April 12th, 2025 — Barueri City, São Paulo, Brazil — 9:30 AM
The sun poured through the tall windows of the luxury residence in Alphaville 1 condo, casting golden sheets across silk curtains and polished marble floors. Outside, the private garden bloomed under the clear sky, and the buzz of quiet prosperity filled the air.
Carlos Silva Rodrigues Jr. — known to the streets as Marretinha — stirred beneath soft linen sheets. At 1.98 meters, his bulky frame almost dwarfed the king-size bed, but he barely noticed. His eyes opened slowly, taking in the soft weight resting on his chest.
She lay there peacefully, her black hair spilling over his skin like midnight silk. She was petite, around 1.60 meters, with refined curves and an elegance that came from both privilege and discipline. Her name was Isabella Rocha, daughter of a billionaire in the oil business. Beauty wrapped in intellect, finishing her second doctorate in business while managing to look like a dream.
He never truly understood how a woman like her had fallen for him. From an early age, she had shown brilliance — mastering the violin, organ, and flute, playing chess with the precision of a grandmaster, and cultivating a deep affection for Chinese culture, visiting the country multiple times. He still carried uneasy memories from their last trip to China, where she had playfully teased him about how harshly the country treated criminals like him. Despite the fear crawling beneath his skin on that trip, he could never deny the magnetic pull she had over him, a force that defied all reason and all odds.
For a moment, he let himself enjoy the stillness. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, watching as her lips parted slightly in her sleep, exhaling contentedly.
"Thank you, God," he murmured under his breath. "Another day alive. Another day on top."
Last night had been perfect. They had danced until the early hours at the DZ7 Baile, the air thick with bass, bodies moving in rhythm, music pulsing through the streets and through his blood. Life was good. Almost too good.
He eased himself out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. His body ached from missed morning routines — normally, he woke before dawn to train, to keep the strength of his body sharp. But today, it would have to wait until the afternoon.
He stepped into the kitchen, where the familiar scent of strong Brazilian coffee greeted him. He moved with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he wanted: a robust cup of coffee, eggs, bacon, and pão francês — his favorite breakfast.
"Good morning, Mr. Carlos," the maid greeted him warmly, her eyes lighting up at his presence.
"Good morning, Dona Maria," he replied in smooth English, flashing his charming smile. "You're a blessing, as always."
She chuckled, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Breakfast is ready."
As he sipped the coffee, today's guard on duty approached — Peixoto, a big, round man with a playful demeanor, part of Isabella's personal security detail assigned by her father.
"Morning, Mr. Carlos," Peixoto grinned, handing over a gun case. "You know the routine. Got your piece here. Just in case tonight we cross paths on the street, better you take it. If I catch you, I swear you'll be in jail by dawn!"
Carlos let out a laugh, taking the case and flipping it open briefly to inspect the weapon. It was his SIG Sauer P229, the trusted sidearm given to him by his father's best friend. "If you catch me, Peixoto, I'll buy you dinner."
"You should buy me a coffee, you know," Peixoto replied with a wink, a playful glint in his eye.
Both men laughed together, sharing the unspoken understanding behind the joke.
Behind Peixoto, another guard stood silently. Nascimento, tall, almost as tall as Carlos himself. His face looked stern, intimidating even, but he was known to be surprisingly calm and level-headed.
"Safe travels, sir," Nascimento said with a nod.
"Appreciated, Nascimento. Enjoy the sun. It's a beautiful day to be alive."
Carlos left the residence, stepping into the bright sunlight. He admired the sky for a moment longer, breathing in the warm air. Life was golden.
Waiting for him in the garage was his prized possession — a sleek, roaring Mustang, a rare sight on Brazilian streets. The engine purred like a beast under the hood.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he ran his fingers over the steering wheel, then started the car with a growl of satisfaction. He drove through the gated community, streets lined with palm trees and silence bought with billions.
His destination was his own apartment in the Alphaville area, close to the Alpha Shopping mall. A personal place, separate from Isabella's world. There, inside a secured drawer, rested another tool of his trade — a reliable 9mm Glock.
Carlos retrieved the Glock, checking it with the same care and respect he gave all his weapons. The SIG was with him already, but tonight required more than just trust. Tonight was special.
He holstered the Glock alongside the SIG Sauer, feeling a sense of readiness settle over him. Now, he was prepared.
Before the sun reached its peak, Carlos headed to the condominium gym. He had intended to work out in the afternoon, but plans shifted. Noon would do. He pushed himself through the familiar routine, feeling the burn in his muscles, sweat rolling down his skin. Each repetition reminded him of the strength he carried, of the power he intended to keep building.
After a cold shower and a quick change of clothes, he drove to the favela, the heart of his operations. As expected, his closest friend was at the usual spot — the corner bar, shaded from the sun, a game of truco unfolding on the weathered wooden table.
"Marretinha!" his friend called out, grinning as he slapped a card on the table. "Just in time to see me win this game."
Carlos chuckled, pulling up a chair. "Save me a seat, you bastard. I need a good meal first. Bring me a virado à paulista, make it heavy. I've earned it today."
