Chapter 22 #2
“How about we start at the beginning,” I went on. “Tell me how your mother died—and how you ended up in a fucking boarding school in Spain.”
She choked a little.
That got her attention.
She set her fork down, picked up her napkin, and twisted it between her fingers.
“Why do you care about that?” she asked. “It was a long time ago. I was just a kid.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. There was no threat in my posture, just focus.
“It matters,” I said. “Because I need to know whether you’re working for your father—or if you’re just collateral damage in his political ambition.”
She shot to her feet so fast that the chair scraped hard against the floor.
Anger flared across her face. She grabbed her plate and stalked to the sink.
“I need honesty,” I said, rising to follow her. “If you want my help, you need to lay your cards on the table.”
She snorted. “Help?”
I set my plate on top of hers in the sink and turned on the water.
She turned toward me, arms crossing tight over her chest.
“I was fourteen,” she said. “Fourteen years old when my mother was killed.” The words came out bitter.
“A week after her funeral, he shipped me off to Colegio Sagrado Corazón de Madrid. A Catholic boarding school just outside of Madrid. I hadn’t even processed that my mother was gone—that it had been a horrible accident—when I was abandoned.”
She chewed on her lower lip, her brows squeezed tight.
“I didn’t speak the language, and the nuns were strict authoritarians. It was a place where corporal punishment just meant you were getting closer to God. It was horrific.”
She swallowed, but didn’t stop.
“I survived. I kept my head down. I waited. And when I thought it would finally be over—when I thought I could come home—it only got worse.”
She looked at me then, her eyes blazing with fury.
“My father didn’t even come to my graduation. Instead, I was sent to Monasterio de San Juan de la Cruz. A Carmelite monastery where they swear vows of poverty, obedience, and silence.”
She blinked up at me.
“So no,” she finished. “I’m not working with my father. I don’t even know who he is anymore.”
The truth was written all over her—she wasn’t lying.
Guilt sat heavy in my chest, pushing her for more information, but I didn’t let it stop me. I couldn’t afford to. Not with what was coming. Not with the monsters we were hunting.
“I had to ask,” I said. “Because if there’s even a chance you’re connected to your father’s business dealings—”
“I’m not,” she snapped. “I never have been.”
I held her gaze and nodded.
And that meant one thing with brutal clarity: whatever Andrew Hayes was involved in, his daughter wasn’t a participant. She was a casualty.
I lifted my hand before I could overthink it and cupped her cheek, my thumb brushing lightly along her skin.
“So,” I said quietly, “it’s obvious—by the way you speak and by how you performed at The Ledger—that you’re not a nun. Not anymore.” I held her gaze. “Why are you faking it? What are you actually doing in Spain?”
Her face pinched, as if the words were tangled somewhere she couldn’t quite reach.
“It’s…complicated,” she said. “But you’re right. I left the convent. And the only job I could get was at an underground…club.”
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw.
Christ. This just got a hell of a lot more complicated.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. “I didn’t want to work there. I wanted to come home. I tried, but my father ignored my calls.”
She hugged her arms closer, gaze flicking away.
“I ran from the monastery with nothing but the clothes on my back, my passport, and a stack of documents I grabbed when I snuck my passport from the priest’s office. I had no money, no phone, nothing. I didn’t have immigration papers or the legal right to work or live in Spain.”
She shook her head. “There was nowhere to turn, except for a charity handing out food. And that club.”
She swallowed.
“That’s why I was with Sofia last night. She promised to help me escape from my father. To keep him from shipping me back.”
Her gaze dropped. “I don’t know how he doesn’t know I left the convent. Maybe they lie to him so he’ll keep sending his monthly donations.”
She exhaled slowly. “A few weeks ago, when he finally took my call and offered to bring me home for a Christmas event at St. Patrick’s, I played along. I never said anything about the monastery. And neither did he.”
I could hear the fear in her trembling voice, but I sensed there was more to her story—something about what happened after she left the monastery. Delgado’s operations used fronts. Used desperate girls. I didn’t like coincidences, and I liked this one even less.
Still—she was shaking.
“Scar,” I said, softening my tone, “I’m sorry. I can see how hard this is. It’s just that when I started digging into your past, there were pieces missing. Things that didn’t add up.”
She looked at me warily.
“And watching you with your father at his events since you’ve been back in the city,” I tried not to sound accusatory, because I really wanted her honesty.
“You weren’t only devout but also appeared close to your father.
A powerful symbol for his campaign. There was nothing to suggest you weren’t exactly what you presented yourself as, a nun. ”
I exhaled slowly. “Let’s just say your night out shocked more than just your father.”
Her eyes blinked back angry tears. She knocked my hand away.
“I’m really good at faking it,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I noticed.”
She stiffened.
“Your performance at The Ledger,” I went on, unwilling to let up. “You couldn’t stand those men touching you. I caught the moment you went from annoyed to plastering on a smile. Not to mention your fake orgasm.”
She gasped.
“You caught that?”
“Why do you think I was so furious?” I shot back.
“It’s why I stepped out of the shadows and blew my cover.
Watching you let those people touch you—to use your body for their pleasure, their performance—when it made you cringe?
When I could see how much you hated it?” My jaw tightened. “It pissed me the hell off.”
She shook her head, clearly rattled.
“Why do you care?” she asked. “I’m just a job to you.”
She grabbed a plate and turned toward the dishwasher. “Just leave me alone. Ship me off. Do whatever it is you were planning.”
I caught her by the shoulders and turned her back around to face me.
“Scar, look at me,” I said. “I’m not trying to hurt you or rip open old wounds. But it’s not just your life on the line. The people your father uses for power in this city are bad people. They hurt the innocent. They’ll hurt you without a second thought.”
She looked up at me—then turned away again, sliding the plate into the rack.
“Yes, I know the old mafia families,” she said bitterly. “Organized crime that’s been running this city for over a century.” She glanced at me over her shoulder. “Men like you.”
I took her chin between my fingers and lifted her face.
“No,” I said firmly. “There are worse men than the old families. We may not be on the right side of the law, but we have a code—lines we don’t cross.”
Her breath caught.
“Ciro Delgado,” I continued. “He’s the MS-13 cartel leader, and one of your father’s biggest donors—the man who owns him. He’s dangerous, Scarlett, and now you’re on the wrong side of your father—the wrong side of the cartel.”
I let her go.
She stepped back and squared her shoulders. “I’ve been on the wrong side of danger for almost two years. Trust me—I understand exactly what you’re saying.”
She placed the other plate inside and slammed the dishwasher shut.
“But my problems aren’t your problems. Just let me go. I’ll take care of myself.”