Intramuros, Manila — Early Evening
The lanterns of Intramuros flickered to life as the golden sun dipped below the skyline of La Reina del Pacífico. The streets were alive with a unique harmony—an unmistakable blend of the old world and the modern. From the old stone balconies hung garlands of native sampaguita, while the cobblestones echoed with the soft plucking of rondalla jazz—a fusion of Spanish-era folk music and postwar blues.
A quartet stood outside a café in Plaza San Luis, playing bandurria and laud over a steady jazz bassline. The music floated through the air like incense, accompanied by the aroma of warm caldereta and brandy.
Juan Cariño Hernández lit another cigar, letting the smoke curl beneath his black sunglasses as he leaned against a vintage lamppost. His long, tailored coat rustled with the breeze, its fabric imported from Seville. Though fresh from Madrid, he felt the ghost of Manila clinging to him like a second skin.
"Juanito!" a deep, familiar voice called from the arched entrance of a bar made of aged coral stone and capiz shell windows.
Turning, Juan saw him.
Don Eduardo Montefalco. White linen guayabera, a silk scarf around his neck, and a cane tipped in gold. Eduardo's thick silver hair and dark eyebrows gave him the aura of a Spanish patriarch, though the streets knew him as a businessman with more than just shipping companies under his belt.
"Eduardo," Juan said with a faint smile, embracing his old friend.
The bar they entered was dim and elegant, filled with cigar smoke, whispers in Spanish, Tagalog, and American English. Oil paintings of Nuestra Señora de la Paz and San Lorenzo Ruiz adorned the walls. Behind the bar stood shelves of imported spirits and locally distilled gin.
At a private corner table sat three men—James Smith, tall and rugged with a Texan accent; Harry Williams, clean-shaven and businesslike in a cream suit; and Tommy Brown, the youngest, wearing tinted glasses and fiddling with a small pocket computer.
"These are the Americans," Don Eduardo said with a grin. "Old friends from the Cold War days. Now we build empires, not bombs."
Juan nodded politely as they each shook hands.
"A pleasure," James Smith said. "Eduardo tells us you're here for... justice."
Juan sat, placing his cigar on a bronze ashtray. "Justice... or something colder."
Tommy Brown leaned forward. "We've been watching Binondo too. Your brother's death wasn't random. The whole district's infected."
Juan's eyes sharpened. "By who?"
Eduardo answered: "Los Mestizos de Sangley."
The table went quiet.
"The Chinese-Filipino syndicate," Eduardo continued, sipping his brandy. "They control the nightclubs, the ports, the antique black market. They run contraband, weapons, even forbidden art. Their leader—Señor Lim Tionco—keeps everything hidden behind the veil of old bloodlines and old money."
Juan's hand curled into a fist beneath the table. "And Gabriel?"
James Smith opened a small leather folder and slid it across. Inside: blurred photographs, transaction receipts, coded lists.
"Gabriel found something," Smith said. "Something he shouldn't have."
Juan stared at the photos. One showed Gabriel walking near an abandoned bahay na bato in Binondo. Another showed him arguing with two men wearing red armbands—marked with Chinese characters and the number '6.'
Tommy leaned in again. "You still want to take them down?"
Juan didn't answer immediately. He looked out the capiz windows toward the faint outline of Jones Bridge and Escolta beyond. Neon reflected off the river, mixing with the glow of old Manila's gaslamps.
"I want to bury them," Juan said softly. "And I'll start with Señor Lim."
Eduardo raised his glass. The others followed suit.
"A toast," he said, voice deep with conviction.
"To justice..."
"To revenge..."
"And to the fall of Los Mestizos de Sangley."
The rondalla band outside struck up a melancholic tune—a song about lost brothers and buried vengeance.
And inside that old bar in Intramuros, the fire of an old war had just been rekindled.