Heywood, Glen district. A bar under Padre's control.
Today, the bar welcomed two visitors with grim expressions.
There were more Valentino gunners stationed around than usual, each of them exuding tension. An invisible pressure passed silently between glances and words.
Sunlight spilled in as the double doors opened.
They instinctively turned to look but saw only light dancing on the floor.
By the time they realized what was happening, a figure had already stepped into a second-floor booth in the blink of an eye.
Padre—Sebastián Ibarra—was waiting there.
He rested his arms on the railing, just like every time Roqi had seen him: gazing downward in silence, unnoticed by others, deep in thought.
"You came..." Padre said calmly, turning his head with a neutral expression.
"Yeah, I came." Roqi nodded absently, his face unfriendly. "What else could I... Never mind."
He bit back the rest of his words.
Padre hadn't harmed Jackie. There was no point taking out his fury on someone who didn't deserve it.
Sitting down at the table, Roqi poured himself a drink—and one for Mower as well. Across from him, Gustavo lifted his glass in greeting and downed it in one go.
The oppressive heat made his mouth dry, but it didn't come close to quenching the fire burning in his chest.
"What are you doing here?"
Roqi set down his glass, a sigh escaping him. The cool relief of the drink barely eased his frustration.
He was talking about Gustavo, who sat there as if everything was fine.
"I wanted to be by Jackie's side, but Padre needed my help," Gustavo replied, his voice weary but focused. "I was at the scene. Ask me anything."
"Revere Courier. The warehouse in Rancho Coronado?"
Roqi locked eyes with him.
"Así es," Gustavo nodded. "But don't rush in—there's an ambush waiting. It's more complicated than it seems."
"I know." Roqi's head was clear, not clouded by rage. "Tell me who's behind it."
Gustavo wasn't a master schemer or strategist, but when it came to carrying out missions, he was top-notch. If Padre hadn't asked him to stay with the critically wounded Jackie, it meant he had more important work: finding the traitor.
And Roqi could tell from Gustavo's tired face—he'd already found his prey.
"Who is it?" Roqi asked bluntly.
He didn't want pleasantries, no diplomacy, no song and dance.
To hell with business talk and politics. All he wanted was to load up a rocket launcher and blow the bastards who betrayed Jackie into mist.
"I told them not to touch that kind of business," Padre said quietly, his brows lower than usual, his voice heavy.
If it had been an external enemy, they could have united against a common foe. But internal betrayal? That weighed differently—slower, more painful.
Padre's faction of the Valentinos placed great emphasis on family and brotherhood. While complete unity was impossible, mutual support and trust were expected.
And someone had just sold out their brothers and sisters. The tighter the bonds had once been, the messier the emotions now.
But Roqi wasn't a Valentino.
Where others hesitated out of loyalty or tradition, he didn't have to.
He could wade into enemy territory, paint the floor with traitors' blood and brain matter, and call it justice.
And that was part of why Padre had subtly asked for his help.
As the de facto figurehead of a faction, Padre couldn't act recklessly. Every decision had to consider the broader picture—political balance, internal order, reputation.
The Valentinos weren't saints. Sure, Scavs still topped the leaderboard for monstrous atrocities, but the Valentinos had plenty of skeletons in their closets too.
Some handed out food at church. Others raped and pillaged in the same name.
Padre's rules were clear—no unspeakable evils, nothing that would damn your soul: no trafficking, no butchery, no Scav-tier crimes.
But dirty money talks.
The moment greed or desperation outweighed fear of rules or bonds of loyalty, betrayals like this became inevitable.
"Tell me who did it. Then you can rest easy. I'll handle the rest."
Roqi's voice was low but resolute.
He understood both Padre's anger and his restraint.
"If possible, I ask you to spare them... for now," Padre said, turning toward him with a firm expression. "They've broken the rules, and it's the rules that should judge them."
It was a sincere request.
And Roqi believed that Padre's fury burned just as fiercely—he simply hid it better.
