But kings forget things.
Locked in that canyon, Silas Creed watched it all—from the cracks in the stone. He saw the flag of Los Muertos change hands. He saw the people cheer. He saw Victor's face rise like a savior.
And he smiled.
Silas escaped at night, killing his guards, stealing a black horse, and riding through the desert like a phantom.
He didn't look back.
South America was waiting.
And in its jungles, he would find new blood. Gangs. Cartels. Arms dealers. Smugglers.
From there, he'd sail to Europe—to kiss the rings of Italian Mafias, drink with Dutch Kings of the Underground, and build something global.
He would return with an empire.
And he would bury Victor Blackwood.
"Let 'em cheer," Silas muttered, staring at the lights of Los Muertos from afar.
"Let 'em think it's over."
He spat in the dust.
"Fuck 'em all."
He rode into the night.