‘I could love you, you know!’ I murmur between slurps. She groans, ‘Oh God,’ and she clenches around my fingers.
‘Good girl,’ I smile.
Oh, Stella, if only you knew how possessed you are. That I had already slipped inside when you weren’t looking. And for as long as you breathe, I will own you – your mind, your body, and your soul.
‘They won’t leave the girl here on her own for long,’ I say, standing up with teeth clenched. I grab Stella’s wrist and pull her down towards the ravine.
The large black gates loom. Iron bars stretched wide into my memory. Before, it was Carlos beside me, inside a black SUV with a gun at my temple. That moment felt final – steel against skin, silence in his eyes. Now? Now, it’s far worse.
Stella’s breath comes in rapid bursts, each one scraping her throat like sandpaper. Her hand, blood-slicked and trembling, hangs at her side – torn open by thorns that clawed like they had a grudge.
I remember seeing Boss and Tarran - faces twisted in panic, legs pumping like pistons as they sprint towards salvation. I remember. I watched. I prayed. Not to God, just to anyone that might be listening. To anyone that might tell them they were running towards Carlos – a prettier kind of death. Now it’s our turn.
My legs buckle from exhaustion, rubbery and useless, lungs scraping against fear, but I won’t fall. Falling means stopping. Stopping means dying. I see the SUV, half silhouetted in the haze, and I swear I can still hear Carlos’s voice, feel the cold metal under my jaw. We reach the gate, my knees barely bend. Every step feels like a last favour my body is willing to give. Breath heaves from my chest, and the weight of every year reminds me I’m just too old for this shit. The mountain took pieces of me. The river froze my veins, and the forest whispered I was past my prime. And I believe it. My fingers tremble around the gate latch, blood crusted beneath torn nails. I want to collapse. Maybe I should. But I don’t. Becausehe’sthere, stepping out of the SUV.
Boss.
The black door swings open and he steps out like nothing is wrong. He claps. His grin spread wide, lined with amusement and something crueler. ‘Well, damn,’ he says. Stella stumbles forward, wide-eyed. I hunch over, knees screaming, sweat slick on my spine.
Mr Lewis strolls closer, still clapping.
‘You impressed me,’ he adds. ‘Not bad for someone who should have retired a decade ago.’
I don’t answer. I just breathe, hating that he’s right.
With a ragged breath I pierce him a gaze. ‘You son-of-a-bitch.’ The words rip out of me like fire through dry leaves. My knees ache, my lungs burn, but fury has its own fuel, and right now it’s enough. My fist flies through the air. He doesn’t block. Doesn’t dodge. He just stands there – blood dripping from his nose, lips split, and I keep swinging. Anger is supposed to feel sharp. But it’s slipping now, leaking through my fingers. I punch again – once, twice, and then I can’t. I stop. Mr Lewis doesn’t move. Doesn’t mock me. He watches. Quiet. Bruised. There’s something in his eyes. It’s not triumph nor pity. It’s recognition. Like he’s been here before, on this side of the fight. I sink against the side of the SUV, knuckles pulsing with pain. And for a moment, no one moves. Because right now, the real wounds aren’t the ones bleeding. Mr Lewis straightens, and Stella plants herself between us, her shoulders squared, eyes locked on Mr Lewis as he steps forward with his hand outstretched.
‘Salvador Sanchez,’ he says. ‘The one the family kept hidden, buried beneath the family tree.’
I shake my head. ‘Charlie...’ I rasp, throat raw.
Mr Lewis nods. ‘He told me everything. Didn’t even hesitate,’ I stare back, and he continues, ‘he asked me, how could I turn my back on you, my blood, my cousin.’
Mr Lewis’ voice softens, just enough to hurt. ‘Then it all started clicking into place,’ he says. ‘My old man – your uncle. You two were inseparable, always tangled up together, especially after your dad got locked away.’ He pauses, the silence like a gun left loaded on the kitchen table. His jaw clenches, a twitch of muscle like something is trying to crawl out. ‘I see it now, Sal, he was shielding you. Preparing you.’
My breath hitches. Stella turns towards me, her brow furrowed. ‘What is he saying?’
I stare past her – at Mr Lewis. ‘Your father, boss, took me under his wing because I was the one that kept the books balanced. Who knew the names of every man buried under our name. That makes me the cleaner – not the heir. You want to kill me,’ I cough, ‘after everything? After all the blood, and breath and bone we just clawed through,’ I shake my head, slow and deliberately. ‘You’re going to kill us?’
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me. Unblinking. Stella breathes hard beside me, her hand clutched tightly around my sleeve like if I move, she’ll drown.
‘I didn’t come here to kill you,’ he says, at last. ‘But I came prepared. In case you still didn’t understand what’s at stake. We can finish this back at themasia,’ he adds, like we’re just wrapping up a business deal. ‘There’s a whiskey with our names on it.’
CHAPTER 22
THE DIPLOMAT
Mr Lewis’ eyes haven’t left mine since I sat down. I can feel the scepticism dripping off him, every look and sip of his drink, a silent interrogation.
He leans forward slightly. ‘Charlie said The Thompsons used to call you “SS”.’
I don’t blink. Instead, I just slowly swirl the whiskey within its glass, letting the silence between us breathe. Letting the name hang between us.
He continues. ‘He said it was for the way you ran protection,’ he adds, ‘efficient, cold, ruthless.’
‘The family needed me to be a ghost with steel hands,’ I say, quietly. ‘So I gave him one.’
‘Then you vanished?’
