Tuesday night, 11:30 PM. The rain had started an hour ago, turning San Rafael's cobblestone streets into mirrors that reflected neon signs and gas streetlamps in fractured patterns. From his position across the plaza, Kasper watched Marco Moretti emerge from the Café Luna with Camila on his arm, both of them laughing at something she'd said.
Three nights running. Three nights of following them to dinner, to the cinema, to the malecón where couples walked hand in hand beneath the harbor lights. Three nights of telling himself this was protection, not obsession.
His enhanced vision tracked their movement with military precision—the way Marco's hand rested on Camila's lower back, proprietary but not controlling. How he guided her around puddles with practiced courtesy. The expensive cut of his suit that shed rain like it had been tailored for exactly this weather.
Everything about Marco Moretti screamed money, education, influence. The kind of polished confidence that came from never having to worry about rent, or food, or whether tomorrow would bring violence through your front door.
But was it real? Or just another mask worn by someone with too much to hide?
Kasper's brass-and-copper field glasses brought their faces into sharp focus through the café's rain-streaked windows. Marco leaning forward, saying something that made Camila cover her mouth while she laughed. The genuine warmth in her eyes when she looked at him.
When was the last time Kasper had made her laugh like that?
When was the last time he'd made anyone laugh?
A couple hurried past his observation post, the woman's heels clicking against wet pavement as they ducked under a shop awning. Normal people living normal lives, unaware they were being catalogued as potential threats by a man whose hands had ended enough lives to populate a small cemetery.
Marco signaled for the check, pulling out a leather wallet thick enough to choke a horse. University student money didn't look like that. Coffee import money might, if the coffee came with other cargo that customs officials were paid not to examine too closely.
Kasper's military-trained hearing caught fragments of their conversation as they prepared to leave.
"...father wants to meet you properly," Marco was saying. "Maybe Sunday dinner?"
"I'd like that," Camila replied, and the warmth in her voice made something cold settle in Kasper's chest.
Meeting the father. Vincenzo Moretti, the man who controlled enough of San Rafael's port operations to make problems disappear permanently. The kind of introduction that meant Marco wasn't just playing games with his sister.
They stood, Marco helping Camila with her coat with the smooth efficiency of someone raised to be a gentleman. Or taught to be charming when it served a purpose. Hard to tell the difference from across a plaza in the rain.
Kasper gave them a thirty-second head start before following.
The Moretti family estate squatted on Calle Comercio like a fortress disguised as a mansion. Three stories of Spanish colonial architecture, iron balconies, bougainvillea climbing the walls in careful abundance. But Kasper's enhanced vision caught details that marked it as something more than just old money: reinforced window frames, too many electrical lines for a residence, men in expensive suits who moved like professionals lounging in doorways that provided excellent fields of fire.
From his position in the abandoned tobacco warehouse across the street, Kasper had been watching the compound for two hours. Documenting patterns, cataloguing personnel, building the kind of intelligence picture that had kept him breathing in Costa del Sol.
Six guards on rotating shifts. Two cars in the drive—a Packard and a Buick, both with modifications that suggested armor plating. Telephone lines that connected to a private exchange. Radio antenna disguised as a weather vane.
This wasn't just a family home. This was a command center.
Movement at the front gate. A black Cadillac pulling through wrought iron that probably cost more than most people earned in a year. Kasper adjusted his field glasses, bringing the license plate into focus: VM-1930. Vincenzo Moretti's personal vehicle.
The man himself emerged from the passenger side—mid-fifties, silver-haired, wearing a wool overcoat that probably cost more than Aldair's truck. But it was the way he moved that caught Kasper's attention. Not the soft shuffle of a businessman, but the controlled grace of someone who'd learned violence and never forgotten its lessons.
Behind him came two more men, both scanning the street with professional alertness before one of them spoke into a radio. Security that knew its business.
"Interesting," Kasper murmured to himself, making mental notes of everything he observed.
