Miles Modesto stepped into the old warehouse at the edge of town, the scent of motor oil and damp wood clinging to the air. He adjusted his Italian suit, exuding the effortless confidence of a man who had left his past behind.

A past that stood waiting for him in the dim light.

Philly Fuego emerged from the shadows, his expression unreadable. “Been a while, partner.”

Miles stopped short, his breath hitching for just a second before he regained his composure. “I thought you were gonna die in that cell.”

Fuego chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “Guess I was too stubborn for that. Got out early—turns out, good behavior has its perks.”

Miles forced a smile. “You always were good at playing the angles.”

“Not as good as you,” Fuego said, stepping closer. “Five years, Miles. Five years inside, while you were out here getting rich off what we stole. Now, I’m here for my share.”

Miles exhaled slowly. “The money’s gone.”

Fuego’s eyes darkened. “Try again.”

“It’s not a lie,” Miles said. “I had to move fast—cops were sniffing around, the heat was on me. I funneled it all into the business. There’s no stash, no hidden vault.”

Fuego clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. “And yet, you’re standing here in a ten-thousand-dollar suit, living in a villa outside the city while I was eating slop off a metal tray.”

“You think it was easy for me?” Miles snapped. “I spent five years waiting for the knock on my door. Every time I saw a cop in my rearview, I thought it was over. I didn’t abandon you, Fuego—I survived.”

“Yeah?” Fuego’s voice was razor-sharp. “Well, now it’s my turn.”

Miles studied him for a long moment. “I don’t have cash to give you. But I do have a job.”

Fuego scoffed. “A job?”

“Modesto Import & Export,” Miles said. “You start in the warehouse. Work your way up. You’ll make money. Legitimately. No more running, no more hiding.”

Fuego stared at him, trying to gauge whether this was an insult or an olive branch.

“You owe me,” he said finally.

“This is how I pay you back,” Miles replied.

Fuego’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll think about it.”

But he already knew his answer. He wasn’t here for redemption. He was here to take back what was his.

---

Miles’s villa was nothing like the life they had once dreamed of. Behind wrought-iron gates and walls of climbing bougainvillea, he had built something untouchable.

It should have enraged Fuego. It should have fueled his hunger for revenge.

But then he saw her.

Piña Modesto wasn’t a child anymore. The last time Fuego had seen her, she’d been a shy teenager, tucked behind Miles’s protective arm. Now, she was twenty-two, with dark, expressive eyes and a sharp wit that cut through any pretense. She carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had always been underestimated.

And she noticed Fuego long before he ever spoke to her.

The first time was at the warehouse. She was sorting paperwork in the office when she looked up and caught him staring.

“You’re Philly Fuego,” she said. Not a question.

Fuego leaned on the doorframe. “And you’re Miles’s stepdaughter.”

She smirked. “He told me you were dead.”

“Sometimes, I think I was,” he admitted.

She studied him. “Why are you here?”

Fuego hesitated. For revenge? For money? Or for something else?

“Still trying to decide that,” he said instead.

---

At first, it was small things—glances held a second too long, conversations that dipped into dangerous territory. Piña was clever, sharp, and relentless. She wanted to know everything about him.

“Did you really rob a bank?” she asked one night, leaning on a stack of shipping crates.

“Yeah.”

“And Miles just…got away?”

Fuego gave a humorless laugh. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Did you ever think he set you up?”

Fuego froze.

Because the thought had gnawed at him for years. But hearing it from Piña, spoken so casually, sent a shiver down his spine.

And then there was the night she touched his hand—just a brief, fleeting thing—but enough to make Fuego feel like the world had tilted beneath his feet.

“This isn’t a smart thing to do,” he muttered. “You play with fire, you’re bound to get burned.”

“Maybe,” Piña whispered. “But what if I don’t care?”

---

Miles noticed. Of course, he did.

The moment he saw Piña looking at Fuego the way she used to look at him for approval, he knew.

“He’s using you,” Miles told her, voice tight with barely contained rage. “to get back at me.”

“Like you used him,” she shot back. “to get rich?”

Miles went still.

And that was the moment he knew he had lost her.

---

Fuego was waiting in the courtyard, his worldly possessions stuffed into the rucksack slung over his shoulder, when he heard the footsteps.

But it wasn’t Piña.

Miles Modesto stepped out of the shadows, his Wilson Combat SFX9 drawn.

“You think you can just waltz back into my life, steal my stepdaughter like some petty crook, and I’m going to let you get away Scot-free?” Miles’s voice was thick with fury.

Fuego didn’t flinch. “It ain’t stealing ’cause you don’t own her…and she wants to come with me.”

Miles exhaled slowly. “And you expect me to believe that you want her?”

Fuego hesitated.

“I do. More that anything I’ve ever wanted.”

Miles nodded. “Well, here’s where you earn it.”

Fuego barely had time to react before Miles raised the 9mm Luger.

Crack.

The first shot rang out across the courtyard.

A heartbeat later—the second.

Neither hit their mark.

Blood bloomed.

Across Piña’s dress.

She hadn’t meant to step between them. Just as she hadn’t meant to come between her stepfather and his former partner.

Miles’s gun trembled in his grip, his face drained of color. “Piña—”

She collapsed.

Fuego caught her, lowering her gently, hands pressing against the wound.

“Why?” he whispered.

Piña’s breath came in shallow gasps. She tried to smile.

“Because I love you.”

Miles staggered back. His daughter—his one remaining connection to something pure—was slipping away.

Fuego lifted her, his voice breaking. “Get help!”

Miles didn’t move. He just watched. Because, for the first time, he understood: for him, this wasn’t about revenge. It wasn’t even about the money. It was about being chosen, about who was more important.

And Piña had made her choice.

The sirens wailed in the distance.

Fuego didn’t know if she would make it. But as he looked into her eyes, filled with pain but still burning with fire, he knew one thing. For the first time in his life, he had something worth running toward. And he wasn’t going to lose her.

Not now. Not ever.

©2025 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Author’s Note: Yeah, okay, it’s corny, I know. But sometimes you just have to get a little corniness out of your system.