“That’s the guy,” she’d said. “That’s exactly who came to see me.”
After that, we stopped guessing. We played the odds.
Voodoo took the first meeting—alone, but not unobserved. A museum in Madrid, one with metal detectors, cameras, tight entry points, and enough foot traffic that anything suspicious would pop like a flare. Not perfect, but controlled.
Matías arrived alone. Calm. Unarmed. He gave Voodoo five minutes of his time. The gauntlet didn’t upset him, but he didn’t linger nor give anyone else the message for me.
The guys argued for an hour. I argued for two.
But in the end, we all agreed: If this man truly knew something about Amorette, and I could learn something after all this time, no matter how small, I had to look him in the eyes.
We chose London. Neutral ground, crowded but manageable, a city humming with CCTV we could tap into and maneuver around. Far from anywhere familiar.
We arrived separately, staggered flights, staggered hotels. Layers on layers of counter-surveillance. Then the moment came.
Voodoo walked beside me, but I was the one who stepped forward into the quiet back gallery of the museum we’d chosen. Soft lighting, high ceilings, paintings hung like silent witnesses.
Matías stood at the far end of the room. Over six feet tall, his dark hair had lighter streaks like the sun had dyed it, and his honey-brown skin gleamed the daylight bulbs that illuminated the portrait room. I didn’t know him except as a photo. I’d wonder if he would be more familiar when I met him.
He wasn’t.
Then his eyes lifted and landed on me. Recognition seemed to strike him like a blow. Recognition followed by relief, that struck a match to the flames of hope inside of me.
I froze.
His breath hitched audibly, his hand gripping the back of a bench for balance.“Dios mío,” he whispered.“Saben… ustedes dos realmente son idénticas.”
God… you two really are identical.
My throat closed. My hands went cold. All the air in my lungs turned thin. I stepped closer, heart hammering so hard it hurt.My voice cracked. “She’s alive?” I whispered. “Amorette… is she alive?”
The only answer he gave me was a phone number, then he walked away. The guys offered to go after him, but he’d done everything else. He’d gotten me the number. It had to be enough. We had toletit be enough.
Ten days.
Ten days since I’d stood in that London gallery for a few brief moments before Matías handed me a slip of paper with a phone number on it.
Ten days since I’d called that number and spoke to my sister on the phone. Spoken to her. Heard her voice.
My only regret was I couldn’t thank that man. Couldn’t thank him for finding a way to get me the information. Because he had, I’d found Am.
The guys werenothappy about any of this. Not the call. Not Matías. Not the meeting.
They’d argued for hours about the where and when and how. Air-tight logistics. Multiple safe locations. Layers of misdirection. Redundancy inside redundancy.
Honestly? I barely heard any of their negotiations with Am’s people. My guys negotiating with hers.
I didn’t care where we had to go. Didn’t care how long it took to get there. Didn’t care how many hoops we jumped through or how many protocols we followed.
I just wanted to see my sister again.
The trembling—the buzzing, electric quiver under my skin—only grew stronger the closer we got.
Until finally…we were there.
An airport. Of all places.
I almost laughed when we walked into the secure wing and I saw the level of overkill the guys had arranged—or negotiated or threatened someone into agreeing with, I wasn’t exactly sure. Cameras, personnel, restricted access, sealed doors, more checkpoints than made sense.