The waiter, already familiar with his preferences, hustled off without a word.
"Tonight's the night," Carlos said, leaning in closer, his tone dropping. "I need you there. I'm counting on you."
His friend nodded, eyes serious now. "You know I got your back. Always."
"How's the shipment?" Carlos asked, keeping his voice low. "Any trouble with the supply? Any heat on the hood?"
"Smooth as it gets," his friend replied. "No snitches, no heat. Everything's flowing clean."
Carlos allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "Good. Let's keep it that way. Tonight, we make history."
The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalks and rusted rooftops. Carlos left the bar after finishing his meal, the weight of the evening ahead already settling on his shoulders.
Driving back to Alphaville, he took the familiar route through the busy streets, watching the life of the city pulse around him. Horns blared, vendors shouted their wares, and somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle's engine screamed through the traffic.
He reached his apartment just as the sky began to shift from bright blue to a warm, golden hue. Inside, everything was in place. He moved with precision, setting both his SIG Sauer and the Glock on the table, methodically checking each weapon, loading the magazines, and laying them out alongside a sharp, tailored suit.
Tonight was not a night for war. Tonight was a night for business.
His phone buzzed. A message from his best friend flashed on the screen.
"All set. CV supply routes confirmed. Got everything you asked. See you tonight, irmão."
Carlos smirked, typing back quickly.
"Good. Bring the details. Weber wants clean intel. We're handing him their throat."
He placed the phone down and opened a worn leather folder on the counter. Inside were maps of international trafficking routes, ports, and border crossings where CV funneled their supplies. These weren't local street fights. This was about cutting the lifeblood of their rival at its source.
Tonight's play was clear: deliver the intelligence to Vinicius Weber, who would push the judges already in his pocket to issue search and seizure warrants against the critical points in CV's supply chain. On the surface, it would look like justice. In reality, it was a surgical strike to cripple their rivals and take full control of the trade.
"Search and seizure warrant," Carlos murmured to himself in English, testing the words on his tongue. He liked how it sounded. Clean. Professional. Like something the law would applaud, even as blood would flow far beyond the city.
He packed the documents into a secure black folder, tucking it under his arm. He double-checked his pistols, holstered them with practiced ease, and dressed in the dark, finely cut suit. The fabric hugged his broad frame perfectly, projecting the image of a man who belonged among the elite.
Before stepping out, he caught his reflection in the mirror by the door. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned with purpose.
"Tonight, we break CV's spine," he said quietly.
The sky had turned to amber as he climbed into the Mustang. The engine rumbled to life beneath him, a sound that felt like thunder waiting to be unleashed.
He drove into the sunset, the city unfolding before him, unaware of the storm that was about to descend.
The destination was a wealthy bar in the heart of São Paulo, an exclusive venue where only the most successful men and women gathered. Executives, judges, politicians, and power brokers filled its luxurious halls, dressed in expensive suits and elegant dresses. The air buzzed with quiet deals and unspoken power plays.
The bar itself belonged to Vinicius Weber. A discreet fortress disguised as luxury, it served as both meeting place and stronghold.
Carlos arrived alongside his best friend, both men stepping from their vehicles with practiced ease. They were guided through the opulent main hall to a private quarter in the back — a room reserved for the highest of the high. Security was tight but subtle, just the way Weber preferred it.
Inside, the lighting was low, the scent of aged whiskey and polished leather filling the space. Everything about the room spoke of control, of power carefully maintained.
The private room was lavish, crowded with men of influence. Judges in tailored suits laughed quietly over glasses of imported scotch, their eyes sharp beneath polished exteriors. A battalion commander from COE, unmistakable in presence, held casual conversation with a small group, his posture rigid yet comfortable among the elite.
And at the center of it all, Vinicius Weber. He lounged between two stunning women, their beauty impossible to ignore. Draped in luxury, the women radiated charm, their attention drifting instinctively toward Carlos the moment he entered the room. Their eyes swept over his imposing physique, lingering longer than courtesy would allow.
Carlos noticed, offering a polite nod without breaking stride. The silent admiration of the women did not go unnoticed by Weber. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, the hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes before he masked it behind a practiced smirk.
"Gentlemen," Weber greeted smoothly, lifting his glass in a mock toast. "The man of the hour has arrived. Carlos, join us. Bring the future with you."
Carlos approached with steady confidence, setting the black folder on the polished table between them. His best friend took a seat at his side, their presence commanding attention.
"As requested," Carlos began, his tone crisp. "Clean intel. International supply routes of CV, identified and confirmed. Ports, border crossings, insider contacts. Enough to choke their flow for months."
Weber's eyes flicked to the folder, then back to Carlos. "Excellent," he replied, but his gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on the admiration still shining in the eyes of the women beside him.
"With the right warrants," Carlos continued, "we hit them fast and hard. Your judges in São Paulo move first, then we coordinate with federal enforcement. CV won't know what hit them."
Weber smiled thinly. "Indeed. I've already prepared the judges. They will sign whatever needs to be signed. Mandados de busca e apreensão. By tomorrow morning, CV will be gasping for air."
The judges nearby nodded in agreement, raising their glasses in silent approval.
