25. Xander
XANDER
I focused on the road ahead, the tension from the warehouse visit coiling inside me.
Ben’s text with the address sent us speeding through Miami’s backstreets toward the industrial district.
Twelve minutes. That’s how long Google Maps said it would take to reach this place called “El Santuario.” Twelve minutes that could determine whether Diego lived or died.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Not long ago, I punched Diego in the face. Now I was racing to save him from God knows what.
“This is insane,” Tara said, clutching the folder with Morrison’s notes to her chest. “These people are dangerous enough to kidnap someone in broad daylight.”
“I know.” I pressed harder on the accelerator as the light ahead turned yellow.
“And your plan is to just... what? Walk in there and ask nicely for them to let him go?”
“Something like that,” I said, shooting through the intersection as the light turned red, earning an angry honk from a delivery truck.
Her fingers dug into my arm. “Xander, these aren’t people you can charm your way past.”
“Good,” I said, taking a sharp right turn that had Tara bracing herself against the door. “Because I’m not going to try and charm them. I’m going to make them an offer.”
“What kind of offer? You want to pay off Diego’s debt? It could be hundreds of thousands. These guys deal in cash only. You don’t have immediate access to that much in cash, do you?”
“It’s not about cash.” I glanced at her, my mind racing, a wild idea starting to form. “Men like this, they deal in a different kind of currency. Power, respect, status... I just need to figure out what they want more than Diego’s money.”
She fell silent, and I knew she was calculating the odds, weighing variables like she always did.
My phone pinged with another text from Ben: Hurry. I’m outside. Back entrance, like you said.
We’d pulled over briefly so I could call him back, instructing him to wait at the building’s rear entrance rather than going in alone. One hostage was enough.
The GPS directed us into a section of Miami most tourists never see—a labyrinth of warehouses, truck depots, and industrial parks sitting under the constant hum of the airport flight path. The buildings here were utilitarian, sun-bleached concrete boxes with minimal signage and barred windows.
“That must be it,” Tara said, pointing to a nondescript building at the end of a dead-end street. No signs, just a gray box with a loading dock and a bunch of cars parked out front like vultures.
I pulled over a block away, killed the engine, and turned to face her in the sudden silence. “Okay. You stay in the car.”
“Xander—”
“I mean it, Tara.” I took her face in my hands, my thumbs resting on her cheekbones, forcing her to meet my eyes. “This isn't a game. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, or if you hear anything that sounds wrong, you call 911. Not your father, not the team—911. Got it?”
Her eyes flashed with that familiar fire I was coming to know so well. “Thirty minutes,” she said, her voice steady and leaving no room for argument. “Then I’m calling the police, and I’m coming in after you.”
“No. Absolutely not,” I started to say, the words a knee-jerk reaction. “Under no circumstances are you to come in there. That’s an order.”
It was useless. I saw it the moment the words left my mouth.
She didn't even have to say anything. The slight lift of her chin, the narrowing of her eyes—it was a look of such absolute, unshakeable defiance that I knew I’d have better luck arguing with the tide.
This woman, who had meticulously plotted my downfall for twelve years, was now prepared to walk into a nest of gangsters for me without a second’s hesitation.
And in that moment, staring at her stubborn, determined face, a wave of something fierce and protective crashed over me. I loved her for it. I loved that fire. I wouldn't have her any other way.
A small, humorless smile touched my lips. Of course she wouldn't just sit here. “Okay,” I breathed out, the argument dying before it began. “Deal.”
I leaned in and kissed her, hard and fast, trying to pour everything I couldn't say— be safe, I love you, don't do anything stupid —into it. When I pulled back, her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
“Always am.”
It was the biggest lie I’d ever told, and we both knew it.
I left the keys with her and jogged the remaining block to El Santuario. Ben was pacing nervously by a metal door at the rear of the building, his face pale in the harsh afternoon sun.
“Thank God,” he breathed when he saw me. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I said I would.” I clasped his shoulder. “Tell me everything you know about this place.”
Ben swallowed hard. “It’s called El Santuario, or The Sanctuary. High-stakes gambling, mostly. Cash only. Diego said the buy-in starts at ten grand.”
“Who runs it?”
