Book 1 in the Sacred Bonds series.
There are two kinds of scars on a man. The ones you can see, etched into skin by the Texas sun, and the ones you can't; the kind carved into a twelve-year-old boy watching his legacy get stolen at the barrel of a s...
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I sat in the Bentley Bentayga, watching the scene on the porch unfold like a play I'd written two decades ago, the tinted windows doing a great job concealing me inside. Malik Martinez, my uncle, stood there with that strained, triumphant smile of a man who's just sold his own soul and thinks he got a good price. He was holding out the keys -- the heavy, old-fashioned key ring I remembered from my childhood, the one my father's calloused hands had worn smooth. And Elias, my brother in all but blood, playing his part to perfection, his face a mask of neutral interest. The air outside shimmered with heat and unspoken history, a stage set for a reckoning long overdue.
Malik placed the keys in Elias's open palm. "She's all yours, Mr. Valdez."
That was my cue.
The soft thunk of the Bentley's door opening was too loud in the quiet. I emerged into the blinding Texas sun, dressed for a coronation, not a round-up, in a charcoal-grey Zegna suit tailored to my frame. The aviator sunglasses hid my eyes, but nothing could hide the predatory calm of my movement.
Malik's victorious smile didn't just fade; it shattered into a million pieces of pure, undiluted shock. Confusion, then dawning horror, and finally, a rage so deep it seemed to vibrate the air around him. Perfect.
Then, from the stables, Noah emerged. Of course he was here, lurking in the shadows. His eyes, stupid and mean, darted from me to Elias, and the recognition was instant. His smugness curdled into sputtering, incoherent fury. "You! What the hell are you two doing here?"
Elias didn't even grant him a glance. He kept his cold, thin smile locked on Malik, holding up the keys as if examining a precious artifact. "The paperwork is signed, Malik. The wire is cleared. This land," he said, his voice carrying with the weight of finality, "now belongs to Valdez Holdings." He then turned, and with a gesture of profound respect that was the final, elegant twist of the knife, offered the keys to me. "Which is a wholly owned subsidiary of Martinez Agricultural. Welcome home, boss."
The keys were cold and heavy in my hand, and yet warmly familiar. The metal felt like a completed circuit, a flow of energy restored after twenty years.
Malik's voice was a tremor of pure fury. "This is a trick! The deal is off! I'm calling my lawyer!" He fumbled for his phone, a pathetic gesture against the immovable wall of what had just happened.
Noah, panicked, grabbed his father's arm. "Papa, you can't! It's done! The money... we needed the money!" His desperation was a sweeter sound than any music.
I finally spoke, my voice quiet, a low rumble that demanded the very air grow still. I removed my sunglasses, letting him see the absolute lack of emotion in my gaze. "Call him, let him explain contract law to you. I've had twenty years to study it. There is no loophole, there is no way out. You signed it away. Just like you thought you stole it."
