THE HARD WAY

Part 1: The Summons The message arrived at 3:04 in the goddamn morning. Silver Vladimir de Silva was never one to sleep peacefully. Sleep was for the innocent, the dead, or the willfully ignorant. He had been awake anyway, lying flat on Egyptian cotton sheets in a penthouse that smelled like expensive nothing. Cold glass and steel. A life tailored to perfection, soulless and sterile. Just the way he liked it. His phone buzzed once—sharp, insistent. He ignored it. Buzzed again. Then came the voice note. Silver growled low in his throat, the kind of sound an animal makes when it’s been prodded one too many times. He reached for the phone, one hand dragging lazily across the nightstand. One tap. “Return to the estate by tomorrow. Important family matter. No delays.” — Gregorio de Silva That voice. That condescending, commanding tone he’d memorized since he was old enough to understand that love was not a language his father spoke. Silver stared at the phone like it had insulted him personally. Family matter, the bastard said. A bitter laugh escaped him. There hadn’t been “family” in the de Silva household since his mother bled out on a silk bedsheet, birthing the boy Gregorio never asked for. Not that the old man had ever said it. He didn’t need to. Silver saw it in every hollow gesture, every cold nod, every time he referred to his son not as “my boy” or “my son,” but “the heir.” The Heir. Not a child. Not a person. Just a vessel to carry his goddamn legacy. Silver’s jaw tightened. His temples pulsed. Five minutes later, he was booking his jet. Not out of obedience—Silver didn’t obey. But when Don Gregorio pulled a string, it was usually attached to something explosive. Silver wanted to know what it was, so he could set it on fire. The sun was dragging its pale light across the sky by the time his jet lifted off from the private terminal in Hong Kong. He sat alone, dressed in a crisp black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tattoos peeked through—artwork earned in alleyways and executive boardrooms alike. His fingers tapped the armrest in a quiet, deliberate rhythm: syncopated, precise, irritated. He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He thought. About the house. The marble crypt that everyone else called "home." The grand estate with twenty-seven rooms, eight fountains, three libraries—and not a single moment of warmth inside its palatial walls. He grew up among staff who flinched when he entered a room, tutors who were fired if he scored under 98, and women who pretended to love his father for sport and diamonds. Love was a trick word. Silver learned early. The moment you said it, people aimed for your spine. The stewardess appeared, hesitant. “Mr. de Silva, would you like breakfast—?” “Do I look hungry?” he snapped. She stiffened. “Apologies, sir.” He didn’t respond. She retreated silently. Silver exhaled through his nose and leaned back. His father had likely found another plaything. That was the only “urgent family matter” the man ever had. He remembered the last one—some twenty-two-year-old heiress who thought she could seduce both father and son. She ended up sobbing in the reflecting pool, mascara streaked down her face like war paint. Silver hadn’t pushed her. Not physically. He didn’t need to. Words were enough. Words and the same venomous smirk he’d inherited from the man who taught him how to destroy people for sport. He opened the voice note again. Played it. “Return to the estate by tomorrow. Important family matter. No delays.” No warmth. No concern. No hello, son. Just a command. That’s what Gregorio always gave him. Commands. Condescension. And those damn cold eyes. Eyes that never softened. Not even when Silver bled. Not even when he won. Especially not when he cried. Not that he did anymore. Not since he was eight. Silver picked up the untouched bourbon and tossed it back, grimacing at the heat. Then he muttered into the silence: “You better not be dying, old man. I haven’t decided yet if I want to be there when you finally rot.” The car ride from the private airstrip to the de Silva estate was fifteen minutes of unbearable familiarity. Same polished roads winding through mango groves and imported pines, same guards saluting like they were guarding a royal bloodline instead of a hollow legacy. Silver didn’t look out the window. He didn’t care to. The moment the wrought-iron gates came into view, his upper lip curled. They opened with an obedient hum, as if welcoming a king. Or a curse. The main house emerged from the trees like a mausoleum dressed in marble—white, perfect, dead. Every column, every balustrade, every inch of the estate screamed, I’m better than you. Just like the man who built it. The car stopped at the front steps. The driver—a nameless old man Silver vaguely recognized from his teenage years—opened the door without meeting his eyes. “Welcome home, Mr. de Silva.” “I’m not home,” Silver said, stepping out. “I’m in a bad dream.” The foyer hadn’t changed. Same Italian chandeliers. Same cold echo when you spoke too loudly. Even the scent—citrus polish, old roses, money—was the same. He paused for a moment, absorbing the space like a returning ghost. Two maids stood near the staircase. One bowed too deeply. The other avoided his gaze entirely. They all did. They always had. Silver had a presence that made people feel like they’d sinned. He liked it that way. “Mr. Silver,” came a nervous voice. He turned. Armando, his father’s personal butler and professional sycophant, approached with the posture of someone bracing for impact. “Your father is waiting in the garden. He asked for privacy.” “Of course he did,” Silver muttered. “Let me guess. The newest one is with him?” Armando’s eyes twitched. “Yes, sir.” That was all Silver needed to know. He didn’t move right away. Instead, he walked—slowly—toward the portrait that hung in the east hallway. His mother. Painted in oil, captured at twenty-three. Her eyes were soft. Sad. Nothing like Silver’s. He hadn’t inherited anything from her except her death. “You should’ve run,” he whispered to the painting. “You should’ve taken me and run.” But she didn’t. She stayed. She obeyed. And she died. And Silver? He learned obedience was suicide. The garden had been trimmed with unnatural precision, not a leaf out of place. Silver loathed it. The hedges were too symmetrical, the flowers too bright, as if someone had tried to fabricate beauty and ended up with a plastic version of paradise. And then he saw her. Standing next to his father. Wearing white. Hair like silk shadows. Skin gold from the sun. Her laugh—quiet, melodic—reached him before her name did. Silver froze. Don Gregorio was gesturing at something absurd—probably his own reflection in the fountain—but Silver couldn’t hear. Not over the sudden pounding in his chest. That face. That goddamn face. She turned. Brown eyes. Sweet mouth. Too perfect. His body reacted before his brain could. A tightening. A heat. Then his mind caught up—and with it, fury. So that’s the new game, old man? This is who you’re parading around now? A goddamn angel with a voice like sugar and t**s like sin? He almost laughed. Of course his father would choose someone like her. Someone Silver couldn’t ignore. To be continued...