“Some guy named Torres. Vicente Torres. Diego said he’s connected, you know? Like, South American mob connected.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
“You don’t have to come in with me,” I told him. “In fact, it’s probably better if you wait out here.”
Ben shook his head. “No way. Diego’s an asshole, but he’s my teammate. I’m coming.”
I studied him—this twenty-two year old kid, willing to walk into danger for a guy who probably treated him like dirt. His loyalty was admirable, if misplaced.
“Fine. But you follow my lead. Don’t speak unless I tell you to. Understand?”
He nodded, and I pulled open the heavy metal door. It opened into a dimly lit hallway that smelled of cigarettes and bleach. A bulky man in a black suit stepped forward, hand moving instinctively to what I assumed was a concealed weapon.
“Private establishment,” he said flatly. “Members only.”
I straightened to my full height, meeting his gaze directly. “I’m Xander McCrae. I’m here to see Vicente Torres.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes, but his expression remained impassive. “Regarding?”
“A business proposition. One that solves his Diego Mano problem.”
The guard studied me for a moment, then touched his earpiece, murmuring something I couldn’t catch. After a brief pause, he nodded.
“Follow me. Your friend stays here.”
“He comes with me,” I said firmly.
The guard hesitated, then shrugged. “Your funeral.”
He led us down the hallway and through another door that opened into an upscale gambling den. Rows of tables where well-dressed men and women played poker, blackjack, and other games I didn’t recognize. A polished bar stretched along one wall, and private booths lined another.
Our escort guided us past the main floor toward a hallway in the back. I could feel Ben’s nervous energy beside me, his breathing shallow and quick. I kept my pace measured, my expression neutral. Whatever was waiting for us, showing fear wouldn’t help.
The hallway led to a door marked simply “Office.” The guard knocked twice before opening it.
The room beyond was surprisingly tasteful—more executive suite than mob boss lair. Leather furniture, dark wood bookshelves, and abstract art on the walls. The man behind the large desk stood as we entered, buttoning his tailored suit jacket.
The man who met us was shorter than I expected, maybe five-nine, with salt-and-pepper hair and the build of someone who still made time for the gym.
He was handsome in a weathered way, with laugh lines around his eyes.
This was Vicente Torres, and the moment I walked into his office, his entire demeanor changed.
A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. “Xander McCrae,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of an accent and a surprising amount of warmth. He extended a hand. “As I live and breathe. My men just told me you were here, but I didn’t quite believe it. Welcome.”
His handshake was firm, confident. This wasn't a man sizing me up; this was a fan meeting a legend. He completely ignored Ben Carter standing beside me.
It was only then that I saw Diego.
He was zip-tied to a chair in the corner of the room, his face a bloody, swollen mess. One eye was puffed shut, his lip was split, and his expensive shirt was torn and stained. He looked up with his one good eye, disbelief and a flicker of hope breaking through the pain. “McCrae?” he croaked.
“Quiet,” snapped one of the two bulldozers flanking him.
Torres didn’t even glance in Diego’s direction.
His focus was entirely on me. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the leather chairs in front of his immaculate desk.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? I admit, I was surprised to hear you were interested in the affairs of this… Colombiano .” The way he said it made Diego sound like a piece of discount furniture.
“We’re teammates,” I said simply, taking a seat.
“Of course.” Torres nodded, leaning back in his chair. The mask of the fan slipped slightly, revealing the businessman beneath. “A noble sentiment. But his debt is substantial. Two hundred and thirty-five thousand, to be exact. A sum I require today.”
While he spoke, my eyes scanned his desk.
It was minimalist, organized, but one thing stood out: a single, ornate silver photo frame, angled so he could see it.
From my vantage point, I could just make out Torres with his arm around a teenage girl.
A girl wearing a brand new, authentic Miami Pirates jersey.
Jackpot.
“I’m not here to pay his debt in cash,” I said, leaning forward. “I have a proposition I think you’ll find far more valuable.”
Torres’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of professional interest replacing the fanboy excitement. “I’m listening.”
“You have a daughter,” I said, nodding toward the photo.
His posture went rigid, his hand instinctively moving to shield the frame. “My family is not part of my business, Mr. McCrae.”
“Of course not,” I agreed smoothly. “But I couldn’t help but notice she’s a fan.”