Do they know? Did they piece together who I am, why I came here? If they have, then—fuck—Sophia.
But when her gaze lands on me, it’s not the cold triumph I expected. For just a second, her mask slips. I catch it in the flicker of her eyes—recognition. And beneath it… something like devastation. It’s gone so fast, I almost wonder if I imagined it. Her composure returns with a snap, shutters slamming closed over whatever she just let slip. The Queen of Knives stands in front of me now—poised, flawless, untouchable, every movement measured to conceal exactly what she’s thinking.
Still, I know what I saw.
"Oh dear," Donna Margarita says, her hand flutters against her chest.
"What's wrong?" The older man asks.
"I told you it was a mistake to bring a woman here," Aurelio presses out, disgusted.
"I think there is a bad misunderstanding here," Donna Margarita clings to Aurelio's father's arm.
"What do you need, my love?"
"Him," Donna Margarita points at me, surprising me more than the other two men.
"What is he to you?" Now the older man looks less like a besotted fool and more like a mafia patriarch; his gaze cuts into her like he’s weighing her words before she even speaks them.
Donna Margarita tilts her head, studying me with a faint, knowing smile that’s pure performance. "An investment," she says at last, keeping her voice smooth as silk. "One that wandered off before I had the chance to collect my return."
Aurelio’s brow furrows. "He planned to attack my house."
She shakes her head with an almost indulgent laugh. "He might have, caro, he’s a weapon. One I’ve been keeping an eye on for some time. A man with… particular talents. The kind that could serve our interests if they’re aimed at the right targets." Her eyes slide to Silvestre; the heat in her voice is deliberate. "You know how rare it is to find a blade you can throw and trust it to hit exactly where you want."
Silvestre’s suspicion softens, if only slightly. "And you’re saying he’s yours to throw?"
"I’m saying," Margarita replies, the corner of her mouth curling, "that it would be wasteful to break something with such… precision." She lets the word linger like a caress. "Give him to me. I’ll either make him useful, or I’ll make sure he’s disposed of in a way that benefits us all."
It’s a perfect lie, plausible enough to explain her interest without revealing anything real, vague enough to keep Aurelio guessing, and flattering enough to keep Silvestre engaged. But I know better. Behind that veil of calculated charm, she’s moving pieces I can’t see. And whatever game she’s playing, I’ve just been made one of the pawns.
Margarita’s tone softens into silk. "I’ve never asked you for anything, amore mio."
Aurelio’s jaw tightens, the muscle at the side tick. "He tried to attack my home," he growls, each word bitten off like it tastes foul in his mouth.
Her smile never wavers. "Then I’ll find out why. I promise."
Silvestre’s gaze moves between them. Aurelio is seething. He's probably already guessing that he's lost to Margarita's vision of calm seduction. Then, like a king granting favor to his queen, Silvestre turns to her with a lazy, satisfied grin. "He’s yours, my love."
The temperature in the room shifts. Aurelio’s fury is no longer contained; it radiates in a low, dangerous hum, but he doesn’t contradict his father.
Margarita tilts her head, as if his anger is nothing more than an inconvenient draft. "Grazie, caro," she purrs, brushing her hand lightly along Silvestre’s arm before looking at me again.
And in that moment, I know two things: Aurelio wants me dead, and Donna Margarita just bought my life, not to save it, but to use it. Whatever the hell for.
Stunned, I stare after the Valverde men and Margarita as they leave, the echo of the heavy door sealing behindthem sounding like the final thud of a crypt closing. The guards move in, the chains drop from the ceiling with a metallic groan, and I hit the ground harder than I should have. My knees threaten to buckle, but two of them catch my arms. I make it a mission to be dead weight—every step heavier, every movement clumsier—just enough to make them think I’m weaker than I am. Let them underestimate me. Let them believe I’m too broken to be dangerous.
They march me down a narrow corridor into a tiled room where the air smells of disinfectant and damp concrete. They point towards a shower stall, and I limp my way over. The spray of the water stings, but it washes away sweat, piss, and blood, and that's all that matters right now. I keep it cold to revive my system. I need to be alert if I want to find a way out.
A towel waits for me when I step out, and then, without a word, my wardens hand me clean pants and a shirt made from soft, high-quality fabric, but nothing that could hide a weapon. My ribs ache with every twist and stretch, but I make no sound.
They bring food next. Real food. Fresh bread, meat, fruit. I eat slowly, deliberately, drinking enough water to wash away the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Every gesture says compliance, but every cell in my body is mapping the exits.
Then, without ceremony, I’m escorted outside. A black SUV waits, its tinted windows reflecting the sun like a mirror. The ride is silent—guards flank me on both sides,their hands never stray far from their weapons—until we reach a tarmac, where a private jet idles with its stairs down, door open like a mouth waiting to swallow me.
And there she is.
Donna Margarita, seated in a cream leather chair, legs crossed, perfectly composed. The picture of elegance and control. Not a hair out of place, not a line of emotion on her face. But her eyes… her eyes are busy. Assessing me the way a jeweler examines a stone, measuring flaws or weighing value.
