The car turned silently down a nameless street, gliding through shadows lengthened by the afternoon light. Little by little, the landscape changed, shedding its noise, its strident advertisements, and the presence of the city's bustle.
As they approached their destination, the city seemed to fall silent, not out of respect, but by instinct, as if the concrete itself recognized the territory they were approaching and stilled its pulse, holding its breath.
Nosbeltran didn't need neon signs or flashy billboards. Their mere existence was enough to mark an invisible boundary between the ordinary and the dangerous. Located on a street that was neither too wide nor particularly narrow, the Aballay family's flagship bar stood with discreet authority.
The smooth, unchanging brick facade offered no clues as to the establishment's nature, while tinted windows shielded it from prying eyes, and the sturdy but nondescript metal doors made it clear that only those with the right to enter could enter.
Inside, the atmosphere was balanced luxury, tradition, and a latent threat.
Warm lighting from the hanging chandeliers allowed for adjustable intensity and color to suit the mood of the evening.
Mahogany tables and chairs dominated the space with a calculated arrangement, commanding a presence without being intrusive.
To one side, a minibar embedded in the wall displayed a diverse collection of liquors, accompanied by specialized garnishes, many of them imported.
The oak bar, hand-carved by local artisans, displayed intricate designs, while cushioned stools offered respite to those who knew when to stop, or simply pretended to.
Despite it being midday, the place was bustling with activity. The older men shared drinks and cigars resting in cut-glass ashtrays, their muffled laughter mingling with the instrumental music and discreet murmurs.
At different tables, the young men exchanged jokes while their lunch plates remained half-finished, occasionally shifting lascivious glances toward the waitresses, who, with the surgical precision that comes with age, ignored any inappropriate gesture.
On several walls, televisions broadcast a soccer game, distracting those seeking to lose themselves in something trivial, something that didn't demand attention or danger.
Amid all this measured movement, at one of the most secluded tables, William swirled his whiskey glass with absolute tranquility. The dim light highlighted the contours of his face, while his rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms weathered by exercise and violence.
Across from him, Xander and Bentral were chatting with a pair of waiters. They were his closest backup, but here, within his own territory, they had implicit permission to relax a little.
The place's security didn't depend on a discreet facade or reputation. Nosbeltran was protected by highly trained personnel, trained in combat and containment, with a couple of hidden surprises waiting for their moment.
Strategically placed devices and a thwarted internal communications network ensured that no movement went unnoticed. Few ignored the true danger lurking within those walls, and those who discovered it usually did so too late.
With a slight smile on his lips, William recalled the last time an arrogant idiot had made the mistake of ignoring that reality. Sixteen years had passed since that incident.
The image of his Aunt Veronica dragging the wretch out of the bar still vividly lingered in his mind with disconcerting clarity. It was shortly after his parents' death, during a period when the Aballay family's eldest son, seeking to distract him, had given him an unused property to remodel to his liking. She cared little if he decided to demolish the building, as long as the process kept his mind occupied and his grief at bay.
However, what Veronica didn't expect was that the boy, still dealing with his loss, would transform a closed-down dive into a bar worthy of the Aballay family. A surprise she didn't hesitate to back up by assigning him trusted workers, gathering close friends to introduce him, and ordering that no one interfere with his project.
The opening day passed smoothly. Music, drinks, whispered conversations, and a carefully orchestrated setting. However, as Veronica stepped outside to take a call, a cheap gangster decided it was a good idea to threaten the youngest Aballay son to send a message to his aunt. A fatal mistake that not only exposed his stupidity but also his utter ignorance of the family he was trying to impress.
The man's screams shattered the harmony of the room when William, with more force than necessary, plunged a knife into his sternum, the blade nearly piercing his torso from side to side. The man survived only because he was an alpha, but his agony was just beginning.
No one intervened. Allies and subordinates watched indifferently, some smiling faintly, others murmuring congratulations. To them, this reinforced the natural order of things. Strength must be imposed with determination, and respect was not asked for, but demanded.
When Veronica returned, the situation became even worse for the intruder. The alpha never had patience with those who tried to use her nephew as a pawn.
Before William could conclude the matter, his aunt took the reins. She made sure her response was etched into the wretch's skin and bones, an indelible reminder of what it meant to face her through her nephew.
That wasn't a lesson, but a sentence written in pain.
William watched her with a mixture of admiration and distance as she dragged him out of the bar. He knew that before long, the man would wish he were dead. Although, to be honest, at that time he was only twelve years old and didn't even know how to properly control his strength.
By fifteen, his technique had improved enough to prevail among his own people. At seventeen, he finally defeated his aunt in combat, taking her place at the table. Not that that had stopped her from mocking him for how long it took him.
His whiskey glass turned once more between his fingers. He remembered each one with imperturbable clarity: the fights, the training, the lessons, the early mornings of sweat, blood, and silence.
Veronica's cutting phrases that made him fall, again and again, to the concrete floor.
"It's not enough to survive. You must rule," she told him. And he learned. He learned with his body, his bones, and his scars. He learned that respect is marked by action, and that power is never given... It's taken.
As the televisions continued to broadcast the match and the bar vibrated with that harmony of exclusivity and danger, William smiled, not out of nostalgia or pride.
It was a slight, almost imperceptible smile that spoke of certainty. Because in that moment, surrounded by allies who knew how to obey and enemies who dared not approach, William Aballay knew exactly who he was.
And most importantly, he knew that no one would dare forget him.