A door slammed somewhere in the warehouse behind him. Footsteps echoing off concrete and rusted metal, moving with purpose toward his position. Kasper's hand drifted to the .45 Colt under his jacket as he turned.
"¿Señor De La Fuente?"
The voice belonged to a kid, maybe sixteen, wearing work clothes and carrying a Western Union satchel. Telegram delivery, probably lost and looking for an address in this maze of abandoned buildings.
"Yeah?" Kasper kept his voice casual, but didn't relax his grip on the pistol.
"Telegram for you, sir. Marked urgent."
The yellow envelope carried no return address, just his name in block letters. Kasper tore it open with growing unease.
WE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING STOP WATCHING OUR FAMILY WILL NOT BE TOLERATED STOP VINCENZO MORETTI
Ice water flooded Kasper's veins. They'd been watching him watch them. Professional-level countersurveillance that suggested the Moretti family's capabilities went far deeper than simple port operations.
"Who gave you this?" he asked the delivery boy.
"Man in a black car, sir. Paid double to bring it here specifically."
"What did he look like?"
"Expensive suit, silver hair. Said you'd be expecting it."
Vincenzo Moretti. Sending messages to let Kasper know exactly how thoroughly he'd been made. Not a threat, not yet. Just a demonstration of reach and capability.
The kid left with his tip, splashing back through puddles toward his bicycle. Kasper read the telegram twice more, then struck a match and watched it burn in the warehouse's rust-stained sink.
Three nights of surveillance, and he'd learned exactly what Vincenzo Moretti wanted him to learn: that the Morettis were professionals who didn't make careless mistakes. That they knew about his interest in their family. That continued observation would not be tolerated.
But they hadn't told him to stay away from Camila. Just to stop watching.
The distinction felt important.
Thursday afternoon. Biblioteca Municipal.
The microfiche machine hummed as Kasper scrolled through three years of El Mundo archives, searching for any mention of the Moretti family in San Juan's shipping news. What he found painted a picture of steady, profitable, apparently legitimate business operations.
"Moretti Import Company Expands Colombian Coffee Operations"
"Port Authority Credits Moretti Security for Reduced Theft"
"Local Business Leader Vincenzo Moretti Donates to Dockworkers' Benevolent Fund"
Clean articles. Positive coverage. The kind of newspaper presence that money and influence could buy, but nothing obviously suspicious.
Until he found the obituaries.
"Customs Inspector Roberto Sandoval Dies in Automobile Accident"
"Police Captain Miguel Torres Found Dead in Harbor"
"Union Organizer Carlos Vega Missing, Presumed Drowned"
Three men, all connected to port operations, all dead within six months of each other. The deaths looked unconnected—accident, suicide, misadventure. But Kasper's Costa del Sol experience had taught him to read between the lines.
Sandoval had been investigating import irregularities. Torres had been building cases against cargo theft rings. Vega had been organizing dockworkers to demand oversight of private security contractors.
All had been obstacles to someone who needed the ports to operate with minimal interference.
"Research project?"
Kasper looked up to find Señor Herrera, the head librarian, peering at the microfiche screen with professional curiosity.
"Something like that," Kasper replied carefully.
"Ah, the shipping news. Dry reading, but important for understanding our local economy." Herrera adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "Though I notice you're looking at some rather sad stories there. That was a difficult period for the port community."
"How so?"
"So many accidents in such a short time. Made people nervous, you understand. Started rumors about cursed docks, angry spirits." Herrera's voice dropped conspiratorially. "Though some said it wasn't spirits at all, but men who'd forgotten the difference between business and murder."
"What kind of men?"
"The kind who solve problems with lead instead of lawyers." Herrera glanced around the empty reading room. "The kind who make sure troublesome questions stop being asked."
"Anyone specific?"
Herrera studied Kasper's face for a long moment, taking in the military bearing, the faint scars visible at his collar, the absolute stillness that enhanced individuals carried.
