The kitchen smelled like Sunday—sofrito simmering, fresh bread cooling, Carmen humming "Cielito Lindo" while she stirred rice with the wooden spoon Isabella had carved her for Christmas.
"Pásame la sal, mijo," Carmen said without looking up. "And tell me—do you think your sister's boyfriend knows how to eat real food, or should I make him a sandwich?"
Kasper laughed—actually laughed—for the first time since coming home. "He'll eat whatever you put in front of him, mami. Rich boys are polite like that."
"Bueno. Then he'll get arroz con pollo like the rest of us." Carmen's eyes crinkled with mischief. "And if he complains, Isabella can run him over with her chair."
For the first time since Costa del Sol, Kasper felt something that might have been peace settling into his chest. Selectively human, Zariff had said. Moments like this, where he could just be Carmen's son instead of the Void Killer.
"Huele increíble, mami."
"Your abuela's recipe. She used to say food was the only magic that actually worked." Carmen smiled with the kind of warmth that reminded him why Costa del Sol had been worth every drop of blood. "Now go tell your sisters dinner's ready before Isabella starts eating the mechanical drawings."
Isabella looked up from her sketches when he entered the living room, pencil tucked behind her ear like a wrench, calculator balanced on her wheelchair's armrest.
"Let me guess—mami wants to know if we're ready to eat?"
"Cinco minutos," Kasper said, settling onto the couch. For once, he didn't automatically scan for threats or catalog potential weapons. Just... existed.
"You look different," Isabella observed, rolling backward to study him. "Less like you're expecting narcos to rappel through the windows."
"Trying something new."
"Gracias a Dios. You were making Aldair nervous, and that man survived Fallujah." She gathered her drawings, grinning. "Whatever Dr. Zariff said to you, it worked. You actually look like my big brother again instead of some sicario in hiding."
The words hit warmer than intended. Maybe Zariff was right. Maybe there was a way to be both the man who'd survived Costa del Sol and the brother his family needed.
Three soft knocks echoed through the house—polite, educated, wealthy.
"That's Marco," Camila said, appearing in the doorway, smoothing her yellow sundress with nervous hands. "I invited him for dinner. Espero que esté bien—I wanted him to meet everyone properly this time."
Kasper felt his enhanced reflexes stir like sleeping jaguars, but pushed them down. Selectively human. This was exactly what Zariff had talked about—choosing trust over vigilance.
"Por supuesto it's fine," he said, meaning it.
Marco stepped through carrying white lilies for Carmen and a leather-wrapped package that screamed expensive but thoughtful. He wore a crisp white guayabera and dark slacks—simple clothes that somehow managed to whisper serious money without shouting it.
"Señora De La Fuente," he said, offering the flowers with a slight bow that felt respectful rather than theatrical. "Thank you for welcoming me. Camila talks about her family constantly—I feel like I already know you."
Carmen accepted the lilies with genuine delight, already moving toward her good vase. "¡Qué lindas! And please, call me Carmen. Anyone who makes my niña smile like it's her quinceañera is family here."
Kasper watched Marco work the room—firm handshake with Aldair, genuine interest in Isabella's engineering sketches, easy charm that felt practiced but not fake. The kid had definitely been raised right.
But something about Marco's confidence triggered old instincts. Too smooth. Too prepared. Like someone who'd never faced real consequences for anything in his twenty-something years.
"Señor De La Fuente," Marco said, turning with a respectful nod. "I brought this for you." He extended the package. "Camila mentioned you're a reader."
Inside: García Márquez's Cien Años de Soledad, first edition, leather-bound, probably worth more than Kasper's entire book collection.
"This is too much," Kasper said, running fingers over the embossed cover.
"My abuelo collected books. Used to say stories were the only wealth that multiplied when you shared it." Marco's smile seemed genuine. "Besides, Camila mentioned you've been having trouble sleeping. Sometimes getting lost in Macondo helps more than counting sheep."
The reference to Macondo—actually knowing García Márquez beyond the name—caught Kasper off guard. Not just expensive thoughtfulness, but real cultural awareness. Someone who genuinely seemed to understand what mattered to his sister.
