Chapter 3
NATALIA
My mystery guest sleeps most of the day.
I check on him twice, pressing two fingers to the inside of his wrist and counting the beats against my phone’s timer.
Steady both times.His pupils were equal and reactive this morning, the wound edges are holding under the strips, and he’s not vomiting.
All signs point to a concussion that’s tracking toward recovery, not hemorrhage.
Small mercies.
Between checks, I park myself on the couch with my laptop balanced on a throw pillow and work through the anatomy and physiology course I’ve been chipping away at for four months.
Four months into a degree I’ll probably never use, studying a career I’ll probably never have.
Today’s unit covers cranial nerve assessment. Fitting, given the man unconscious in the next room. I pause the video on a diagram of the Glasgow Coma Scale and quiz myself until I can recite the categories from memory.
I shut my laptop and press my knuckles into my eyes. Outside the sliding glass door, the ocean has gone the color of pewter, waves folding over themselves in that lazy, repetitive way that should feel peaceful but just sounds like a clock ticking.
One more day in this beach house. One more day of borrowed time.
My father sent me here two months ago to keep me safe. That’s how he put it, anyway. “Safe.” What he means is intact. There’s an arranged marriage waiting for me back home, and I need to be in one piece when it’s time to walk down the aisle.
So here I am. Tucked away on a remote island where nobody knows my name, with a single standing order: stay put, stay quiet, and don’t do anything stupid.
My father doesn’t know about the coursework. A woman whose future has already been decided for her doesn’t need a career. She needs to sit still, look presentable, and wait to be delivered to a man she’s never met.
My stomach growls loud enough to echo off the bare walls, and I realize I skipped lunch entirely, too absorbed in differentiating the trigeminal nerve from the facial nerve.
I head to the kitchen and pull open the fridge.
The shelves are sparse. I only ever shop for one, and cooking has never been my talent.
But there’s enough vegetables for a stir-fry, so I grab what I can and start heating the pan.
The oil pops and I flinch, which Anna would’ve found hilarious. She always said I was too jumpy for kitchen work. Stand your ground, devochka. The oil can smell fear.
The sizzle of peppers hitting the pan fills the silence, and for a second I’m twelve years old again, burning garlic while Anna laughed and bumped me aside with her hip. The memory surfaces warm and aching before I push it down.
“That smells good.”
I look up. He’s standing in the hallway, one shoulder propped against the doorframe, and the first thing I register is that some of the color is back in his face. Still pale, still bruised, but less gray than this morning. More alive.
The second thing I register is that my oversized t-shirt is very much not oversized on him. I can practically count his abs from here.
Great, Natalia. The man has a concussion and you’re checking him out. Real classy.
I shut it down. I’m well practiced. Wanting things for myself has always been a luxury I can’t afford, and right now, the cost of wanting is measured in Anna’s safety and my own survival. Attraction is just one more thing to file away under not for you.
“Thank you. There’s enough for two.” I turn back to the pan, flipping the vegetables with more focus than the task requires. “Fair warning, I’m not exactly a chef. But it’s hot and it’s food.”
“Sold.” He crosses to the island and sits down, moving carefully. Slower than someone without bruised ribs, but steadier than this morning.
I dish up two plates. The portions are thin, but the bamboo shoots and baby corn stretch it enough to pass for a real meal. I set his plate in front of him and take the seat at the far end of the counter.
“So,” he says, stabbing a piece of baby corn with his fork, “since my conversational repertoire currently consists of ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I can’t remember,’ you’re going to have to carry us.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. It sounds strange in this kitchen. Unfamiliar. I don’t think I’ve laughed in this house before today.
“You want me to talk about myself?”
“You did pull me off a beach and patch me up. I’m curious about the woman behind the rescue operation.”
I push a piece of pepper around my plate, buying time. Every word I say to this man is a calculation, even if he doesn’t know it. My father’s rules were specific before he sent me here: no one finds out who you are, where you’re from, what family you belong to.
The consequences for slipping aren’t mine to pay. They’re Anna’s.
My mother died bringing me into the world, and Anna is the one who stepped in—braided my hair, sang me to sleep, told me I was brave when nothing in my life gave me reason to believe it.
My former nanny has Alzheimer’s now. On her bad days, she doesn’t know my name.
She lives in a facility my father pays for, and he made the terms very clear before I left Vegas.
If I run, if I make noise, if I do anything to jeopardize his plans, he pulls the funding.
Immediately. The facility discharges her within seventy-two hours.
That’s the leash. Not a guard at my door. Not a lock on my window. Just the knowledge that if I step out of line, the only person who ever truly loved me loses everything.
And it works. Every time.
“I’m on vacation.” I keep my voice light and easy. “Getting some distance from family stuff.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He says it simply, and the sincerity in his expression catches me off guard. Most people ask follow-ups because they want gossip, not because they care. He just waits.
“It’s nothing dramatic. Just the usual family politics.” I shrug and take a bite, chewing slowly. “It’ll sort itself out.”
It won’t. It will end the way my father has already decided it will end: with me on a plane to Bogotá in a white dress, the ribbon on a deal between two criminal empires.
“Yeah?” He lifts a brow. Not pushing, but not buying it either. “You’re making a face.”
I blink. “What kind of face?”
“Like you just bit into something rotten.”
“It’s really not important.” I steer us away from the cliff edge, forcing a smile. “Certainly not more important than your situation. Let’s just say there’s something I need to deal with when I go home, and I’m not looking forward to it.”
He nods slowly, accepting the redirect. “Sure. Family can be… difficult. That feels familiar, actually. Like I know what you mean, even if I can’t pull up a specific example.
” He takes another bite, chews thoughtfully.