"You're Carmen De La Fuente's boy," he said finally. "The one who came back from the islands."
"Yes, sir."
"Then you understand the weight of asking dangerous questions." Herrera's voice carried the careful tone of someone who'd learned when to speak and when to stay silent. "Some families in this town have long memories and short patience for people who dig too deep into their business."
"The Morettis?"
"I didn't say that name," Herrera replied quickly. "I just said be careful what stones you turn over. Sometimes what you find underneath bites back."
He moved away, leaving Kasper alone with the microfiche machine and the growing certainty that his sister was dating into a family that solved problems the same way he'd learned to in Costa del Sol.
With violence, professionally applied.
Friday evening. Warehouse District.
The message had come by courier—expensive paper, elegant handwriting, the kind of formal invitation that was really a polite command.
Mr. De La Fuente: I believe we should speak directly. Tonight, 9 PM, Warehouse 47, Section C. Come alone. - V. Moretti
Kasper approached from the east, using shipping containers for cover while his enhanced senses scanned for security positions. Two men on the perimeter—professional posture, concealed weapons, the relaxed alertness of people comfortable with violence. Not amateurs.
The warehouse's main entrance hung open, electric light spilling across oil-stained concrete. An invitation that felt more like a trap.
But Costa del Sol had taught him the difference between walking into an ambush and walking into a conversation that could become an ambush. This felt like the latter.
He stepped into the light.
"Punctual," said a voice from the shadows. "I appreciate that in a man."
Vincenzo Moretti emerged from behind a stack of shipping crates, flanked by the two security men Kasper had spotted outside. Mid-fifties, silver-haired, wearing a tailored wool suit that probably cost more than most people's annual salary. But it was his eyes that demanded attention—the kind of steady calculation that came from decades of making decisions other people couldn't live with.
"Mr. De La Fuente." Vincenzo's tone carried the formal courtesy of someone who understood exactly how dangerous the man facing him could be. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
"Your message didn't sound like a request."
"It wasn't." Vincenzo gestured to a pair of chairs arranged near a workbench covered with shipping manifests. "But neither was it a threat. Merely an acknowledgment that certain conversations require privacy."
Kasper remained standing, positioning himself where he could see all exits while keeping the security team in his peripheral vision. His enhanced reflexes hummed just below activation threshold.
"You wanted to talk. Talk."
"My son has been courting your sister for two weeks now." Vincenzo settled into one of the chairs with the easy confidence of a man on his own territory. "In that time, you've followed them to seven different locations, photographed them together at least twelve times, and conducted extensive research into my family's business operations."
The accuracy of the information sent cold recognition through Kasper's chest. They'd been watching him watch them with professional-level tradecraft.
"Concerned family member," Kasper said.
"Are you?" Vincenzo's smile held no warmth. "Because from where I sit, it looks like a man who's forgotten the difference between protection and stalking."
"From where I sit, it looks like a family with connections that could get my sister hurt."
"Interesting perspective." Vincenzo stood, moving to the workbench where shipping documents lay scattered like evidence of legitimate business. "Tell me, Mr. De La Fuente, what exactly do you think we do?"
The question hung in the air like smoke from a fired gun. Kasper could feel the weight of the moment, the sense that his answer would determine whether this conversation ended with handshakes or body bags.
"You control cargo flow through the port. Import oversight, security contracts, the kind of influence that requires accommodation from customs officials and local law enforcement."
"Very good. Anything else?"
"The kind of operations that sometimes involve materials that don't appear on official manifests."
Vincenzo's expression didn't change, but something shifted in the warehouse's atmosphere. The security team tensed almost imperceptibly.
"And what would those materials be?"
Here was the moment. The choice between diplomatic deflection and the kind of directness that had kept Kasper alive in Costa del Sol but might get him killed in San Rafael.
