CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ruben
Fabrizio Bacci is a man who knows what he wants and how he wants it, which makes my job easier. His case is tangled with red tape and competing interests, but he precisely cuts through the noise—no hesitation, no waffling. It’s a rare quality in a client and one I appreciate. I had too many cases bogged down by indecision and too many clients second-guessing every move.
Fabrizio is the opposite. Focused, direct, and straightforward. It’s refreshing.
We spent hours in his office interviewing staff, poring over contracts, and discussing legal strategies. The man was prepared, giving me every document I needed without asking twice. That kind of organization? It’s a lawyer’s hottest dream.
But Fabrizio isn’t all business. When we’re not hammering out the case details or discussing strategy, he’s the consummate host. The man insisted on showing me Buenos Aires, and since I had some time off, I let him. It was hard to say no when someone takes that much pride in their city.
He took me to Caminito , a small neighborhood bursting with color. The tin buildings looked like something out of a painting—vivid blues, yellows, and reds—unique and mesmerizing. Street performers sang tango in the open air, and others danced. The whole place was alive, reminding me why I love traveling. I’d love to wander the world with Lennon, sharing every sunset with her.
Later, we went to a tango show. The dancers were captivating, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. Sensual and precise, every step tells a story. At one point, they invited me to learn a few moves. I was skeptical, but Fabrizio insisted, and before I knew it, I was on the dance floor. I picked it up quicker than expected. My rhythm wasn’t bad, but it was nothing compared to Laura, my assigned teacher, who made it look effortless. Still, it was an experience I’ll remember forever.
Fabrizio took me to dinner almost every night. Once, an asado at his home with his family. The smell of grilling bife de chorizo —a sirloin steak—hit me the second we walked through the patio door, and my mouth watered instantly. They served me steak so tender and flavorful it ruined every other steak I’ve ever had. His family was warm, loud, and welcoming, treating me like one of their own. It was humbling, and I relaxed in a way I don’t usually allow with new people.
The next day, Fabrizio took me to El Ateneo , a bookstore that was once a theater. The moment I stepped inside, my jaw hit the floor. The grandeur of the building—high ceilings, ornate balconies, and the stage now transformed into a café—felt like stepping into another world. Rows upon rows of books stretch across the space.
As I wandered through the aisles, ideas started to form. That place, its mix of history, culture, and innovation, was exactly the kind of inspiration I’d been looking for. I pictured something similar for the theater back in San Francisco that preserved its essence while giving it a new purpose. The thought of Lennon smiling at this idea sent a spark through me, and I made a mental note to explore it further.
But even as I was immersed in my work and the city, my thoughts circled back to Lennon. She’s always there, a constant pull, no matter how far away I am.
At one point, Fabrizio drove me into a jewelry store. He was looking for something for his wife, and as he browsed, he nudged me with a smirk. “You should get something for your woman.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest, but not in a bad way. My woman. The thought of Lennon being mine, completely mine, made my chest swell with an, until now, unknown emotion.
I didn’t overthink it. I picked out a pendant, something understated but elegant. It’s a delicate gold chain with a diamond-encrusted charm, something she can wear every day without it getting in the way. The thought of her wearing it, of it resting against her skin, drove me wild. It’s possessive, maybe even primal, but I want her to carry a piece of me with her.
As Fabrizio wrapped up his shopping, I slipped the box in my jacket pocket, already imagining how Lennon would look.
Now back at the hotel, I dive into my research on Aiden. The deeper I go, the uglier it gets. Every file, every record I uncover confirms what I’ve already suspected, Aiden Fisher is a man who doesn’t give without expecting something in return. My benefactor is a shark circling for opportunities, and his interests in the theater are no different. He doesn’t see it as a landmark or a piece of history. He sees it as an asset to be flipped, its soul stripped for profit. The more I learn, the more determined I become to beat him at his own game.
Back to her. And the thought of seeing her again, holding her, and hearing her voice, makes the wait almost unbearable.
This city has inspired me, but Lennon is the fire in my veins. I can’t wait to be home.
? ? ?
Flying at 35,000 feet over The Andes, there’s nothing but time to kill and thoughts to chase. My laptop is open on the tray table, spreadsheets and case files minimized in favor of one name blinking on my screen: Nora Callahan.
She served in the army, a solid ten-year career. The record’s clean—commendations, good conduct medals, a Purple Heart. She died in the line of duty when her daughter was just shy of five years old. A tragedy, sure, but it’s what’s left unsaid that has my attention.
I find that note buried in an old court filing. Aiden’s attorney submitted a sealed document about the payments. Nothing explicit, just enough to confirm the existence of a kid, but no name.
It’s only when I start cross-referencing that I hit pay dirt. I pull up her obituary, and there it is. Nora Callahan. Survived by her daughter, Lennon Callahan.
I stop breathing. My chest tightens, and the air around me feels thinner, like the cabin pressure just dropped.
No. It can’t be.
I stare at the screen, hoping I’ve made some kind of mistake. But the facts are all there. Lennon Callahan, born in 1993. Her mother, Nora, received a few bucks as child support for four years until her death in 1998. And her father?
Fuck.
The plane suddenly feels smaller, like I’m trapped in a tin can with no way out. I close the laptop and lean back in my seat, staring at the cabin ceiling like it has the answers I need. My fists clench the armrests, every muscle in my body taut with the kind of tension that demands release.
Aiden Fisher is Lennon’s father.
I don’t know whether to punch something or laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. Lennon, my Chispita , is Aiden’s daughter. Aiden knew. He had to have known. That smug bastard probably thought this was funny. Sending me to tear down a theater his own estranged daughter is trying to save? It’s the kind of twisted power play he lives for.
I try to piece it together, but the timeline only makes it worse. Lennon is thirty-one now. That means she’s spent the last twenty-six years without either parent. Her mother gave her life for her country, and her father? He abandoned her.
Dios!
I grab my phone, scrolling through my photos for something to ground me. Tango dancers, Caminito , El Ateneo bookstore… all of it feels hollow now. The one thing I need is the one thing I can’t have at this moment.
Lennon.
What the hell am I supposed to say to her? Do I tell her the truth? That the man who abandoned her as a child is the same man I’ve been working for? The same man who sent me to crush her dreams?
A cold sweat breaks out across my back. My mind spins, and every thought leads back to her. Lennon, who’s poured everything into that theater. Lennon, who lights up my life in ways I didn’t know were possible. Lennon, who has no idea what I’ve uncovered.
I can’t let Aiden win this. I won’t. If he thought he could use this to fuck with me, he’s about to learn just how wrong he was.
And Lennon? She’s going to know the truth. Because if there’s one thing I know for certain… This changes everything.
And it changes nothing .
She’s still mine.
No matter what.