Chapter 46
To my sweet Vera,
It’s been thirty-two days since I last saw you.
Since I last touched your hand, smelled the gunpowder on your skin, heard that voice—rough and low, always in control. I used to think I could still hear it sometimes in the night, like a memory clinging to my ribs.
Now, even the echo is fading.
We moved back to Emilia’s place yesterday. I didn’t fight it anymore. I didn’t have the energy to protest when Valeria packed a bag for me and said, “You need space that doesn’t bleed.”
I still wear your jacket. It smells more like me now. That makes me sick some days.
Emilia’s home is quiet. Too soft. Too clean. It makes the violence in my blood itch. But I stay, because I don’t know where else to go.
Valeria hovers. She always does. She pretends not to, but I see the way she watches me when she thinks I’m not looking. Like I’m a bomb she’s waiting to either defuse or explode with.
Emilia doesn’t say much either. She just… exists near me. Present. Safe.
And I’m trying, I swear I am.
I go outside.
I eat, sometimes.
I shower every day.
But it still feels like walking through wet concrete.
The worst part is the world didn’t stop. People still laugh. Still kiss. Still live like nothing’s missing.
But I feel like I’m walking around with a hole in my chest no one else can see.
This morning, the kitchen was warm. The light through the windows was soft, golden. The kind of light you might’ve liked, the kind that used to land on your lashes when you sat too close to a window. But none of it touched me.
I was just sitting there, hands wrapped around a mug of cold coffee, staring at nothing. Everything in me was still.
Lucia walked in and paused when she saw me. She didn’t speak at first, just moved with the quiet grace she always had—like she knew how fragile the silence had become.
“You’re up,” she said eventually. Her voice was soft. Kind.
I nodded.
“Do you want something to eat?” she asked. “I made bread this morning. With cheese. You like that one.”
“No, thank you.”
She looked at me like she was seeing someone she didn’t quite recognize. “You used to make some terrible joke about cheese and lactose intolerance every time I offered.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’m not used to this quiet version of you, mi amor.”
Still nothing.
She didn’t push. She sat with me. Just sat. And maybe that’s what saved me from falling apart right then.
Then Dani walked in—loud and bright, like the version of me I barely remember being. She gasped when she saw me, crossed the kitchen in three strides, and hugged me like she meant it.
I let her.
She told me I looked like shit.
I almost smiled.
She said she had a meltdown over Emilia last week. The kind of drama I used to tease her for. I think she said it to remind me I used to tease her at all.
And then I told her something honest.
“I get it now.”
Loving someone who doesn’t come back. Not really. Not fully.
I sat with that truth, watched it ripple in her face, and I realized it didn’t matter how different our stories were.
Pain makes everything feel the same.
A few minutes later, Valeria and Emilia came in.
Emilia didn’t mourn you, not really. She didn’t know you. But she mourned the way you left us. She mourned what you meant to Valeria. What you meant to me.
Valeria… she carries your name like a bruise under her ribs. She tries to be strong, but I see it. I see the crack.
She watches me like I’ll fall apart.
And maybe she’s not wrong.
We argued. Of course we did. She told me not to throw away what you gave your life for. I told her not to put that on me. Emilia broke us apart before it got worse.
She’s good at that. Knowing when something’s about to break.
I walked into Emilia’s studio wearing your jacket. Too much leather for a place with soft lights and pretty models, you’d say.
I wore it anyway.
Lucia hugged me at the door. She didn’t say anything except: “Just breathe. That’s enough.”
I started sorting portfolios, tagging models for the Milan campaign. I crossed out the polished ones. I set aside the ones who looked like they’d survived a few fights. Ones with scars.
Ones you might’ve liked.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile either.
I just sat there, flipping through perfect faces, while all I could think about was yours.
Your smirk. Your bite. Your hands.
I don’t know what this is, Vera. Survival, maybe. Pretending, definitely. But if you’re out there—somehow, in some impossible twist of fate—I need you to know one thing.
I’m still yours.
Even in this silence.
Even in this grief.
I’m still yours.
And if there’s even a chance that you’re still mine…
Come back to me.
To my love,
I thought being around cameras again might help, might anchor me in the person I used to be. But mostly, it just feels like I’m wearing her face. Like I’m walking around in a version of myself that doesn’t quite zip up right anymore.
Emilia didn’t say much. Just handed me a clipboard and told me to sort through some portfolios. “Don’t roll your eyes at me if they’re all painfully gorgeous,” she said.
I almost laughed.
I didn’t, though.
I sat in the back room with stacks of headshots and red markers, pretending to be useful. Every now and then someone would pass by and ask where the feisty assistant went. I guess I used to have a reputation for being sharp. Loud. Sarcastic.
Now, I mostly just nod.
Sometimes I think about what you’d say if you saw me like this.