“For what it’s worth, if the family stuff gets too heavy, you could always tell them a strange man with no memory showed up and you’re too busy playing nurse to come home.
Nobody argues with that level of chaos.”
His elbow nudges mine. Light, playful, nothing. But the warmth of the contact buzzes through me, and I’m so starved for casual human touch that even that graze feels like a gift.
The grin he gives me is so effortless, so disarming, that something in me cracks loose. Like a window opening in a house that’s been sealed shut.
Nobody talks to me like this. Nobody teases me, or asks me questions, or listens to the answers like they actually care. In my father’s house, conversations have agendas. Words are leverage. Every interaction is a transaction where someone always owes something afterward.
“Anyway.” He sets his fork down. “Thank you. Again. Seriously. I don’t think everyone would’ve done what you did.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep meaning it.”
My throat tightens, and I look away before the rest of my face catches up. “You’re welcome.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than feels casual. Then that easy half-grin is back. “So. We’ve established I don’t have a name. And ‘hey, you’ is getting old. I’m open to suggestions.”
I seize the change in subject gratefully. “How about George?”
“Pass.”
“Paul?”
He narrows his eyes. “If you say Ringo, I’m walking out that door.”
“You remembered something!” I point my fork at him, delighted despite myself.
He blinks, then the grin widens. “Huh. I guess I did. But that’s still a hard no on Ringo.”
“Fine, fine. What about...” The idea strikes, and I know it’s ridiculous, which is exactly why I like it. “Oh! Johnny Utah. From Point Break.”
“From what?”
“Keanu Reeves? Surfing bank robbers? Come on, it’s only the best movie of all time.
” He stares at me. “Okay, we are absolutely watching it when your head is better. It’s a classic, and I found you on the beach, so the name is practically destiny.
” I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. When did I last smile this hard? I can’t remember. “Johnny. For now.”
He rolls his eyes, but the fight against his smile is a losing battle. “Johnny Utah.” He tests it. Shrugs. “Alright. Johnny it is. Until the real thing comes back.”
Something warm and reckless blooms in my chest. My family doesn’t take my suggestions.
Not about names, not about dinner, not about my own future.
A stranger with no memory just accepted the first thing I offered, and the smallness of that, the simplicity, makes me ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
He stands and heads to the sink, rolling up his sleeves before I can tell him to sit back down. He turns on the water and picks up the sponge like he’s done this a thousand times.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’ve been resting all day. I’ll lose my mind if I rest any more.”
So we fall into it. He washes, I dry. Standing side by side at the sink feels so absurdly normal that I almost forget who I am. Two people in a kitchen after dinner. Water running. The clink of dishes. I’ve never done this before. Not once. Not with anyone.
The thought blooms warm and then turns sharp, because I know this is temporary. All of it. He’ll remember who he is and leave. My father will call me home. This quiet kitchen will go back to being a holding cell for one.
He hands me the last glass and it slips, still wet, through my fingers. His hand closes over mine before it drops, catching the glass and holding it there. Holding me there. That’s all it is. His hand on my hand.
But the heat that rolls through my body is so sudden, so sharp, that I forget how to form words. His eyes meet mine, dark and searching, and the kitchen shrinks to the size of his gaze. I’m not breathing. And for one dangerous, stupid second, all I can think is: I want.
Buzz. Buzz.
My phone vibrates against the countertop and I jerk backward, nearly dropping the glass again. He catches it with reflexes that are way too fast for a man with a concussion, but I’m already stepping away, pulling my hand back, not meeting his eyes.
“Sorry. I should get that.”
I grab the phone and retreat to my bedroom, closing the door behind me and pressing my back against it.
My fingers are still tingling. My face is hot.
And I’m furious with myself for letting that happen, for leaning into a moment that can’t go anywhere, because I am not free and he is not mine and nothing about this situation ends well for either of us.
I swipe the screen.
The name at the top turns my hands to ice.
Nikolai: I’ll be in the area in a couple weeks. Business in Miami. I’m stopping by after.
My shoulders draw up toward my ears before I can stop them. An old reflex, from years of bracing for whatever my brother throws next. I force them back down and type back.
Me: I’m fine here, Nik. You don’t need to come.
Nikolai: Dad wants eyes on you. Not a discussion.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed.
My fingers won’t stay still. The Bratva is at war with the Andrettis right now, an ugly, escalating fight for control of Vegas.
My father, the Pakhan, needs an edge, and the Colombians are it.
Luis Restrepo’s family has everything the Bratva currently doesn’t: more soldiers, expanded drug pipelines, laundering infrastructure across half a continent.
My marriage to Luis seals that alliance.
That’s why I’m here. That’s why Nikolai is coming to check on me like I’m cargo in transit. Because if anything happens to me before the deal closes, the whole thing falls apart.
Me: I’ve been here for two months doing exactly what he asked. What more does he want?
Nikolai: He wants to know you’re not going to make this difficult. This marriage is happening, Natalia. Be ready when he calls.
My thumbs hover. I type carefully, the way I do everything with Nikolai. Measured. Small. Don’t provoke.
Me: Got it.
Nikolai: I mean it. No attitude when I get there. I don’t have the patience.
I set the phone face-down on the mattress and curl onto my side, drawing my knees up. The tears come slow and silent. The practiced kind that don’t make noise, because noise draws attention and attention draws consequences.
My brother is coming. In two weeks, Nikolai will walk through that front door and fill this house with his particular brand of cruelty. And there is a stranger in my guest room who cannot be here when that happens.
Through the thin walls, I hear the kitchen faucet turn off. The creak of the guest room door. Then quiet, except for the ocean outside, relentless and indifferent.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and stare at the ceiling.
Two weeks.