We make love slowly, nothing hurried, nothing rough. Just slow thrusts and careful kisses, her eyes locked on mine as if she’s reading every word I can’t say out loud. My name escapes her lips in gentle gasps, whispered into my throat like a promise.
Afterward, when our breathing settles, she curls against me, her cheek resting against my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles along my skin.
I close my eyes, memorizing the feeling.
“You’re quiet,” she murmurs eventually.
“I’m always quiet,” I say, softly brushing my lips over her hair. “You should be worried if I’m not.”
She smiles against me, soft and warm. “Not worried. Just wondering.”
“About?”
“Everything,” she admits quietly. She hesitates. Then softly: “About Colombia.”
My chest tightens sharply.
I knew this was coming. I felt it the second I saw her speaking with Rosa, with the twins. It was there, hovering beneath the surface, waiting for us in the quiet dark.
She props herself up slightly, looking down at me, eyes gentle but unyielding. “I want you to tell me.”
I tense involuntarily, old wounds waking instantly beneath her gaze. “There’s nothing good there.”
She strokes my face gently. “Maybe. But it’s still yours.”
I exhale slowly, threading fingers through her hair, focusing on the feel of her skin. “What do you want to know?”
She takes a careful breath. “You went back after your father died. The twins said you disappeared.”
“I did,” I say quietly. My jaw tightens, but I don’t stop her.
“What happened?” Her voice is careful, soft, waiting for me to pull away.
I don’t.
I just hold her tighter, gathering my thoughts. Memories rush back, violent, sharp, suffocating. The streets of Medellín. The echo of gunshots. The smell of rain and smoke and blood. Thenights spent in alleys and safehouses, surviving hour to hour, teaching myself how to live in shadows.
“I went back for revenge,” I finally admit. My voice is rough, gritty. “I needed answers. Someone had to pay.”
She traces my collarbone slowly, grounding me. “Did you find them?”
I close my eyes briefly. “I found all of them.”
“And?” Her voice barely above a whisper.
“I made sure they knew who I was,” I say softly, darkly. “They learned what it meant to cross a Rivera. Every single one. I didn’t leave until everyone who knew my father’s name was buried or bleeding.”
Her hand stills, just for a moment. “Did it help?”
“No,” I murmur. “But it taught me who I had to become.”
She leans down, pressing her lips softly to my chest, lingering there. “And who’s that?”
“A man who does what others won’t,” I whisper. “Who can’t walk away from violence because it lives inside him.”
She lifts her gaze back to mine, eyes softening further. “That’s not all you are.”
I stroke her cheek gently, feeling my heart beat unevenly beneath her touch. “It’s most of it.”