Carlos felt a swell of satisfaction rise in his chest, but his instincts pricked at the corners of his mind. Something felt off. Too smooth. Too prepared.
Weber leaned back, resting his arms over the shoulders of the two women beside him. "Tonight, we celebrate," he declared. "But tomorrow, we own the streets. To our victory."
"To our victory," Carlos echoed, though his eyes narrowed slightly.
As glasses clinked and the room filled with quiet cheer, Carlos's best friend shifted in his seat, his posture a shade too tense, his smile a fraction too forced.
Carlos noticed.
And deep inside, a chill crept through his spine.
Weber's gaze sharpened for just a moment as he gestured subtly toward one of his guards. The man nodded in understanding and slipped quietly toward the entrance, locking it behind him. The soft click of the door was drowned out by the shallow laughter still echoing in the room.
"Carlos," Weber said smoothly, pouring himself another drink. "You've built an empire in the streets. Impressive work. Truly. But the thing about empires... they cast long shadows. Shadows others would rather not see growing longer."
Carlos's eyes hardened, his body tensing beneath the tailored suit. He felt the weight of both pistols beneath his jacket, a familiar reassurance, but tonight, it felt different. Heavy.
His best friend cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "It's just business, irmão," he said, almost a whisper.
Betrayal.
The word burned in Carlos's mind like acid. So this was it.
"So it's like that," Carlos replied, his voice cold and steady.
In that instant, a wave of thoughts crashed into him — Isabella's smile the morning before, the way she had fallen asleep on his chest, how she teased him about China and chess. His heart clenched with something far deeper than rage.
After this… in the winter, he thought, I would have married her. I would have given her the life even I thought I couldn't have. I even dreamed of having children with her, i have to survive.
The sudden grief sharpened him.
Weber stood, the two women beside him reluctantly stepping away. He moved closer, drink in hand, his smile tight and dangerous.
"You rose too fast, Carlos. Too fast, too loud," Weber said. "And the higher you climb, the thinner the air."
Carlos's fingers twitched near his jacket. Not hesitation — preparation.
"I trusted you," Carlos said, his eyes never leaving Weber's.
"That was your first mistake," Weber answered coldly.
Before Carlos could move, his best friend stood and pulled the Glock from under his own jacket. Aimed it at Carlos's chest with trembling hands.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat, years of brotherhood colliding with the bitter sting of betrayal.
"Do it," Weber ordered.
The shot rang out.
The bullet slammed into Carlos's chest, but he barely flinched. His bulky frame absorbed the impact, a grimace flashing across his face, but he stayed on his feet.
"You think I'm this easy to kill?" Carlos growled, rolling sideways with practiced reflexes. As he moved, his hand shot inside his jacket, drawing the SIG Sauer in one fluid motion.
He fired instantly at the judge, who had reached for a concealed weapon, dropping the man with a clean shot to the chest. Without wasting a second, Carlos pivoted to the COE commander, who was fumbling for his own firearm. Carlos's next bullet tore through the commander's torso, sending him crashing to the floor.
Chaos exploded in the room.
Carlos's best friend, pale and sweating, raised the Glock again. Their eyes locked, pain and fury crossing Carlos's face as realization burned deep in his chest.
Was there ever loyalty in this world? Carlos thought bitterly. Did I truly believe there was? But in the same breath, his mind flashed back to Isabella's laugh, the warmth of her lips. For her… he thought, for her, I wanted to survive this.
"Brother," Carlos snarled, lifting his weapon toward him, but his hesitation — that last flicker of trust — cost him.
The Glock barked once more.
This time, the bullet punched into Carlos's abdomen. He staggered back, breath catching, but still, he fought to raise his pistol.
Weber moved like a vulture swooping in for the kill. Calm, collected, he drew his own gun, aimed directly at Carlos's heart, and spoke low, like a viper's hiss.
"Even a tank sinks in quicksand, Carlos."
He pulled the trigger.
The shot tore through Carlos's chest, the force finally driving him to his knees.
Carlos collapsed onto the polished floor, the black folder beside him, its contents scattered like fallen leaves. His vision blurred, but even as his life slipped away, Carlos saw the faces around him — saw the women who had admired him turn away, saw the cold satisfaction in Weber's eyes, saw his best friend lower his smoking gun, unable to meet his gaze.
Carlos Silva Rodrigues Jr. — Marretinha — fought to draw breath, but it came in ragged gasps.
But as his breathing slowed, something strange stirred within him. A pull, not of pain, but of something deeper. Stronger.
Darkness crept at the edges of his sight, but within that darkness, he felt a tug at his very soul. Like invisible chains wrapping around him, pulling him away from the dying shell of his body.
The last thing he saw was the ceiling of the lavish room, blurred by tears and blood. The last thing he thought was not of revenge, nor regret, but a burning, defiant certainty.
"It's not over."
Then, his soul was drawn from his body, torn away by a force unseen. He felt himself being pulled through a tunnel of shadows and whispers, beyond the mortal coil, beyond the reach of traitors and bullets.
Into the unknown.
Into the beginning of something far greater.