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Chapter 13

       EDUARDO RODRIGUEZ POV.

[Pinched by the past] Her words, a cruel echo in the chambers of my heart:  "I'll never love you."
"I prefer death to waking up beside you."
"You are a monster! I hate you."
"You can have my body, Eduardo, but not my heart."
"It's Emiliano, it always will be Emiliano."  Each syllable a dagger, twisting, turning, leaving me bleeding. I had given up everything for her—my career, my life, even my very self. I had tried to be better, for her, for us, for our little Herman.  And yet, I had killed her. I never truly possessed her, not even a fraction of her being.

“Your son is here,” Monica announced, her voice breaking the suffocating silence of my office.  She stood halfway in the doorway, her eyes mirroring my own apprehension.

“I’ll be down immediately,” I replied, my voice a mere breath. I inhaled deeply, steeling myself for the encounter. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since I last saw my son, our last conversation a bitter, unresolved clash. I knew what he thought of me, and I couldn't deny the truth of his judgment.  There was nothing I could do to change it.

He was there, cradled in his grandmother's arms, a man I barely recognized.  Tall, straight, powerful—a man he had become in my absence.  The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow.  I had missed so much. I stood there, speechless, a coward, as I had always been.

“Eduardo,” his voice, deep and resonant, cut through the air.  He didn’t bother to hide his disdain.

“Herman, welcome back, my son,” I managed, swallowing hard.  He had changed, far beyond my imagining.  His anger, once blazing in his eyes like his mother’s, was now a chilling glacial stillness.  There was no flicker of emotion, no spark of recognition. What had I done to my son?  I hadn’t been a responsible father, but he deserved so much more than I had given him.

“How have you been?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

“Perfect,” he replied, his expression as blank as his tone.

“I can see that,” a sharp voice interrupted.  We turned to see my father descending the stairs, the ring of the Italian Mafia—the ring of power—glimmering on his hand. Beside him stood Cora Tyson, the Malaysian General’s daughter, radiating an aura of power and control.
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              HERMANN RODRIGUEZ POV.

“Nipote,” the voice I loved most in the world greeted me.  I turned to find myself enveloped in the familiar warmth of my grandmother’s embrace.

“Your Nonno told me you were coming, so I waited to give you a proper welcome,” she said, her voice filled with love. I grinned, pressing light kisses to her forehead.

Then, I heard footsteps.  I broke free from my grandmother's embrace, turning to face Eduardo, my father.  No surprise there.  I felt nothing but contempt for the man.  He was a pathetic excuse for a father, a man I despised with every fiber of my being.

He smiled weakly. “Eduardo,” i said, He looked weaker, more broken than I remembered. An alcoholic, perhaps?  Or worse.

“Welcome back, my son,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the forced lightness betrayed him. He was nothing now, a hollow shell of a man.  Yet, his blood ran in my veins, a constant, agonizing reminder of our connection.

“How have you been?” he asked, a forced concern in his voice.  I looked into his eyes, searching for any hint of genuine emotion, but found only pathetic emptiness.

“Ahead of you,” I replied, my tone dry.

“I can see that,” a confident voice announced.  Sebastian, my grandfather, stood at the top of the stairs, his presence as imposing as ever. Beside him stood a striking young woman, her blonde hair a vibrant contrast to his dark suit, her aura radiating power and confidence.