"Weapons. Illegal goods. Money that needs to disappear and reappear clean." Kasper paused, reading Vincenzo's micro-expressions. "People who ask inconvenient questions and need to stop asking them."
The silence stretched until it became deafening.
Then Vincenzo laughed—a sound like breaking glass.
"You think we're running guns? Laundering cartel money? Murdering customs inspectors?" He shook his head, genuinely amused. "Mr. De La Fuente, you've been reading too many crime novels."
"Then what?"
"Coffee." Vincenzo gestured to the shipping manifests. "Legitimate, completely legal coffee. Some of the finest beans in the Caribbean, imported directly from Colombian farms and distributed to specialty shops throughout Puerto Rico."
Kasper's enhanced hearing detected no stress indicators in the man's voice. No elevated heart rate, no micro-tremors that suggested deception. Either Vincenzo Moretti was telling the truth, or he was the best liar Kasper had ever encountered.
"Coffee doesn't require the kind of security your family employs."
"No," Vincenzo agreed. "But coffee money does. Especially when that money represents the difference between forty-seven workers feeding their families or losing their jobs to mechanization and corporate consolidation."
He picked up one of the shipping documents, holding it out for Kasper to examine. Clean paperwork, official stamps, nothing hidden or coded that enhancement-trained analysis could detect.
"You want to know what we really do, Mr. De La Fuente? We keep the docks running when government contracts dry up. We make sure workers have employment when the shipping companies decide Puerto Rico isn't profitable enough. We maintain stability in a system designed to crush people like us."
"Through accommodation with customs officials."
"Through relationships built over three generations. Through understanding that sometimes the law and justice aren't the same thing." Vincenzo's voice carried the weight of experience. "Through knowing when to fight and when to find better solutions."
Kasper studied the older man's face, reading microexpressions with enhancement-trained precision. Still no deception markers. But something else—a weariness that spoke to the cost of maintaining power in a world that demanded constant compromise.
"What about Roberto Sandoval? Miguel Torres? Carlos Vega?"
The question landed like a physical blow. Vincenzo's composure cracked for just a moment, revealing something raw underneath.
"You have been doing your research," he said quietly.
"Three men. All dead. All obstacles to smooth port operations."
"Yes, they were." Vincenzo's voice carried unexpected pain. "Roberto was investigating import irregularities that would have shut down legitimate operations along with illegal ones. Miguel was building cases that would have destroyed innocent families along with guilty ones. Carlos was organizing strikes that would have put hundreds out of work during the worst economic crisis in our lifetime."
"So you killed them."
"No." The word came out flat, final. "I tried to reason with them. Offered compromises, alternative solutions, ways to address their concerns without destroying everything we'd built."
"And when that didn't work?"
"When that didn't work, other people made other choices." Vincenzo's eyes held the weight of terrible knowledge. "People who believed that some problems require permanent solutions."
"People you couldn't control."
"People I couldn't stop." The admission seemed to cost him something. "You think running a port family means giving orders and watching people obey. It doesn't. It means trying to guide forces you can't always control, making compromises you can't always live with, and hoping the good you do outweighs the harm that happens in your name."
The warehouse felt smaller suddenly, the fluorescent lights too bright, the smell of motor oil and salt air too thick. Kasper's enhancement ports flickered as stress protocols engaged.
"What does any of this have to do with my sister?"
"Everything." Vincenzo set down the shipping document. "Because you're not really here about family business or port security. You're here because you're terrified that the violence you learned in Costa del Sol is the only language you remember how to speak."
The words hit like physical blows.
"You're afraid that love looks like control, that protection requires possession, that the only way to keep your family safe is to eliminate every variable you can't predict." Vincenzo's voice carried unexpected understanding. "You're afraid that the weapon you became can't remember how to be human."
"You don't know anything about Costa del Sol."
"I know enough. I know what it costs to do necessary things that decent people can't live with. I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and wonder if you're protecting your family or becoming the threat they need protection from."