"Muchas gracias," Kasper said, and meant it.
Dinner unfolded like Sunday should. Marco asked intelligent questions about Aldair's prosthetics, praised Carmen's arroz con pollo with specific appreciation that proved he was actually tasting the sofrito, and listened to Isabella's wheelchair modifications with focused attention.
"You're solving the eternal battery problem," he observed, studying her sketches. "Have you considered kinetic charging? Turn the user's movement into part of the power solution?"
"Weight distribution becomes problematic," Isabella replied, her engineer's mind fully engaged. "Plus rare earth magnets make it expensive for most users."
"What if you designed it so normal usage patterns maintained charge levels? Use the chair's motion instead of fighting against it?" Marco leaned forward, genuinely excited by the technical challenge. "You could minimize parasitic drag with the right gear ratios."
Isabella's eyes lit up like Christmas morning. "That... ¡Dios mío! That could actually work. If you calculated optimal ratios and used regenerative braking principles..."
They dove into technical discussion that left everyone else behind, but Kasper found himself relaxing. Marco wasn't performing for the family or trying to buy approval with Moretti money. Just being himself—smart enough to engage Isabella's passion, humble enough to learn from her expertise.
Maybe Vincenzo had been right. Maybe the Morettis were exactly what they appeared to be.
After dinner, they moved to the living room. Carmen brought café con leche while Aldair demonstrated his exoskeleton improvements. Marco watched with fascination as copper gears meshed seamlessly with biological muscle.
"Incredible integration," Marco said, studying the servo assembly. "The organic-mechanical interface is flawless. You must have had exceptional training to achieve this precision."
"Military," Aldair replied simply, his voice carrying hard-earned acceptance. "Learn fast or don't learn at all. No middle ground when your life depends on calibration."
"That must have been incredibly challenging. Combat enhancement under those conditions."
"You adapt or you die. Así es la vida." Aldair's expression remained neutral, but his servos hummed—a tell that meant he was remembering things better left buried. "But it saved my life. Saved my family's future. Can't complain about outcomes."
Marco nodded thoughtfully, then turned to Kasper with the earnest attention that wealthy people gave to causes they found fascinating. "I heard you served in Costa del Sol. That must have been incredibly intense."
Ice water down Kasper's spine. His enhanced reflexes stirred, threat assessment protocols beginning their familiar electrical hum. He pushed them down hard, remembering Zariff's advice about selective humanity.
"It was... complicated," Kasper said carefully.
"I can imagine. The news made it sound like absolute hell down there." Marco's expression held what seemed like genuine sympathy, but underneath lay something else—curiosity, maybe, or the fascination people who'd never seen real violence had for those who lived with its weight. "You must have experienced things that were incredibly difficult to process."
Kasper's hands tightened slightly on his coffee cup. "Some things."
"But you made it through. Made a real difference." Marco leaned forward, warming to what he clearly thought was an encouraging topic. "The whole region is stable now because of what you and soldiers like you accomplished. That has to feel good, knowing you helped so many people find peace."
"It's not that simple."
"No, of course not. I didn't mean to minimize the complexity." Marco paused, and something shifted in his demeanor—the confident assurance that came from twenty-plus years of having his opinions matter, his problems solved with family money and good intentions. "I just really respect what you did. What you sacrificed for something bigger than yourself."
He glanced at Camila, who was watching the conversation with growing tension, then back at Kasper with increasing confidence. "Camila's told me how difficult the transition home has been, and I think it shows incredible strength that you're working through it."
Cold spread through Kasper's chest like spilled wine. Camila had been talking about him. Discussing his problems, his sleepless nights, his inability to function like a normal person. Making him sound like a broken veteran who needed fixing.
"What exactly did she tell you?" The words came out sharper than intended.
Marco glanced at Camila again, her worried expression seeming to fuel his confidence rather than warn him off. Growing up Moretti had taught him that most obstacles yielded to the right combination of charm, money, and persistence. "Just that you've been struggling with adjustment issues. Insomnia, difficulty transitioning back to civilian life. Nothing too specific, just..." He spread his hands in what probably looked understanding to him. "She's worried because she loves you. Your whole family can see you're dealing with some heavy stuff."
