Marco adjusted his sleeves for the third time in five minutes, his fingers lingering on the cufflinks like a man delaying his own execution. The door to David's study loomed before him—heavy oak, carved with Las Rosas Negras insignia. A warning in itself.

"This woman will be the death of me," he muttered, then schooled his face into blank obedience and pushed inside.

The scene was familiar: David sprawled in his leather chair, Elena perched on his lap, his arms locked around her waist like a claim. A glass of wine dangled from his fingers, half-offered to his wife, who sipped it with a quiet smile. David didn't bother looking up—just arched a bored eyebrow, his thumb stroking idle circles on Elena's hip.

"Clearly it's you," David drawled. "Who else would be stupid enough to interrupt me?" His voice was deceptively light, but Marco saw the twitch in his jaw, the way his grip tightened when Elena laid a soothing hand over his knuckles.

"Di lo que tengas que decir," David grunted, nuzzling into Elena's neck like a man savoring his last moment of peace. "Or get out."

Marco swallowed. "It's about your daughter."

David went still.

Elena slid off his lap with a sympathetic pat on Marco's shoulder—smart woman—leaving the room before the storm hit.

"She's been sneaking out," Marco continued, spine rigid, arms locked behind his back like a soldier bracing for shrapnel. "For weeks. I tried to follow her, but—"

"But?" David's voice dropped to a whisper.

"She's meeting Aarón."

Silence.

The glass in David's hand cracked. A slow trickle of red wine dripped onto the desk like blood.

"Aarón," David repeated. "Rafael's. Son." Each word was a nail in a coffin. He stood so fast his chair toppled, and Marco didn't flinch when David seized him by the collar, shaking him hard enough to rattle teeth.

"One job, Marco! One! Y me dices que mi muñeca anda de noche con ese maldito cerdo?" Spittle flew, his breath hot with the edge of brandy and rage. He shoved Marco back, pointing a finger like a gun. "This isn't over."

Then he was gone, storming down the hall, his daughter's name a snarl between his teeth.

When he threw open her door, his grip nearly splintered the knob—but the sight of her, whole and unharmed, made his shoulders slump.

"Mi amor," he said, voice straining for calm. "Care to explain why Marco just saw you with Aarón?" He crossed his arms, the picture of stern authority—though the effect was ruined when he perched on her bed like a scolding parent, not the kingpin who'd just threatened to bury a man alive.

"And don't—" He wagged a finger, "—use those ojitos on me. I'm immune tonight." He warned, the bed dipped under his weight as he sat, gaze unrelenting.

"Entonces? Habla."