The warehouse felt like it was closing in. Kasper's enhanced reflexes wanted to engage, to treat this psychological dissection as an attack requiring response. But Vincenzo's words cut too close to truths he'd been trying to avoid.
"My son likes your sister," Vincenzo continued. "Genuinely likes her. Not because she's beautiful—though she is—but because she's intelligent and independent and doesn't treat him like a prince or a criminal. She treats him like a man who has to earn her respect."
"And what does he treat her like?"
"Like someone whose respect is worth earning." Vincenzo's smile returned, warmer this time. "Which is why I'm going to ask you to stop following them."
The request landed with surprising gentleness.
"Not because I'm afraid of you—though I respect what you're capable of. Not because I'm hiding something dangerous—though privacy matters in my business. But because your sister deserves better than a relationship conducted under surveillance."
Kasper felt the truth of the words settling into places he'd tried to keep armored.
"How do I know Marco won't hurt her?"
"You don't." Vincenzo's honesty was brutal. "Just like I don't know that you won't hurt him if you decide he's a threat. Just like neither of us knows what tomorrow brings or who we'll have to become to survive it."
"Then what's the point?"
"The point is choice." Vincenzo moved closer, his voice dropping to the tone reserved for important truths. "You can choose to trust that your sister is smart enough to recognize danger. You can choose to love without possessing. You can choose to be the brother she needs instead of the weapon Costa del Sol made you."
"And if I choose wrong? If he hurts her? If your family's business puts her in danger?"
"Then you'll deal with it. But you'll deal with it as consequences, not as prevention. You'll react to actual threats instead of manufacturing them from your own fear."
The security team had relaxed during the conversation, reading their boss's tone and Kasper's body language as evidence that violence wasn't imminent. But Kasper could feel the fragility of the moment, how easily it could shatter if he said the wrong thing.
"What if I can't?" The question escaped before he could stop it. "What if I'm too broken to tell the difference between protection and destruction?"
Vincenzo was quiet for a long moment, studying Kasper's face with the attention of someone who understood the weight of damaged men trying to find their way home.
"Then you get help," he said finally. "From family who love you. From professionals who understand trauma. From people who've walked similar paths and found ways forward."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"Then you make the hardest choice of all." Vincenzo's voice carried the gravity of personal experience. "You love them enough to leave."
The words hung between them like a death sentence.
"My business card." Vincenzo extended a simple white rectangle. "Not for coffee orders. For when you need someone who understands the cost of protection."
Kasper took the card, noting the weight of expensive paper, the embossed phone number that probably connected to a line that never went to voicemail.
"This conversation stays between us," Vincenzo said. "Marco doesn't know about your surveillance. Camila doesn't know about this meeting. Your family doesn't need to know the details of what we've discussed."
"Why?"
"Because sometimes the kindest thing we can do is spare the people we love from the full truth of what we're willing to do for them."
Kasper understood. The same logic that had kept him from telling his family about the enhancement chambers, the civilian casualties, the nights he'd chosen expediency over mercy because the alternative was letting good people die.
Love as secrets. Protection as lies.
"One more thing," Vincenzo said as Kasper turned to leave. "The next time you feel the need to follow my son, consider following your sister instead. You might learn something about the difference between watching and witnessing."
The rain had stopped by the time Kasper reached the street, leaving San Rafael's cobblestones slick and gleaming under the gas lamps. He walked home slowly, Vincenzo's business card heavy in his pocket, the older man's words echoing in his head.
You can choose to be the brother she needs instead of the weapon Costa del Sol made you.
But what if those were the same thing? What if protecting Camila required exactly the kind of violence that would destroy his chance of being the brother she deserved?
The questions followed him through empty streets, past shuttered shops and sleeping houses, toward a home where people loved him despite not understanding what he'd become.
And somewhere in the distance, a ship's horn echoed across the harbor—a sound that spoke of journeys ending and new ones about to begin.