"Worried."
"Because you're obviously carrying trauma, and she wants to help however she can." Marco's voice carried increasing certainty, the tone of someone accustomed to being the smartest person in the room. "Look, I completely get it. You're protective of your sister—I respect that entirely. But maybe you could try trusting her judgment about people? She's incredibly intelligent, and she chose to be with me for good reasons."
Threat assessment protocols activated fully, cataloguing Marco's position, his proximity to family members, calculating distances to improvised weapons. Kasper fought to suppress them, but it felt like holding back an avalanche with bare hands.
"I trust my sister fine."
"Do you, though?" The question emerged more challenging than Marco probably intended, his own insecurities bleeding through polished veneer. He'd grown up accustomed to being liked, to having Moretti charm and wealth smooth over social difficulties. Kasper's obvious wariness made him feel defensive, like he needed to prove himself worthy of the family's acceptance. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're having trouble letting her make adult decisions about her own life."
Letting go.
Isabella's hand moved instinctively toward her emergency whistle. Aldair's exoskeleton hummed as servos auto-adjusted, reading atmospheric pressure shifts that preceded violence. Carmen set down her coffee with careful precision.
"Marco," Camila warned quietly, recognition dawning.
But Marco was committed now, wealthy-boy confidence overriding survival instincts he'd never needed to develop. Maybe he felt genuinely threatened by Kasper's obvious capability, maybe he needed to establish himself as the alpha male, or maybe twenty-four years of privilege had simply made him too stupid to recognize mortal danger sitting three feet away.
"Come on, hermano." The casual Spanish sounded condescending rather than inclusive, like a tourist trying to connect. "You're home now. You're safe. Your family's safe." He leaned forward, his voice taking on the patient tone wealthy people used when explaining obvious solutions to complicated problems. "Maybe it's time to let that whole deadly warrior persona go and just be Camila's brother again. Be part of the family instead of standing guard over it like some kind of... I don't know, soldado who forgot the war ended."
Let it go. Just be Camila's brother again.
As if Costa del Sol was a uniform he could hang in the closet. As if 237 confirmed kills and enhancement chamber screaming and watching good men die because he was three seconds too slow were experiences that normal people processed and moved beyond. As if he was choosing to stay broken instead of learning to live with what breaking had cost him.
As if the parts of him that had died in those blood-soaked streets could be resurrected by positive thinking and Moretti money.
Marco reached out then, probably intending a reassuring pat on the shoulder—the kind of casual physical contact that privileged people used to show they weren't intimidated by damaged goods. "Look, I know you've been through some serious trauma, but with the right support system and maybe some professional help—"
Kasper's enhanced reflexes engaged before conscious thought could intervene.
The movement was surgical, precise, lethally beautiful. Kasper's left hand deflected Marco's reaching arm while his right drove upward in a palm strike that caught the younger man just below the solar plexus. The impact lifted Marco completely off his feet, driving air from his lungs in a sharp, whistling gasp.
Before Marco could fall, Kasper's hands were already repositioning—one wrapping around his throat with exactly the pressure needed to cut off blood flow without crushing the windpipe, the other seizing his wrist and rotating until small bones popped like knuckles cracking. Marco's face went white, then purple as carefully calibrated compression cut off circulation.
No anger. No emotional response whatsoever. Just the cold, mechanical application of violence that had kept Kasper alive when everything else failed him in the green hell of Costa del Sol.
Marco's expensive leather shoes kicked helplessly against Carmen's hand-woven rug, the one she'd made when Isabella was born. His manicured fingers clawed uselessly at Kasper's forearms, leaving shallow scratches that barely registered. His eyes rolled back, showing white, and blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where teeth had cut tongue.
The rich boy was dying, and Kasper felt absolutely nothing about it.
"¡KASPER!" Isabella's scream cut through combat haze like a machete.
Reality snapped back with nauseating violence. Living room. Family dinner. Sunday evening. Rich kid slowly dying in his hands while people who loved him watched in absolute horror.
