Chapter Text
Madrid seemed immense to him. There was something intimidating about the way the city vibrated in the September heat, but also exciting. Oscar had dreamed of that scholarship for years, and when the acceptance letter finally arrived, his reaction was so absurd that even Logan had mocked him. You're going to break my eardrums before you even get to Spain, he had laughed on the other end of the video call. But Oscar couldn't help himself. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. Logan had spent his entire university up until now, his final year, in Monaco. Meanwhile, Oscar hadn't left Melbourne.
The plane ride had been a whirlwind of thoughts, but when he finally arrived in Madrid, the relief of being away from it all was almost tangible.
The first few weeks had been orderly chaos. The dorm was well located, near the Aerospace Engineering department, his course, and his room was small but cozy. Sometimes, when he sat by the window on warm nights, he could see Madrid spread out before him, with flickering lights and the promise of unknown adventures.
He knew that being there wasn't just a dream come true, but also a responsibility. His scholarship gave him no room for error, and classes started early, so he spent the first few days familiarizing himself with the university and its surroundings. He was surprised at how quickly he got used to the narrow streets and the mix of tourists and locals on every corner, with the resulting mix of languages and cultures.
However, he remembered that uneasy knot in his stomach when he had the conversation with Logan, something he couldn't ignore. The memory of Logan and Arthur arguing from their living room in Monaco, when he had already packed his suitcase in the living room of his parents' house in Australia, kept coming back to him. He clearly remembered Logan's low, tense tone of voice when he'd warned him about Madrid. He'd explained with alarming seriousness that certain people shouldn't be provoked, and that keeping a low profile was the best course of action. Apparently, the area where he would live was known to be visited by a specific type of people.
"Stay out of trouble," he'd told him. "And if you ever feel in danger, call Arthur. He knows how to handle people like that."
In the end, it was the monegasque who explained it to him. How to recognize certain men, how to avoid certain places, and, above all, which name he shouldn't use lightly. Carlos Sainz. A name so common in the capital that it seemed like a joke belonging to someone so dangerous. The leader of the Spanish mafia for the past two years. Jovial, charming, but ruthless. Oscar had searched the internet afterward, curious about the seriousness with which Arthur described him, and only found photos of Carlos dressed as a pilot when he was young, smiling for the camera.
"Don't be fooled by his pretty face," Arthur warned. "If you ever cross paths with him, avoid eye contact and walk away. Don't do anything that would make him think you're a threat. Nor to his second-in-command, Fernando Alonso."
Oscar had just nodded, even though he thought the odds of running into a guy like that were ridiculous. Logan had persisted, though. And if there was one thing he'd known for years, it was that Logan never joked when it came to serious matters.
He tried to forget what Arthur had told him, concentrating on getting used to the routine, meeting classmates, and finding cafes where he could study without distractions. However, Madrid had that intriguing air that made his thoughts wander toward the unknown, toward that hidden part of the city that would never appear in the guidebooks. He was aware that danger was there, lurking in the shadows, but he told himself that his world was the university, projects, and calculus textbooks, not the dark alleys where dangerous men forged deadly alliances.
He spoke to Logan via video chat quite often, especially at the end of the day, when tiredness made him more vulnerable to nostalgia. His friend always asked him the same question:
"Is everything okay?"
And after a while of catching up, he checked the inevitable.
"Have you run into anyone strange?"
"Only the Fluid Dynamics teacher," Oscar joked. "I swear that man could be a mobster, he's so intimidating."
Logan smiled, but his eyes never lost that glimmer of concern. He knew Oscar could take care of himself, but he also knew his capacity for getting into trouble without even trying.
So far, Madrid felt safe. Tranquil. A routine that was beginning to establish itself, and a sense of normalcy that, deep down, comforted him. And although he wouldn't admit it, he was grateful that the name Carlos Sainz had remained only in his thoughts and not in everyday reality.
But he didn't see himself getting into trouble either. His plan was simple: focus on studying, passing, and building a future. Everything else was background noise. The Spanish mafia? A romantic myth that sounded more like a cheap thriller than a real threat.
Madrid was too big, and he was too insignificant to cross paths with important names, he thought. Carlos Sainz was nothing more than an attractive face and a shrewd gaze that had nothing to do with the life of a foreign student.
So he ignored the warnings. He had more important things to think about: learning the university corridors, tackling complex projects, and avoiding his Fluid Dynamics professor looking at him as if "failure" was written on his forehead. His days were a mix of classes, nights in the library, and walks around the city. He felt free, truly in control of his decisions for the first time.
He was going to study, work hard, and make the most of every second of that scholarship. He wasn't going to let a couple of dangerous names distract him. Madrid was his, a vibrant city full of possibilities. And if there were shadows lurking in its streets, they were shadows he didn't plan to chase.
The weeks passed surprisingly quickly. Oscar's routine was marked by the rhythm of classes, hours in the library, and the small daily pleasures that were beginning to become part of his new life. Madrid was still vast, chaotic, and vibrant, but he no longer felt like a stranger on its streets. He learned to navigate without checking his phone map every five minutes, to recognize the best routes to avoid traffic, and to find the corners where he could study uninterrupted.
One of those corners was a café just two blocks from the faculty. Small and unassuming, with walls covered in shelves full of dusty books no one read and a coffee machine that was noisier than necessary. It was a place frequented by students like him, a refuge from the bustle of the university where the aroma of freshly brewed espresso mingled with the murmur of conversations and the sound of keyboards typing last-minute essays.
