My eyes trace the angry red welts where her robe slips. Marks I put there, deliberate strokes meant to break her. And I did. That raw, guttural sob she let out keeps running around in my head, a haunting loop I can’t shut off.
It twists with a ghost from my past, one I’ve buried deep: my mother’s last cry, that wet, desperate keen just before the blade sliced her throat. The sound of a world ending, pain beyond words.
I turn away, bile hot in my throat. This link between then and now? A crack I can’t afford, a fissure in the foundation. Alessandro hammered it into me: Emotion’s a blade for yourenemies’ throats, never your own. Feel it, and you’re already bleeding out.
“We should talk,” I say, forcing the words, “about what happens next.”
It’s a tactical pivot. The emotional front is breached; I need to redraw the lines, lock down this... remorse... before it spreads like poison.
Her eyes meet mine, piercing despite the pain I’ve inflicted. She sees the fracture, damn her.
The satellite phone’s shrill cuts through, a lifeline back to my domain: threats, maneuvers, blood. I pivot away from her, grasping at the cold clarity.
“Varela,” I snap.
“Sir,” Blake’s voice crackles, tight with urgency, “we have a situation at the lake house. Isabel Vega’s here.”
Ice floods my veins, sharpening everything. “Explain.”
“She arrived twenty minutes ago. Slipped through the north perimeter without a whisper—no alarms, no trace.”
Rage surges. Isabel Vega, the cartel’s sleek liaison, with her lethal grace and those sharp eyes that miss nothing. We’ve danced this tango before, negotiating safe passages for her “specialty imports” through my territories, her Colombian overlords paying handsomely for the privilege. But her showing up uninvited, breaching my sanctum? That’s not business; that’s a declaration.
“Isabel’s words?” I demand.
“‘Information that can’t wait for business hours.’ Tied to Moretti... and the Korean angle.”
My jaw locks. “Professor Song?”
“She asked if Ms. Song is with you.”
I glance at Lea, piecing it together like the journalist she is, even battered. She knows Isabel from our earlier encounters, that charged meeting where Vega’s gaze lingered on her with more than professional interest, her subtle touches and that purring invitation to “continue the conversation” hinting at a hunger that went beyond cartels and deals.
“Contain her,” I order. “I’m en route.”
“Sir, the harbormaster?—”
“Now.”
I kill the call and hit the intercom. The captain picks up fast.
“New course,” I bark. “Back to my private dock. Full throttle.”
“Sir, the marina’s locked down. Coast Guard’s?—”
“Not a request. Plot it.”
“The swells are monsters—six to eight feet. We’re risking?—”
“I’ll own the risk. Move.”
I release the button and face Lea, her expression a veil over the storm in her eyes. “We’re docking.”
“Yes. Unexpected company demands my presence.”
She nods, slow and assessing. “Isabel Vega?”
Sharp as ever. “The cartel’s point woman. Her timing... reeks of calculation, especially after our last run-in.”
