There was something insulting about the way Los Angeles smiled at you.
The fake warmth of its sun. The sterile neatness of its neighborhoods. Palm trees bending in every yard like they were posing for a postcard. Streets lined with matching mailboxes, trimmed hedges, and families that hadn't seen real violence since the Cold War.
Marty Kael Vorran stepped out of the Escalade and stared at the ruins of the old mansion three blocks down from the Dunphy household. It was rotted at the edges, vines coiled through the iron gates, paint peeling like dead skin. The windows were blacked out with dust, and the front door sagged like the house was tired of standing.
It was perfect.
He didn't smile.
A man opened the door for him—tall, broad, his grey beard sharp as wire. Seamus O'Reilly. His father's second-in-command. Now his.
"Welcome home," Seamus said, voice like gravel.
Marty didn't answer. He walked up the steps, boots echoing with the heaviness of someone twice his age. Inside, the air was stale and still. Wallpaper peeled like something infected. Floorboards groaned with every step. But the bones of the place were solid.
He dropped his bag at the base of the stairs.
Then he rolled up his sleeves.
No workers. No contractors. Just him.
He ripped out the warped stairwell with surgical precision. Rebuilt it step by step, sanding, sealing, and reattaching the banister like a surgeon rebuilding bone. He cleared the front hall of mold, rewired every faulty socket, and installed a new fuse box in under twenty minutes. The kitchen tile came next—smashed, stripped, and replaced. He worked silently, sweat soaking the back of his shirt, dust caked into his knuckles.
He didn't eat. He didn't stop. The tools moved like extensions of his body.
By midday, the interior was scrubbed clean. By sundown, the mansion had been reborn.
Painted sharp charcoal and slate, white trim cutting through the edges like a blade. Iron lions flanked the gate, polished to shine. The windows gleamed. Inside, the walls were painted deep navy and cold gray, the floors waxed to mirror finish.
No one helped him.
No one could have helped him.
This wasn't about decoration.
It was a message.
That night, he stood at the gate, staring out at the quiet suburb that now surrounded him. Sprinklers ticked in the distance. A dog barked once, then went quiet. The Dunphy house was visible from here—cheerful, warm light glowing from its windows. He could almost smell the burnt pancakes from across the street.
They were soft.
But softness had its uses.
The next morning, Marty woke before the sun. The mansion was dark and cold, just the way he liked it. He dressed clean—black t-shirt, fitted jeans, polished boots. His leather jacket slid over his shoulders like a familiar shadow.
Seamus was already in the kitchen, reading the early reports over coffee.
"Boss," he said. "Your mother said to keep a low profile."
Marty took a glass of water from the fridge, took a long sip, and set it down quietly.
"She says that a lot."
Seamus raised an eyebrow. "How would you like to handle today?"
Marty held out his hand.
"Give me the list."
Seamus slid a manila folder across the counter. Inside: student names, reputations, family income, behavioral notes. Locker locations. Weaknesses.
Marty flipped through page after page with steady eyes. His mind was already mapping power lines, influence trails, vulnerabilities.
"Any dealers?"
"Three. Two of them connected to a sophomore running side hustle out of Jefferson Vape."
Marty nodded. "He'll be working for me by the end of the month. Quietly."
He closed the folder and adjusted the strap of his backpack.
"My father ruled with fire," he said. "I rule with inevitability."
He walked to school.
Three blocks through bright green lawns and chirping birds. He passed a girl on a pink scooter. She waved. He gave her a nod. His pace never changed.
Woodside Middle looked like a prison someone tried to cover with banners and paint. The walls were chipped. The sign out front misspelled "Success" with one too many S's. A boy spit his gum into the bushes. No cameras. No guards. No pride.
Good.
Inside, the halls buzzed with morning chaos. He walked slowly, calmly, as students flooded in around him. They stared. Whispered.
He didn't look at them.
He didn't have to.
And then—
He saw her.
She was seated alone beneath a crooked tree just outside the building, her backpack beside her and a hardcover book in her lap. Her glasses glinted slightly in the morning light. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a pencil holding it in place. Her clothes didn't match. Her shoes were scuffed. Her posture was perfect.
Alex Dunphy.
The girl who didn't care if the world noticed her.
But Marty noticed.
The files had described her as sharp, introverted, the highest GPA in the school. Antisocial tendencies. Teacher's favorite. No major behavioral concerns.
But files only told you what someone had done.
Marty could see who she was becoming.
Beneath the baggy sweater and sarcasm, there was strength. Not the kind you shouted about—the kind you earned. She didn't hide her mind. She wore it like a crown no one had taught her how to use yet. And one day… one day, she wouldn't need to say a word to dominate a room.
Her glasses would stay. They weren't a weakness. They were part of the weapon.
He didn't just see what she was.
He saw what she would be.
Beautiful—not in the way magazines printed, but in the way a sharp blade is beautiful when it catches the light.
She would be his equal.
One day.
His strategist.
His second.
His Madrina.
She looked up.
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked.
He didn't blink.
She didn't flinch.
He nodded once.
She didn't return it.
But she didn't look away either.
There are people born to follow.
There are people born to rule.
Marty Kael Vorran didn't need a crown to be king.
But now, he might have found a girl smart enough to wear one too.