Kasper released his grip and stepped back. Marco collapsed to the floor like a broken marionette, gasping and choking and alive but not by much. Blood spread across the expensive guayabera. His wrist hung at an angle that defied anatomy, already swelling purple.
"Wait," Isabella said as Camila lunged for her phone, her voice small and confused. "Maybe—maybe he didn't mean to—maybe it was just—"
"Call an ambulance," Camila snapped, her hands shaking as she knelt beside Marco's convulsing form. "¡Llama ahora mismo! Right fucking now, Isabella!"
"¿Qué hiciste?" Carmen whispered, hands pressed to her mouth, tears already streaming. "Dios santo, ¿qué le hiciste a ese pobre muchacho?"
Camila was checking Marco's pulse with trembling fingers, her nursing training taking over even as her world disintegrated. "He was trying to be nice," she said, her voice brittle with shock and rising fury. "He brought you García Márquez. He brought mami flowers. He was trying to help you process your trauma, and you..." Her voice shattered completely. "What's wrong with you? ¿Qué carajo te pasa?"
What's wrong with you.
The question hung in the air like cordite smoke. Kasper looked around the room—at Carmen's devastated tears, at Isabella's pale face full of dawning comprehension, at Aldair's grim recognition of something he'd witnessed too many times, at Camila cradling her boyfriend's broken body while blood soaked through her yellow dress.
At the complete destruction of everything he'd been desperately trying to rebuild.
"I'm sorry," he said, but the words felt like ash in his mouth, meaningless sounds that couldn't undo three seconds of clinical brutality. "I didn't mean... Lo siento tanto. I'm so fucking sorry."
He walked toward the door, stepping carefully around the spreading crimson that was seeping into Carmen's rug—fifteen years of family memories now permanently stained with violence.
Behind him, sirens wailed in the distance, their approach cutting through evening quiet like a funeral dirge for everything he'd just murdered.
On the front step, Kasper paused and looked back through the window at what had been his sanctuary. Through the glass, he could see his family clustered around Marco's still form, trying desperately to repair damage he'd inflicted in three seconds of enhanced precision.
Zariff had been catastrophically wrong. There was no being selectively human when the human parts were already dead and buried in Costa Rican graves.
There was only the weapon.
And everything it touched turned to blood and ruin.
The telephone rang at the Moretti estate at 9:47 PM, its shrill cry cutting through evening quiet like a blade through silk.
Vincenzo answered on the second ring, his voice carrying the controlled calm of a man who'd received similar calls for forty years. "Dígame."
"Señor Moretti? This is Dr. Elena Vasquez at Hospital San Rafael. Your son Marco has been admitted to our trauma unit with severe injuries. You need to come immediately."
Silence stretched across the line, filled only with Vincenzo's measured breathing and the distant sound of classical music from his study.
"Is he alive?" Vincenzo asked finally.
"Yes, sir. Stable but critical. Severe tracheal trauma, multiple bone fractures, possible internal bleeding from blunt force impact." The doctor's voice carried professional caution honed by years of delivering bad news to dangerous families. "Señor Moretti, I must tell you—these injuries are consistent with assault by someone with advanced military training. This wasn't random violence."
"I understand completely, doctora. I'll be there within the hour."
Vincenzo hung up and sat motionless for a long moment, staring at the phone as if it might ring again with different news. Then he opened his desk drawer and removed a small black leather notebook, flipping to a page marked with "Kasper De La Fuente" written in his careful script, followed by an address and a list of observations in shorthand.
He'd been expecting this call. Not hoping for it, certainly not engineering it, but expecting it with the grim certainty of a man who understood the mathematics of violence and trauma.
The boy was exactly as dangerous as initial intelligence had suggested. More dangerous, perhaps, given how quickly he'd moved from apparent normalcy to clinical brutality.
The question now was whether Kasper De La Fuente represented an asset that could be carefully managed and directed, or a threat that required more permanent solutions.
Time would tell.
But first, Vincenzo had a son to visit and some very delicate conversations to arrange with the De La Fuente family.
The real game was about to begin, and the stakes had just become considerably higher than anyone anticipated.
He reached for his coat and car keys, already planning his next three moves.