7. Chapter Seven #3
By midnight of the second day, the rec room glows softly, lit by lamps that cast gentle shadows rather than harsh fluorescence.
There’s laughter here now, whispers and careful smiles instead of tense silence.
I don’t announce my presence, don’t stand in front of cameras or pose for a press release.
I simply place a check on Marcy’s desk, enough to cover eight months of operating costs, then quietly slip out into the rain.
The downpour hits hard, soaking through my coat within seconds, but I don’t run for cover. I walk slowly, deliberately, letting the icy water wash away some of the numbness.
Tonight, everything feels closer. Louder. More honest.
Memories surface with every step, the past clawing free from the dark place I’d hidden it. The night on the yacht, the cold water, the silence underwater, it floods back so vividly that I have to stop, gasping, bracing myself against a lamppost as if I might drown again, right here on the street.
I close my eyes, the rain blending with hot tears I refuse to acknowledge.
What hurts most isn’t even the trauma itself, it’s the silence after. It’s my mother’s indifferent gaze, smoothing down my hair, shushing me like a misbehaving child. It’s my father’s voice, impatient and dismissive six months later, when he finally bothered to look at me again:
“You’re still letting that affect you?”
As if trauma was a choice. As if survival was something to be ashamed of.
I was ten years old, and that was the first time I understood that surviving wasn’t bravery, it was just expected.
Now, at twenty-four, I’m still surviving. Still smiling on cue. Still chasing approval and hoping for acceptance from people incapable of offering either.
I pull out my phone, my fingers slippery, hovering over Lena’s contact, but even Lena doesn’t know this part of me. I press the phone against my chest, cold and shivering, hating the ache of loneliness inside.
I summon the car, finally, and ride home in heavy silence, drenched, freezing, and utterly spent. When I slip beneath my covers, my damp hair soaking into the pillow, I stare blankly at the ceiling.
I let myself, for one painful, unguarded moment, imagine what it might feel like to let someone see me like this. Vulnerable. Raw. Imperfect.
Even if that someone is the worst possible choice.
Especially if that someone is Kane Rivera.
Kane
Little Havana, Miami
Ana’s apartment door is faded, peeling blue paint. My knuckles rap softly, respectful, knowing exactly what waits behind the wood.
It swings open slowly. Ana’s face brightens, then darkens, confusion bleeding swiftly into dread.
“Mr. Rivera?”
“Ana.” My voice is quiet, controlled. “We need to talk.”
Her eyes widen, sharp with sudden terror, instinct taking over. “Mateo?”
“I’m sorry.”
She stumbles backward, crumbling into herself, fingers clutching a dish towel stained with bleach. Her mouth opens, closes, gasping breaths choking on denial.
“No…no, please…”
“He’s gone,” I say flatly, the words tasting bitter, metallic. “He died on my watch. My fault.”
Ana shakes her head, grief twisting into rage. She hurls the towel down, anger slicing across her tear-streaked face. “You promised! Promised me you’d keep him safe!”
“I lied.” I don’t blink. Don’t look away. “But the men responsible…they’ll pay.”
Her voice is hoarse, broken. “Make them suffer.”
I nod once, promise sealed in blood. “I will.”
Outside, Joaquin waits silently, eyes cold, ready. I climb into the SUV, darkness heavy in my chest, hand steady as I dial Javi.
“Torres. Find him. Alive.”
Javi’s voice is low, ruthless. “He’s already being tracked.”
“Good. I’m coming.”
***
The warehouse reeks of death and diesel. Men shuffle in the shadows, oblivious to their end stalking closer.
Joaquin moves like a ghost beside me, eyes sharp, gun steady. No hesitation. No mercy.
Two guards drop before they even know death has arrived, bullets whisper-quiet, bodies collapsing silently to concrete.
I stride forward, blood pounding a brutal tempo, methodical violence thrumming beneath my skin. More men fall, shots precise. Clean. Each step toward Torres is calm, relentless, inevitable.
He sits behind a table, false arrogance masking raw fear. Panic flickers in his eyes when they find mine.
“Kane…”
My fist crushes into his jaw, splitting skin and bone. Blood sprays, teeth clattering across the floor.
“You touched my men.” My voice is steel, ice.
He wheezes, choking blood. “Wasn’t personal…”
I grip his throat, squeeze, watching veins bulge, his eyes widen in terror.
“Wrong.” I press the gun against his cheekbone, metal biting flesh. “You made it personal.”
His eyes plead, beg silently, broken by realization.
I pull the trigger once. Twice. Painful, not fatal.
His screams tear through the warehouse, echoing my message loud and clear. I lean close, voice gentle, a lover’s caress.
“You disfigured my boy. I’ll erase your entire existence.”
