.
He had grown up hearing stories of his father—the great Godfather, the legend who built an empire from nothing. Now, that legend was gone.
Leaving only him.
And that was the real problem.
For most of his life, Emilio had been kept away from the blood and violence, tucked in European universities, learning business instead of war. His father had wanted better for him. "You're not meant for this life," he had said.
Yet here he was.
At twenty-four, he was now heir to a throne he was never meant to rule. The moment he returned, he saw the truth: no one thought he belonged here. The hardened men who followed his father saw a rich boy, a scholar, not a leader.
And Dante? He saw a weakness and he wanted to exploit it.
Emilio turned a whiskey glass between his fingers, his thoughts heavy. Dante hadn't sent a phone call, hadn't come himself. No, he sent a messenger. A silent demand wrapped in power.
That was the insult.
Dante thinks I'm too young to pose a threat, Emilio thought bitterly. He thinks I'm a pawn. But he's wrong.
He set the glass down with a quiet clink.
Let him think he can control me. Let him underestimate me.
That would be his mistake.
---
The next night, Emilio's car rolled to a stop in the dimly lit underground parking lot. The air was thick with the scent of gasoline, the faint hum of distant music vibrating through the walls.
Dante's men stood at the entrance of the underground walls with guns in their hands and sharp suits. They looked so alert and about to use their holsters.
He stepped out, adjusting his suit jacket, his expression unreadable. Every footstep echoed as he made his way toward the metal door at the far end of the lot—the entrance to Dante's domain.
Ramon walked beside him, his voice low. "This could be a setup."
Emilio smirked, though there was no humor in his eyes. "Then let's hope they brought enough men."
The heavy door creaked open, revealing a stairwell bathed in crimson light. The bass of the music grew louder with each step downward, there was a murmur of voices.
A narrow stairwell led them down and the deeper they went, the louder the music grew—a steady, pounding rhythm that matched the pulse in Emilio's throat. His heartbeat didn't quicken, but his grip on the situation tightened. He wasn't walking into this blind.
At the bottom of the stairs, another set of doors swung open, revealing the underground club. The space was a mix of dimly lit luxury and raw danger, dark leather booths, expensive liquor, and there were more men with hustlers at the walls.
And then he saw him.
Dante stood at the center of the underground club, surrounded by his men, he had an effortless authority that sent a ripple of tension through the air. He turned, locking eyes with Emilio, a slow, knowing smile curling at his lips.
He raised his glass slightly in greeting, acknowledging him with a smirk.
"Valencia."
Emilio made sure to walk straight toward Dante, the tension in the room so bold and noticeable.
Emilio took another step forward, he made sure to have a steady pulse.
This was really a Showtime.