Bonded by Blood

"Go to him, and you'll never come back."

Amelia's voice was barely a whisper, but it sliced through the air like a blade. She gripped Jorge's arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. "Santiago Lucero doesn't help men like you-he destroys them."

Jorge exhaled slowly, prying her fingers off. His hands trembled, but he couldn't afford to hesitate.

"If I don't do this, there won't be anything left to protect."

"Then we find another way!" Her voice cracked, her eyes glistening with desperation. "You don't understand what he is, Jorge. He's not just a man. People say... people say he's not even mortal."

Jorge blinked at her.

"No one's ever seen him bleed," she whispered. "Not even when they tried."

He stared at her for a long moment. The wind stirred between them, dry and heavy with dust.

"There is no other way."

The words felt like a death sentence.

Jorge Castillo had spent his life betting on rain that never came. But tonight, he wasn't gambling with crops-he was gambling with his soul.

And so, against his wife's pleading, against the fear clawing at his chest, he saddled his mare and set out for the city.

The streets were already awake by the time he arrived, filled with the murmur of merchants and the scent of fresh bread. But Jorge barely noticed.

His mind was fixed on one thing: Santiago Lucero.

The name carried weight-whispered in taverns, muttered in fear. Men like Lucero weren't asked for favors. They were offered tribute and prayed they didn't take more than what was given.

Yet here Jorge was, riding through the city with nothing but desperation to bargain with.

"Dios, guíame," he murmured.

The mansion came into view-a behemoth of stone and iron that loomed over the city like a watchful beast. Its gates were taller than any man, its guards as still as statues, their eyes cold and unreadable.

Jorge pulled his horse to a stop and forced himself to dismount.

One of the guards stepped forward, eyes sweeping over him with barely concealed disdain. "State your business."

"I need to see Santiago Lucero," Jorge said, keeping his voice steady. "I have a request to make."

The second guard snorted. "And who do you think you are?"

"I am Jorge Castillo." He met their gaze. "A man with an offer for Lucero."

Silence. Then, the first guard scoffed, shaking his head.

"A farmer who thinks he can strike deals with the Devil himself?"

The second chuckled, cruel and low. "Wait by the shed. Maybe he'll be in a generous mood today."

Jorge clenched his fists but nodded. He had expected this.

As he stepped through the iron gates, the garden stretched before him-manicured hedges, pristine fountains, roses in full bloom. Beautiful. Controlled. Every petal shaped by an iron will.

Jorge sat outside the shed, hands clasped together. Minutes passed. Then an hour. The silence pressed against his chest, thick and suffocating.

And then-

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate.

Jorge looked up.

Santiago Lucero.

He moved like a shadow, dressed in a crisp black shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a silver watch and the veins running along his forearms. His dark eyes locked onto Jorge with the weight of something unreadable.

For a moment, the garden held its breath.

Then-

"You've been waiting."

His voice was smooth, controlled. But there was something beneath it-something that made Jorge's pulse hammer.

Jorge scrambled to his feet. "Yes, sir. I-I came to ask for your help."

Lucero tilted his head, studying him as though already calculating his worth. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel.

"Follow me."

The mansion was more imposing on the inside-dark marble floors, high ceilings, an air thick with cigar smoke and quiet power.

Lucero led him down a long corridor to a set of heavy double doors. He pushed them open and strode inside.

The office was vast-lined with bookshelves, a mahogany desk at its center, a glass of amber liquid resting beside Lucero's hand as he took his seat.

He gestured for Jorge to sit.

Jorge hesitated, then lowered himself into the chair. His pulse thrummed in his ears.

Lucero leaned back, fingers tapping lazily against the armrest.

"Now," he said, voice deceptively casual. "What exactly is it that you want from me?"

Jorge swallowed hard. "My name is Jorge Castillo, sir. I own a farm outside the city, but the drought-" He hesitated. How did one tell a man like Lucero that they had nothing left but hope?

"I need a loan. Thirty percent interest. I just need time to rebuild."

Lucero was silent. Then-

A quiet chuckle. Low, smooth, amused.

"Thirty percent?" He swirled his drink, watching the amber liquid catch the light. His dark eyes glinted with something dangerous. "You must think very highly of your farm, Castillo."

"I will pay you back."

Lucero leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. The room felt smaller. The air heavier.

"Do you think I am a mere banker?"

The words were soft, almost a whisper. But the weight behind them was crushing.

"No, sir."

"Then why come to me with a peasant's proposal?"

Jorge hesitated-then said it.

"My land. If I fail to repay you, it's yours."

Lucero's fingers paused against the glass.

Slowly, he stood, walked to the nearby shelf, and retrieved a file. He opened it. Read a few lines. Then looked back at Jorge, smile cold.

"You mean the Castillo land, north of El Molino?"

"Yes."

Lucero set the file down. "It's not worth the ink it's written on. No irrigation. Poor soil. A legacy of stubbornness and dry promises."

He let the words settle like ash.

Then-he turned to Jorge, smile widening cruelly.

"Fine. You want a loan? Leave the deed to that dump site out back-the one where your old tractor rusts beside a pile of broken fences. That's your collateral."

Jorge blinked. "Sir, that's-"

"I think our business is done here," Lucero said smoothly, beginning to gather the papers. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll find another fool."

Jorge stood-but didn't leave.

He just looked at the floor.

And then... he dropped to his knees.

The sound echoed like a thunderclap in the silent room.

Lucero paused.

"I'm begging you," Jorge said, voice raw, trembling. "Take the house. If I fail, take everything. But give me a chance to fight for it."

Lucero turned, gaze unreadable.

The man who knelt before him was no longer a farmer-but a father with dirt beneath his nails and a prayer on his lips.

Something shifted in Lucero's eyes-not pity. Not mercy. Curiosity, perhaps. Amusement.

He stepped closer.

"You offer your home," Lucero murmured, standing over him like a shadow, "the roof over your family's head... as collateral?"

Jorge nodded. "If I lose it, I don't deserve to keep it."

Lucero was silent for a beat too long.

Then, finally:

"Get up."

Jorge obeyed.

Lucero walked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a thin folder. He penned a few words, then signed.

"You'll come back tomorrow to finalize it," Lucero said. "You'll have a contract ready. Thirty percent interest. 6 months. If you fail to repay it..."

He looked Jorge dead in the eye.

"I take the house. The land. Everything."

For the first time since Jorge had entered, something flickered in his eyes-interest.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he leaned back and smirked.

"Come back tomorrow," he said. "I'll have my answer then."

Jorge legs stiff, heart pounding. He turned toward the door, ready to escape the suffocating weight of the room.

But before he could take a step, Lucero was suddenly at his side-a blur of motion so fast and silent it stole the air from Jorge's lungs.

"One more thing," Lucero said, his voice low, almost amused.

He leaned in, his lips close to Jorge's ear, his breath cool and deliberate.

Jorge froze.

Lucero stepped back, that same unreadable glint in his eyes, a half-smile playing on his lips.

"Let's see if tomorrow will be your lucky day."