Over time, the routine became established. He always came in at the same time, ordered the same thing, and sat at his usual table. Sometimes, the owners would greet him with a nod of recognition, and it gave him a strange sense of belonging, as if the capital were slowly ceasing to be just a temporary place and beginning to feel more like home.
The days passed without incident. In the mornings, he walked to school with his headphones on, ignoring the traffic and the murmur of the people around him. He had grown accustomed to the Madrid accent, drier and quicker than the Spanish he had learned in school and in the classes for scholarship students.
At university, the classes were demanding, but that didn't bother him. He enjoyed the intellectual challenges, the feeling of building something for the future. He had made a couple of acquaintances in his course, people with whom he could exchange notes or share the occasional beer after a difficult assignment, but he couldn't say he had any close friends. He liked his independence.
Madrid no longer seemed immense to him. Not like when he was a child and the streets seemed endless, but more complex, like an infinite chessboard where each piece had its place and function. The city vibrated with the energy of tourists, businesses, and the constant traffic that never completely stopped. It was a city awake, always in motion, and Carlos knew it like the back of his hand. He couldn't afford not to.
Since taking over the organization two years ago, his perception of Madrid had changed. Before, it was his home, a place he roamed without worry, with the carefree confidence of someone who knew no one would dare touch him. Now, it was his territory. And territory had to be protected.
He didn't have the option of letting his guard down. The Spanish mafia wasn't child's play, and he hadn't earned his place by birthright, but by trial by fire. His father had been an imposing man, a respected leader, but also someone who didn't hesitate to take drastic measures when necessary. Carlos wasn't like him. Not entirely. But he did understand the rules. It wasn't just about power, but about control. About respect. About knowing when to use force and when a smile was enough to keep someone in their place.
He had learned quickly. Fernando, his second-in-command and the one person he fully trusted, had made sure of that. He had been by his side from day one, watching him with that calculating gaze of his, instructing the former leader's son so that he would have what it took to bear the weight of the empire he was inheriting. And Carlos had proven it. Not with words, but with deeds.
Unlike his father, he didn't need to constantly instill fear to command respect. He knew how to play the long game. He knew which names to remember, which favors to grant, and when to withdraw his hand. Madrid wasn't ruled with uncontrolled violence, but with precision. And at that, Carlos was a master.
His residence was strategically located in one of the city's most affluent neighborhoods, yet not far from one of the major universities. Not by chance. Money and power were not only found in old family businesses and old-school deals, but in the youth, in future businessmen, engineers, and lawyers. People who would one day have influence and who, unknowingly, were already under his radar. Sometimes, when he went for a morning run, he would see students with their backpacks on their shoulders, in the hurry of someone who believes that time is the only thing standing between them and success. He was not indifferent to them. Some of them, unknowingly, were already in his debt.
He didn't usually frequent the area during the day, but he knew every corner of it. There were cafes where students killed time between classes, bars where they celebrated their passed exams, and streets where some, more naive, believed they could find dangerous thrills without paying the real price. And although Carlos didn't mix with that world, he kept an eye on it. Because Madrid was his, and any movement in his territory concerned him.
Fernando always told him he had a problem with control. That he couldn't be everywhere or supervise everything. But Carlos wasn't one to delegate blindly. His instinct had saved his life more than once, and he had no intention of ignoring it now.
That day, the morning was warm, with the sun filtering through the buildings and reflecting off the asphalt like a blinding mirror. Carlos had woken up early, as always, reviewing the previous night's reports before going for a run. He liked to start the day that way, with a clear mind and a moving body. It was a routine that not only allowed him to stay in shape but also to think clearly.
As he passed near the university, his gaze scanned the constant stream of students, each immersed in their own world, unaware that his presence was no accident. The territory was his, yes, but he couldn't control it from an ivory tower. He needed to see it up close, understand it, anticipate any changes before they became a problem.
Every day brought new challenges, new threats, new negotiations. The Brazilian mafia, for example, had been a delicate issue, but the peace agreement they'd sealed gave both sides the stability they needed. Gabriel Bortoleto, the Brazilian heir, was in the area from time to time, training with Fernando as part of the deal. It didn't mean they were friends, far from it, but for now, the relationship was functional.
Carlos wasn't thinking about it as he crossed the street, but his instinct, honed by years of experience, alerted him to something. It wasn't a specific sound or an abrupt movement. Just a feeling. He stopped, pretending to tie his shoe, and watched surreptitiously.
A few meters away from him, sitting on the terrace of a café, was a boy who didn't quite fit into the usual landscape. Not because he looked out of place physically, but because of his demeanor. He wasn't engrossed in his phone or laptop like most of the students. Nor was he talking to anyone. He simply watched, with a calm expression, oblivious to the frenetic pace of the city.
Carlos frowned slightly. He didn't recognize him, and he always remembered important faces. The boy looked foreign. Light hair, pale skin, and an expression that oscillated between interest and indifference.
For a moment, he considered ignoring him. He was just a student, probably a newcomer, with no connection to his world. But there was something about the way he carried himself, the way he kept his back straight and his eyes alert, that made him raise an eyebrow.
He didn't stay to look any longer. He finished tightening the lace on his shoe and kept running. He didn't have time to be distracted by irrelevant details.
Oscar, for his part, didn't even realize he'd been watched. He was too busy enjoying his coffee, oblivious to the gaze that, for a moment, had settled on him.
Madrid was still his, Carlos thought. But sometimes, the pieces on his board changed without warning. And he always made sure he knew why.