"Fine. I'll hold back."
Roqi folded his hands beneath his chin and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the weariness was gone—replaced by a cold, cutting focus.
"I'm tired of revenge stories. You get it, right?"
His gaze turned toward the street outside, where passersby walked their daily paths.
Familiar sights only deepened the ache when you carried something heavy on your heart.
"There's a saying in Chinese—'An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.'"
Roqi spoke in Mandarin.
"Does that mean you're going to forgive them?"
Gustavo was surprised by Roqi's apparent mercy.
But Roqi shook his head.
"No."
A cruel smile crept across his face.
"Whatever punishment you hand down... I'll make sure they're wiped from existence."
There was one more thing he didn't say aloud:
Let's see who's stronger—ruthless finality, or endless cycles of revenge.
Six months in Night City hadn't fundamentally changed his values.
He hadn't grown up in a place where betrayal was the norm, where today's buddy might be tomorrow's enemy—and then back again.
That wasn't the future he dreamed of.
Padre nodded slightly, signaling Gustavo.
With permission granted, Gustavo laid everything out.
Despite Padre's orders, some Valentinos had dabbled in forbidden trades.
As long as it didn't do too much harm, Padre sometimes looked the other way—sending subtle warnings instead of heads rolling. It was part of why his reputation remained high.
But human trafficking?
That crossed the line.
The Valentinos weren't supposed to be involved. But the money was too good, especially with Revere Courier running backup.
And so, someone had sold out Jackie and V, leaking intel about their second reconnaissance—along with Padre's plan to move against the traffickers.
Roqi didn't know if the traitors profited from it. But their betrayal had clearly led to disaster.
"It was the Fucinos. The couple managing logistics."
Gustavo sent Roqi a file with photos and details.
They handled smuggling and distribution—moving contraband out, bringing hot goods in. Basic but vital work for any large organization.
"Where can I find them?"
"Glen, Vista del Rey, and Rancho Coronado," Gustavo replied, circling several areas on Roqi's PDA.
These were Night City's key logistics hubs—densely populated, with endless streams of goods flowing in and out by land, air, and water.
Perfect cover for illegal operations.
It was no coincidence that their job intersected with the trafficking network. Too much overlap. Too much temptation.
Padre raised a glass. "Bring them back alive. Thank you, my child."
Roqi nodded and clinked glasses with him.
"I'm doing it for Jackie."
He downed the drink, grabbed his katana, and strode out.
Meanwhile…
On the bridge from Vista del Rey to Rancho Coronado, a nondescript van blended with the heavy traffic.
"Can't you go faster?!"
A woman in a business suit snapped at the driver, her tone panicked.
Dark bags hung under her eyes. Her aging face was ravaged by sleep deprivation, drugs, and anxiety.
Isabella Fucino looked more like a washed-up addict than a mid-level Valentino.
"This is already top speed. Any faster, we'll flip."
The driver bumped up the speed slightly. The van began to sway.
"Shit…"
Isabella swore under her breath, clutching her throbbing chest.
"Do something, goddammit! Sitting there moaning won't help!"
She glared at her husband, who sat slumped beside her, muttering to himself like a dying witch.
"We shouldn't have done it... Padre knows… there's nowhere left to run…"
Marlon Fucino cradled his head, murmuring like a man marked for death.
His pitiful state only made Isabella more furious.
"What do you mean shouldn't have?! YOU made the call, you spineless bastard! You're USELESS!"
Her screeching voice could've shattered glass.
The driver nearly jumped out of the vehicle.
Just then, the container truck in front of them creaked open. Its rear ramp lowered, dragging sparks across the asphalt.
BANG!
From behind, a heavily modified Mackinaw "Behemoth" rammed into the back of the van, shoving it into the now-open container.
The Behemoth rolled in after it. The ramp and door slammed shut.
Two vehicles—van and Behemoth—locked inside the cargo hold.
The container truck rolled on down the highway, smooth and steady.
Unseen. Unstoppable.
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