7. Chapter Seven #2
A pause stretches too long. My heartbeat pounds, anticipating the worst. Then, quietly, reluctantly, he speaks.
“Mateo was in the lead truck.”
Mateo.
Nineteen years old, attitude for days. A punk kid dealing cheap coke on Calle Ocho when I first spotted him, barely sixteen and tough as nails.
Reminded me too damn much of myself at his age.
I should’ve walked away, should’ve left him to the wolves, but instead, I gave him a job and a place to belong.
And now he’s dead, lying on asphalt, used as someone’s fucking message.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough his mother won’t recognize him,” Javi bites out, barely restrained fury making his voice shake. “Torres carved him up. Hands, face…made him his fucking billboard.”
Cold fury sears through me, blistering beneath my skin. I squeeze the phone so tight my knuckles burn white-hot. Mateo’s face flashes through my mind, the cocky grin, the endless bravado masking a desperate need to belong.
Torres touched mine.
A kid who trusted me. Who died because I let him into my world, let him believe he was safe, that he belonged somewhere. His blood’s on my hands now.
“Torres.” The name tastes like poison. “You’re sure?”
“Confirmed. Bastard left his mark on Mateo’s chest. Clear as day.”
The world goes quiet around me, air thinning, every muscle coiled tight, ready to break. I think of Mateo’s mother, Ana. Small, proud, with tired eyes from working double shifts to raise a kid alone. I’d promised her he was safe with me, that I’d take care of him.
Now I have to deliver him back to her in pieces.
“Clean it,” I say, voice dangerously calm. “No evidence. No loose ends.”
“Already in motion,” Javi replies. “We’re scrubbing warehouses, rerouting shipments. It’ll be spotless by sunrise.”
“Good. Mateo’s family…I’ll handle them myself.”
A beat of silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. “You sure about that, Kane?”
“He was mine. My responsibility.”
Javi sighs, resigned. “We both know Torres won’t stop here. He drew blood, he wants to see if we’ll bite back.”
“Oh, we’ll bite back,” I say, low and lethal, eyes fixed on the city skyline beyond my windows. “He wants blood, I’ll drown him in it.”
Javi’s tone steadies, comforted by violence, reassured by vengeance. “Jet’s waiting at Teterboro. When do we move?”
I’m already walking, grabbing a fresh shirt from my closet, slipping the Glock into my waistband. “Four hours. Have everything set.”
“Copy.”
I end the call, the phone a dead weight in my hand. The silence in the penthouse feels suffocating now, but as I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, all I can see is Camille.
The haunted, shattered look in her eyes at Haven House. The way her voice broke as she spoke of the past she’d tried so desperately to bury, the wounds hidden behind polished smiles and expensive dresses.
I shouldn’t be thinking of her now. Shouldn’t even care, not when Miami’s about to burn and Mateo’s blood demands revenge. But I do.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling a sharp, angry breath.
I’m torn in half, pulled between the bloody revenge I owe Mateo and the brutal vengeance Camille deserves but won’t seek for herself. Two worlds colliding, leaving me standing alone in the wreckage.
I grab the keys, step outside, and head toward the elevator. Every step feels heavier, harder, dragging me toward a war that demands blood, while leaving behind the one woman whose silent suffering echoes louder than my rage.
Mateo’s death needs answering, swiftly and mercilessly.
But Camille?
I’ll find answers for her, too, no matter how deep I have to cut.
Camille
The room is dark when I finally leave Haven House, just a dim porch lamp illuminating the cracked pavement outside.
Ava fell asleep exhausted, her tiny body curled up on that beanbag as if she’d finally found a safe place to rest. Marcy promised to watch over her, the gratitude in her eyes enough to make my throat close up again.
But my work isn’t done. Ava is just one of dozens, girls who’ve been let down, discarded, or forgotten. Girls, I promised myself I’d protect.
The Sinclair Foundation was built for them, but somehow I’d allowed the true purpose to slip away, overshadowed by fundraisers, galas, and appearances. Out of sight, out of mind.
No more.
Tonight, beneath the heartbreak and anger, a fire ignites inside me, a determination raw and bright and razor-sharp.
I’m done standing quietly in the shadow of a life built by other people’s expectations.
I’m done letting men like Kane or my father dictate what matters, who matters.
Because tonight reminded me exactly why I’m here.
