Bound by blood and silk

Chapter2

Lautaro Errázuriz POV

The blood of a king takes longer to clean than his throne.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass in the primary study of the Las Condes fortress, watching the late afternoon sun bleed out across the glass spires of Santiago.

Behind me, the scent of cigar smoke drifted through the room, mingling with black coffee and the metallic tang of dried blood that no amount of bleach could fully strip from the mahogany floorboards.

My father’s floorboards.

I flexed my right hand, feeling the tight pull of fresh skin over my scarred knuckles. A quiet ache radiated through my jaw, but my face remained carved from stone.

“You’re being soft, Lautaro,” a voice rasped from the leather armchair near the fireplace.

Beltrán had served my father for thirty years. Beside him stood two regional captains, Valdés and Morales.

“Soft?” I asked. “Explain yourself, Beltrán.”

“The girl,” Beltrán spat, leaning forward and pointing toward the mahogany desk where the marriage contract rested. “Gonzalo Altiplano is in a hole. His son is dead in the garden dirt. The family empire is broken, scattering into the night. And instead of crushing the girl’s throat, you walk into her courtyard with a pen and a piece of paper?”

“Rayén is the sole heir to the Altiplano legacy,” I said calmly.

“She’s a viper!” Valdés interjected. “She’s Gonzalo’s blood, Lautaro! You leave an Altiplano breathing, and every loyalist cell from here to Valparaíso will gather around her. We need her head on a spike outside the Providencia gates to show the city who owns Santiago now.”

“My father is dead because he relied on butcher’s tactics,” I said, my tone steady. “He fought Gonzalo Altiplano for twenty years using bombs, drive-bys, and public massacres. And what did it bring us? Decades of bleeding profits, unstable territory, and a war that eventually took his life.”

“It’s an honor!” Beltrán shouted, standing up. “Blood for blood! That is the law of the syndicate!”

“That is the law of dead men,” I corrected him softly.

“If I kill Rayén Altiplano today,” I explained, “she becomes a martyr. Every regional boss loyal to her father will fight us to the death because they will know there is no mercy in an Errázuriz victory. They will blow up our supply trucks, poison our ports, and burn our legitimate businesses to the ground out of spite.”

“But if she signs that contract,” I continued, “if she walks down the aisle as my wife, the Altiplano syndicate isn’t wiped out, it is swallowed. Her father’s men will lay down their arms because their bloodline remains on the throne alongside mine. We gain their ports. We absorb their routes. We take total, unchallenged control of Chile without firing another bullet.”

“She won’t submit to you, Lautaro,” Beltrán sneered, stepping closer. “I’ve seen that girl’s eyes. She looks at an Errázuriz like she wants to carve out our hearts and eat them raw. She’s keeping a gun under that shawl. Everyone on the sniper line saw it. You walk up to her, and she’ll put a bullet through your chest before you can say ‘I do.’”

“Let her try,” I murmured.

“This is madness!” Beltrán turned to Valdés and Morales. “He’s weak! His father wouldn’t have hesitated—”

It was a single, lightning-fast strike born of years of tactical training. My left hand clamped around Beltrán’s throat, shutting off his airway, while my right hand drew his sidearm from his hip and slammed the barrel beneath his double chin.

Valdés and Morales instantly reached for their weapons, but the quiet click of my thumb pulling back the hammer on Beltrán’s gun froze them in place.

Beltrán gasped, his eyes bulging, his hands clawing at my forearm.

“Listen to me very carefully, Beltrán,” I whispered, my voice devoid of anger, containing only the promise of death. “My father is buried. I am the Don of the Errázuriz family now. My word is not a topic for debate. It is the law.”

I squeezed his throat just enough to bring him to his knees.

“You speak of my father’s memory again to question my authority, and I will show you exactly how much of his blood runs in my veins,” I said softly. “Do we understand each other?”

Beltrán managed a frantic, breathless nod.

I released his throat and tossed his weapon onto the mahogany desk. Beltrán collapsed onto his hands and knees, coughing violently, gasping for air as Valdés and Morales stepped back, their faces pale.

“Get out,” I commanded quietly. “Prepare the convoy. We leave for the Providencia ruins in ten minutes.”

Beltrán scrambled to his feet, glaring at me with terror and hidden poison, before backing out of the study alongside the two captains.

I took a deep breath, adjusting the cuffs of my tailored coat. My hands were steady, but inside my chest, a dark weight rested over my heart. I didn’t want this war. I had never wanted the mindless slaughter my father chased. But power in Santiago was a beast that either carried you or devoured you. There was no middle ground.

I picked up the leather-bound contract from the desk, tracing the red wax seal with the scar on my thumb.

I knew Beltrán wasn’t entirely wrong about one thing: Rayén Altiplano hated me with a passion that could burn cities to the ground. She blamed me for her family’s destruction. She blamed me for her brother’s blood on the marble floor.

As I stepped into the back seat of the center vehicle, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out and tapped the screen. It was an encrypted text from my lead sniper stationed on the concrete tower overlooking the Altiplano rose garden.

Target is standing over the grave. Hand is concealed beneath her shawl. Finger is on the trigger of a concealed 9mm. Awaiting your command.

I stared at the text as the convoy rolled out through the iron gates of Las Condes, heading toward the smoking ruins of Providencia.

I tapped out my reply with steady fingers:

Do not fire. Stand down. She is about to become your leader.