Blood pools beneath him, his body twitching. His breath rattles, gasping.
I turn away slowly, leaving him writhing. “Finish it,” I tell Javi, voice cold, empty.
Behind me, the single gunshot echoes like a final heartbeat.
Mateo’s death demanded blood.
Torres’ was only the beginning.
***
Blood is a language. And I speak it fluently.
Every scar across my body is a sentence. Every corpse I leave behind is punctuation, final, absolute, irrefutable. Power isn’t spoken in this world. It’s carved. It’s buried. It’s earned through bodies that no longer breathe and names that no one dares say aloud.
And tonight?
Torres is just another period in a paragraph that ends with my fucking name.
The silence that follows his execution doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like pressure. Tight. Searing. My blood hums, teeth grit, fists twitching at my sides, because I’m still not satisfied.
His death didn’t fix it.
Didn’t fix Mateo.
Didn’t fix her.
I stare down at the ruin we’ve made. Torres and his crew laid out like animals in a slaughterhouse. Bullet holes clean. Controlled. Each shot placed exactly where I wanted it, between the eyes, beneath the chin, straight through the throat. A lesson written in lead.
Javi wipes down his Glock without looking at me.
“Next?” he asks.
That’s the thing about him. He doesn’t need context. Doesn’t need motive. He just knows when the beast inside me still hasn’t fed enough.
“Ramos,” I say, voice low, the name heavy in my mouth. “He gave Torres the drop.”
Javi doesn’t blink. Just nods, already reaching for his phone.
Outside, dawn starts to crawl over the city. Pathetic light. Weak. Like it knows it doesn’t belong here. Miami’s not for sunrises, it’s for shadows. Heat. Blood thickening in alleys before the world wakes up.
I light a cigarette I won’t finish, the smoke dragging through my lungs like penance. Mateo’s face flashes behind my eyes. Too young. Too cocky. Too loyal. And now?
Ash and bone.
Because of Ramos.
And because I was too distracted.
Because while Mateo bled out on the pavement, I was in New York watching Camille unravel at the seams, eyes glassy, voice shaking, speaking truth she didn’t know I could hear.
She said he touched her.
And now I’m here. Hunting ghosts in heat and concrete. Trying to make things right when nothing ever will be.
***
Ramos is already waiting when I walk in.
They always are.
Wrist-bound, duct tape around the ankles, eyes wide and wet. He’s sweating like a man who knows what’s coming but is praying for a different ending.
Bad news, pendejo.
You don’t get prayers. You get me.
“Kane,” he rasps, jerking desperately against the restraints.
“Shut up.” My voice is soft, casual. It makes him freeze, every muscle locked with dread.
I circle him slowly, feeling his pulse spike with every deliberate step. This part, the anticipation, is always sweetest.
“You sold me out,” I say quietly. “Gave Torres everything…my shipments, Mateo.”
“No…” Ramos shakes his head frantically, pleading. “I swear, it wasn’t personal…”
I lean in, my face inches from his, my voice barely above a whisper. “Betrayal’s always personal.”
He starts babbling, bullshit spilling from his lips. “Please, Kane…”
I hit him once, sharp and precise. His teeth slice open my knuckles, blood splatters across the floor. The crack of his skull against concrete makes a satisfying sound.
He screams. Beautiful, agonized.
Javi calmly lifts Ramos’s chair upright again, positioning him for more. The traitor’s breathing comes ragged, panicked. Blood runs thick from his broken mouth, mixing with his tears.
“You killed Mateo,” I say flatly. “Nineteen. You carved a message into him. A message for me.”
“Torres…Torres forced me,” he sobs desperately, pleading eyes locked on mine. “I swear, please…”
“Torres is dead,” I cut him off calmly. “But don’t worry. You’ll see him soon enough.”
Ramos shakes his head violently. “Please, just end it…”
I smile slowly, coldly. “Death is mercy. You’re not getting mercy tonight.”
Javi pulls out his blade, steel catching dim light, sharp edge gleaming. Ramos sees it, chokes on a scream. The first cut comes smoothly, perfectly calculated.
Ramos’s agony echoes off the concrete walls, a high-pitched wail filling the space. Exactly the sound I need.
“Make sure he feels every second,” I tell Javi, voice cold, lethal. “Then send what’s left to Torres’s people as a fucking postcard.”
“Done.”
I step outside into the sticky Miami air, the traitor’s screams still ringing faintly behind me.
I should feel something.
Satisfaction, closure. Anything.
Instead, there’s just a gaping emptiness, and in that emptiness sits Camille, the whisper of her voice raw in my memory.
Her pain is the one I can’t erase.
Mateo is avenged, but she’s still waiting.
And every breath between now and the moment I see her again is too fucking long.