Rain poured over Manila as Don Eduardo, Catalina Zhou, and Tommy Brown boarded the MS Virgem de Esperança — an aging cargo vessel with dual registry: Panamanian on paper, Chinese-Macanese in truth. Its hull, rusted and lined with hidden compartments, had smuggled everything from silk to weapons across the South Sea.
Harry Williams gave them a final nod from the docks. "I'll stay behind. Keep tabs on the Zhaos. But don't forget — Macau's not Manila. It remembers its ghosts."
James Smith handed Eduardo an envelope. "Fake passports. You're now Eduardo González, wine trader from Guadalajara. Catalina's your wife. Portuguese-Macanese descent."
Catalina smirked. "I always wanted to be half-Portuguese."
Tommy revved the engine inside the hidden cargo van. "We got 32 hours before docking. You two better rest. It's about to get poetic and deadly."
---
Macau, January 1996
The first thing Eduardo noticed as they approached the Porto Interior was the skyline: rising like a dragon wrapped in neon, but with the bones of an old empire.
Baroque churches. Chinese temples. Narrow alleys paved with mosaic tiles. Portuguese street signs faded by time: Rua da Felicidade, Calçada da Rocha, Praça de Camões.
And looming above them all — the new casinos, glowing in gold and crimson, funded by both mainland billions and blood money.
Catalina whispered, "This city… it doesn't forget blood."
They disembarked quietly.
The wind smelled of sea salt and incense. A street performer nearby sang Fado in Cantonese-Portuguese mix, while firecrackers echoed from a nearby temple.
They moved into the city — disguised as a couple renting a suite in Hotel Flor das Ilusões, a decaying colonial hotel near Senado Square. Catalina unpacked, then opened a drawer.
Inside: a rosary, a knife, and a photograph — her with a younger Victor Liang. Smiling. Innocent. Before the blood.
"He used to take me to mass at São Domingos… then gamble at Casino Lisboa. Now he gambles with lives."
Eduardo sat beside her. "He knows we're here."
"Good," she replied. "Let him remember."
---
Elsewhere, in a private casino suite…
Victor Liang watched a live feed from the House of Smoke, an underground club built beneath the old colonial sewers.
He watched Eduardo and Catalina check in on the hotel feed.
"They've come," he said in Mandarin. "The traitor and the ghost hunter."
A voice behind him answered — low, accented in Portuguese.
"You always feared the ones with nothing to lose."
It was Dom Bento Saldanha, a powerful Macanese politician and secret broker between Lisbon and Beijing. An old ally, now wary.
"Don't burn the city with your war," Bento warned.
Victor poured port wine into two glasses.
"Every empire burns, Dom Bento. Some just burn with style."
---
Back at Hotel Flor das Ilusões, Eduardo found a note under his door. Elegant calligraphy on faded stationery:
> Casa de Cuarenta. Midnight. Bring no lies. Only memory.
Catalina's eyes widened. "That place… it's not just a club. It's a graveyard of deals. Smugglers, fake monks, Triad ghosts. You don't go there unless the city wants to test your soul."
Eduardo loaded his revolver. "Then let the city see my soul."
---
Midnight – Casa de Cuarenta
Deep beneath the streets of Rua do Campo, the secret club was lit by red lanterns and Portuguese oil lamps. The walls bore inscriptions in Latin, Chinese, and old Macanese Creole.
Eduardo and Catalina entered.
A monk greeted them — eyes milky white, voice like velvet. "Your names are already written… but your ending is not."
Inside, retired generals played cards with ex-Triad assassins. A singer sang Coimbra on a bamboo harp. And a woman in a black cheongsam handed Eduardo a deck of playing cards.
"Draw," she whispered. "Your fate is here."
He drew a single card: The Eight of Spades.
The woman paled. "That was once Juan Cariño Hernández's card."
Eduardo's breath caught. "Juan?"
She nodded. "He left this city after burning the old deck. But maybe... he never really left."
---
To be continued…