I pull out my phone, thumb hovering briefly over my banking app.
Kane might’ve seized control of the foundation’s finances, but he can’t control me.
I tap the screen, and seconds later, a transfer notification confirms my personal funds moving swiftly into a new emergency account, one entirely mine.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll start looking for a safer house, a place these girls can truly call home.
No more overcrowded rooms, peeling wallpaper, or broken faucets.
No more girls like Ava falling through cracks I’d allowed to widen.
The night air is biting, sharp against my skin as I step toward my car, keys clenched in my fist like a lifeline.
My breath clouds in front of me, every exhale fierce, hot with resolve.
When I reach my car, I pause, pressing my palms to the icy metal roof, head bowed, eyes shut tight. The frigid air stings my skin, cuts into my bones, but for a brief second, it clears my mind. Focuses me.
I let tonight’s conversation with Ava replay in my head, a steady loop that wounds as much as it heals.
I’d buried my pain for so long I’d convinced myself it wasn’t there anymore.
But seeing Ava, trembling and raw, reminded me how deeply those scars still run.
She gave me something tonight, a reminder of the girl I used to be.
The girl who survived, even when no one was watching.
I owe it to her, to that lost version of myself, to fight harder, to make sure the Ava’s of this world aren’t invisible, aren’t alone.
My phone buzzes sharply against my thigh, startling me back into the present. I pull it out quickly, heart leaping irrationally, but it’s just Lena.
Hey bitch, you alive? Haven’t seen you in days.
A faint smile touches my lips. Lena, blunt and fiercely loyal, is exactly who I need right now. But tonight… tonight the exhaustion runs deeper than I thought. Tonight, I just need silence.
Still breathing. Barely. Long story. Drinks tomorrow?
Her reply is instant.
Say less. Tomorrow it is. Bring your drama.
I let out a quiet, shaky laugh, relief chasing the tension in my chest. Lena’s chaos is always better than my quiet suffering.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I start the engine and crank the heat until warmth chases the chill from my fingers. The city rolls by in a blur of streetlights and distant laughter, lives moving forward even when mine feels frozen in place.
When I pull into the driveway, the house is dark, my parents likely asleep, Clara curled safely in bed, dreaming of wedding plans and perfect futures. I climb the stairs slowly, quietly, not wanting to disturb their oblivious peace.
In my room, I kick off my shoes and peel away my coat, exhaustion sinking into my muscles. My phone lights again, Lena sending one last text:
PS: Your fiancé-to-be was at the Ashby's tonight. Nathan said he’s dropping hints about proposing soon. Brace yourself, babe.
My pulse quickens, stomach twisting painfully. Preston. A proposal. The future I’d convinced myself was mine.
It all feels empty now. Hollow.
Because when I close my eyes, I don’t see Preston. I see Ava’s wide, haunted eyes staring back at me, mirroring the truth I’ve been running from: I’m still that scared girl trapped underwater, fighting for air. I still need saving, but maybe now, I’m finally learning to save myself.
I turn off the lights and slip beneath the covers, body heavy with a fatigue deeper than sleep can reach.
Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, I reclaim control.
For Ava. For myself.
For every girl the world has forgotten.
***
I don’t go to lunch with Lena.
Not because I don’t need her, I do, desperately, but because right now, I need myself more. Seeing Ava cracked something open inside me, something raw and painfully real that I’ve spent years burying beneath pearls, diamonds, designer clothes, and carefully prepared statements.
So, I cancel everything.
Lunch dates, emails, calls, obligations, appearances.
All of it.
I don’t even give an excuse. For once, I don’t pretend.
Instead, I return to Haven House.
I don’t tell anyone where I’m going, not Lena, not my parents, not Preston, and definitely not Kane. I simply vanish into quiet purpose.
I spend two days there, rolling up my sleeves and working alongside Marcy and the volunteers. I pour every ounce of my focus and savings into transforming the crumbling building into a place these girls can truly call home. My money, my choices, no strings attached.
We tear out old carpeting, replace it with soft rugs and sturdy flooring.
I paint walls myself, brushing fresh white primer over dark, stubborn stains until my shoulders ache and my vision blurs.
Beds are delivered, with warm quilts that feel like promises when I spread them out, smoothing every wrinkle away.
Closets are stocked with clothes that are brand-new, not castoffs, not charity leftovers, but carefully chosen outfits that feel personal, hopeful.