Act IX – Chapter 26 "What the City Holds"
The next morning, Las Vegas woke up with one hell of a hangover.
Papers ran headlines about "organized armed conflict," "territorial warfare between international criminal factions," and casualty numbers nobody was ready to fully count yet. Cable news looped footage of the city partially plunged into darkness, without really explaining what had caused the total blackout.
Nobody had a satisfying answer.
And nobody was really looking for one.
The news dropped quietly, swallowed by the morning wire feed.
Emilio Javier, prominent real estate investor and philanthropic figure in Las Vegas, passed away Saturday night, a victim of violence linked to clashes between criminal organizations. He was fifty-four years old.
The papers ran his story: dozens of urban renovation projects funded across Nevada, regular donations to local nonprofits, a legendary silence around his private life.
Nobody mentioned the rest.
That's what he'd wanted.
And that's what he still got, even in death.
His will, drafted by three separate law firms and airtight under any legal challenge, was unambiguous: his entire fortune, estimated at several tens of millions of dollars, went to his son, Léo Javier, twenty, last known residence at his hotel — now destroyed in the Las Vegas clashes.
The Courthouse
The hearing took place three weeks later.
The case against him was thin. The investigators knew it, the prosecutors knew it, and Léo's lawyers knew it better than anyone.
The only hard evidence on record was security footage: you could clearly see Léo at the wheel of Don Javier's 4x4 while gunfire erupted around the vehicle. His face was visible. His hands on the wheel, too.
That was it.
No weapon linked to him. No identified shots. No victim directly attributable to his actions.
The defense argued meticulously.
Lead attorney Maître Solano spoke in a calm, well-documented voice:
"My client was twenty years old at the time of the events. He was inside a vehicle that was targeted by criminal organizations identified as responsible for the majority of the violence that night. The evidence in this file shows he was driving, yes. It does not show he was shooting. It does not show he was in command. It shows a young man trying to survive a militarized assault in a city that had fallen into total chaos."
She paused.
"In that context, self-defense isn't a hypothesis. It's the most honest reading of the facts."
Stewart Avenue
Local stations sent their crews to the neighborhood where Léo grew up.
Stewart Avenue wasn't an easy place to grow up. Everyone knew that. But the testimonials that came out of the street interviews weren't what the journalists expected.
A woman in her fifties, outside the corner store:
"Léo? That kid? He used to fix the little ones' bikes for a few bucks when he was young — always had some girl with him, weird hair color… what was her name again? Doesn't matter. He was a good kid."
An old man on a bench:
"He funded the basketball court renovation two years ago. Just paid and left."
A young woman, arms crossed, straight into the camera:
"Léo is a lot of things. But a criminal? No. Not even close. That hard-headed kid grew up in a tough world, yeah — but all he ever wanted was to be a superhero, of all things. Haha."
The footage ran on a loop.
Social media exploded.
The media pressure settled over the courthouse like a silent iron lid.
Verdict Day
The judge delivered his decision one week after closing arguments.
Léo Javier was found guilty of failure to comply with a law enforcement officer, armed presence at the scene of a conflict, and obstruction of a police operation.
The heavier charges were dropped for lack of sufficient evidence.
The sentence was symbolic: one year of detention, eligible for release after six months given his young age, no prior criminal record, and the mitigating circumstances recognized by the court.
Gregorio received several years, no parole.
Before being taken out, he crossed Léo's gaze in the courthouse hallway.
Nothing to say.
He just nodded.
And Léo nodded back.
On the other side of the city, in the ER at Sunrise Hospital, doctors were still working.
The young woman had been brought in the night of the incident: traumatic brain injury, internal bleeding, multiple lacerations, critical condition overall. First responders had found her alone on the asphalt, unconscious, assumed to be a victim of the mob violence.
The blood analysis took less than forty-eight hours.
The result hit the hospital's administrative night staff like a glitch in an otherwise quiet system.
The patient admitted under the name Gwen Harper, auxiliary police officer, was in fact named Alicia Sanchez.
Nineteen years old.
Reported missing for thirteen years.
Case never closed. Her father — still alive — was contacted. He booked the first flight out of Spain.
The intern handling the file immediately called his supervisor.
His supervisor called the precinct.
The precinct called the commissioner.
The commissioner sat motionless at his desk for a long time after hanging up.
He read the report twice.
*Gwen Harper: identity nonexistent in any national records prior to her recruitment.
Enzo Alvarez: killed in action during the Saturday armed conflict.
Alicia Sanchez: international missing persons case, open for thirteen years.*
He thought it over.
Then he picked up his pen and signed the internal inquiry closure document.
He stamped it.
He filed it away.
The official version was clean, simple, and airtight:
Gwen Harper and Enzo Alvarez had died in the line of duty during an armed conflict involving international criminal organizations. Their families would receive full honors.
Alicia Sanchez was a civilian victim of those same events, placed under witness protection.
Two separate cases.
No connection.
He closed the file.
In the ICU, the on-call doctors gathered around Alicia's bed.
The chief surgeon placed the scan on the light board and studied it for a long moment.
"The cerebral hemorrhage is stabilized, but the damage to the temporal lobe is significant. We'll need to operate within the next few hours."
He paused, then added in a measured voice:
"There's something else in the results. We'll need to be very careful during the procedure."
He held up his tablet.
The nurses exchanged a glance.
On the bed, Alicia Sanchez slept in an induced coma, black hair spread across the white pillow, blue-tipped ends still visible at the edges.
November 24, 2028
Nevada State Prison wasn't a place that celebrated birthdays.
Days all looked the same: the clang of metal doors, the cold light of the hallways, the heavy silence of the cells after 10 PM. Léo had stopped counting days a long time ago. Except this one.
He was twenty-one this morning.
He sat on his bunk, elbows on his knees, staring into nothing. On the small metal shelf bolted to the wall, a wrinkled newspaper lay open — one a cellmate had slipped to him three weeks ago without a word.
The headline was simple.
Gwen Harper, auxiliary officer, killed in the line of duty during the Las Vegas mob clashes. Full honors rendered by the Nevada Police Department.
He hadn't thrown it away.
He would've loved to celebrate with her. He could almost hear her whispering happy birthday — black hair with blue tips, those green eyes.
He quietly wiped a tear.
In the afternoon, a guard stopped at his cell.
"Javier. Phone call."
Léo got up without rushing, followed the guard to the payphone in the hallway, picked up.
"It's me."
"Boss. Happy birthday."
"Thanks. Is the vineyard cargo still secured?"
A brief pause.
"Yes. Everything's in order on that end."
"Make sure to press them without crushing them before I get back. I need to make the best wine this company's ever had."
"Understood."
The line cut.
Léo hung up, stood still a moment, hand still resting on the receiver.
The two bosses were still there. Alive. Secured. Waiting.
He had time.
He was walking back to his cell when the same guard caught up with him in the hallway.
"Javier."
"What now."
"You've got a visitor."
Léo stopped.
"I'm not expecting anyone."
"She says it's for your birthday."
He didn't answer right away.
"Who?"
The guard checked his log.
"She says she's your mother."
Léo stood still a moment.
Then he exhaled — short, almost imperceptible — and said:
"Send her in."
He took his seat behind the glass, slowly, like someone who doesn't want to arrive too fast.
He saw her before sitting down.
She was there, on the other side, hands flat on the table, back straight, eyes that hadn't left him since he walked in.
Léo sat.
He looked at her calmly.
Just in silence.
Andrea.
To be continued.