The next morning is quiet. Too quiet. Mario's on the phone in the adjoining room, and Pierre is tapping away at his laptop. I’m at the map again, running the plan in my head for the tenth time, when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
The door doesn’t just open, it explodes inward—wood splinters, and the chain lock snaps like cheap wire. Three men in tactical black pour in, weapons up. One is killed instantly by the little booby trap Mario set up, but the other two start firing without hesitation.
Mario reaches for his gun, but the first round takes him in the neck. He’s down before the blood even hits the carpet. Pierre freezes and lifts his hands, but I'm already on the move. I’ve got my sidearm half-drawn before the butt of a rifle slams into my temple.
The room spins, and my knees hit the floor. Through the blur, I see one of the masked men crouch beside Mario's body. On his shoulder, he wears a lion’s head patch—Valverde’s men.
Hands grab me, and zip ties bite into my wrists. My vision tunnels, and words in Spanish ring out around me.
"¿Por qué estás aquí?"—Why are you here?
I blink against the haze, and the copper taste of blood fills my mouth.
And then I see him.
Don AurelioEl LeónValverde. The boss of bosses. Standing in my hotel suite like a man who owns both the ground beneath my feet and the air in my lungs.
"Who are you?" he asks in perfect, unhurried English. He steps closer, his eyes as sharp and heavy as a predator’s. "And why," he leans forward, voice low and lethal, "were you planning to storm my home?"
Later the same morning…
I’ve been in this house for two days. Two days of watching, listening, and keeping my head down. Tonight, they're planning a big dinner, something grand and dripping with power games I don’t understand. All I know is, I’m being dressed like a doll for it.
The vanity table in my room is littered with makeup, brushes, and compacts. I’m halfway through applying a layer of powder when the door opens without a knock. Donna Margarita sweeps in like she always does, taking all the oxygen out of the room. She doesn’t ask permission before taking my chin in her cool, ring-heavy hand and tilting my face toward the light.
Her sharp eyes scan me like I’m an asset in need of repair. "You need more concealer here," she says, tapping the hollow just under my jaw where Roberto’sthumbprint still blooms faintly. "Those bruises won’t do."
A spark of aggravation flares in my chest, but I swallow it down. I’ve learned too much in the last two days to let it show. Donna Margarita is more than Roberto’s grandmother. Even here, in Venezuela, she wields power like a blade. And people bend to it.
I saw it on my first day, when Don Aurelio himself came to greet her. He stood there like a king on his marble floor, eyes hard as flint. "So, you’re the woman my father speaks so highly of," he said, voice dripping with disbelief. "You’re nothing but an old, shriveled lady."
Margarita smiled—slow, amused, unbothered—and tilted her head like she was deciding whether to pet him or strike him.
"My dear boy," she purred, "flowers wilt in the sun, but poison? Poison stays potent for years… and so do secrets." Her gaze sharpened, and she leaned in just slightly, her voice lowered down to a velvet murmur meant only for him. "Especially the kind you thought were buried on Isla Verde."
I didn’t know whatIsla Verdewas, but I saw her words land like a live grenade. Don Aurelio’s smirk faltered for the briefest second; the muscles in his jaw tightened before he recovered.
The room had gone silent after that, and I’d understood: this was a woman who could survive anything and make you thank her for the privilege of letting you live. DonAurelio must have figured out the same thing, because after a beat, he gave her a cool, deliberate smile. "Old people die with their secrets, Donna Margarita."
She laughed lightly, as if he’d complimented her instead of trying to warn her. "Oh, of course, mi querido. It would be foolish for an old woman like me to think I’ll live forever." Her gaze swept over him like the edge of a blade. "Sometimes my memory even fails me…" She reached into her purse and drew out a sleek, black phone, holding it between two perfectly manicured fingers. "Which is why I keep so many little helpers around the world to remind me. Photographs. Videos. Transcripts." She tilted the phone just enough for the light to catch on its screen. "Some memories are worth keeping… safe."
Aurelio’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the only crack in his mask. Whatever she had just alluded to, it landed. "I will pray for your good health then," He conceded.
"You do that," she patted his cheek with a feline-like smile. "You do that."
Now, in my room, her fingers still grip my chin. She applies the extra concealer herself, pressing it into my skin with practiced precision. Then she releases me and glides toward the door.
"Smile tonight, Sophia," she says without turning back. "It’s the only armor you’ll have."
And then she’s gone, leaving me staring at my reflection,wondering if I’m supposed to be the flower… or the poison.
I wait until her footsteps fade down the hall before I rise from the vanity. My back stays straight, chin lifted, the way she drilled into me these past two days, but inside, I’m trembling so hard I feel it in my teeth.
The moment I step into the corridor, voices float up from downstairs, deep, booming, and laced with laughter. The kind of voices that fill a room without trying. I drift toward the banister, drawn despite myself. The front doors are wide open, and a man steps inside. His posture screams power. He’s older than Aurelio, but still muscularly built, shoulders squared under a tailored jacket, hair silver at the temples. And he’s flanked by two women, both young, both gorgeous, draped over him like he’s a prize stallion they intend to ride all night.
He spreads his arms as if he’s addressing the entire mansion. "Where is she?" he demands, his voice carrying through marble and stone. "Where is the only woman who ever made Silvestre Valverde weak in the knees?"
This is Silvestre Valverde? Isabella's father?