You’d probably make a joke. Something sharp and cruel on the surface but tender underneath. You had a way of doing that—cutting through the noise without really showing the wound. I admired that about you.
Still do.
You’d probably tease me for being around models all day again. For sitting at a desk, flipping through photos of people who’ve never had to bleed for anything. You’d roll your eyes and call them soft.
I’d argue back, of course. Tell you not everyone needs to be carved out of danger to be worth something.
And you’d smirk. And I’d shove your shoulder. And you’d pull me in by the collar and kiss me stupid until I forgot what we were arguing about.
God, I miss that.
I miss you.
You’d hate this place. Too bright. Too staged. Too many ring lights.
I keep thinking I’ll turn a corner and find you there anyway, arms crossed, pretending you’re unimpressed while watching me work.
But you’re not here.
You’re not anywhere.
And I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I am.
Last night, I dreamed about you.
Not one of those violent dreams where everything ends in blood and fire. No, it was quieter than that. Softer.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot, lacing your boots like you always did—slow and deliberate, like the world would wait until you were ready.
I watched you from the pillow, my cheek still warm where your hand had been, your scent still on my skin.
And for one stupid, perfect second, I forgot that none of it was real.
I remembered that night, Vera.
The first one.
Not the first time you kissed me, not the first time you saved me—but the first time you let me in. The night you let me undress you slowly, like peeling back layers of armor, each button a test you didn’t think I’d pass.
You let me touch you like you weren’t made of blade and fire.
You let me see you.
I remember how your body tensed under mine, how your breath hitched when I whispered something stupid in your ear. How your hands shook, just a little, when they slid under my shirt. You tried to hide it, but I felt it.
I felt you.
I remember how you didn’t kiss me hard that night. You kissed me slow. Like you had all the time in the world. Like you were afraid you might break me if you moved too fast.
And then I remember the way your voice broke when you whispered my name.
You were always in control—always composed, sharp, untouchable. But that night, you let me touch the part of you no one else had. The part that wasn’t a leader. Or a weapon. Or Valeria’s shadow.
You were just mine.
And I think that’s the part of you I miss the most.
Not the danger. Not the chaos.
Just that.
You. In the dark. Breathing against my neck. Fingers tracing the curve of my spine like you were learning something sacred.
You fell asleep with your hand in my hair.
I didn’t sleep at all.
I was too afraid to wake up and find you gone.
Now look at me.
Still afraid to wake up.
Still finding you gone.
Yours always,
Pastelito.
Vera’s POV
It wasn’t fire that pulled me from the car.
It was hands—rough, urgent, unwelcome.
A week ago, maybe more, they dragged me out of the wreck before the flames touched the metal. I don’t know how they knew where Gabriel was taking me. Maybe they’d been waiting. Watching. Tracking every move we made.
Gabriel fought. Of course he did. I heard it—gunfire, shouting, the sound of a body hitting the dirt. Then silence.
I didn’t see him fall.
But I heard the one thing that mattered.
“Kill him. Leave the girl.”
And then they pushed the car off the cliff anyway.
Let the world think I burned with it.
Now I wish I had.
They patched me up in the filthiest way possible—crude stitches, no antiseptic, a bandage so tight I think it fused with my skin.
Infection set in fast. The fever came next.
I must’ve blacked out for a day or two. Maybe more.
When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat, shaking, lips cracked from dehydration.
I tried to sit up once. Collapsed. My head spun so violently I thought I’d vomit. The room is small, windowless, lit by a single yellow bulb that never turns off. I don't know where I am.
I can barely breathe without feeling like I’m drowning in heat and rot and blood.
They haven’t fed me today. Maybe that’s punishment. Or a test. Or maybe they don’t care if I survive the week.
But they haven’t killed me.
That tells me something.
They want something.
The door creaks open.
I don’t lift my head. I don’t need to.
I know that voice.
“Well, look who’s still alive.”
Antonio.
He steps in slowly, like he owns the place. Like he’s always owned me.
I don’t say anything. My throat is raw. My tongue feels like sandpaper.
He crouches in front of me, just out of reach, like he still half-expects I might lunge at him. Smart of him.
“You’re going to help me, Vera,” he says. “You know things. Supply lines. Names. Where the money moves. Leo’s dead. Dominic’s dead. Their men are scattered. I just need one good push, and everything they built will be mine.”
I breathe through my nose. My whole body burns.
“I won’t help you with shit,” I croak.
He tilts his head, mock-patient. “You will. Because you’re smart. And because you know survival when you see it.”
I meet his eyes, slow and steady.
“I want proof,” I rasp. “I want to know if Claire’s okay. If Valeria made it. You give me that, maybe I’ll think about it.”
He stares at me for a long second.
Then he stands.
And slaps me across the face.
Hard.
My head snaps to the side. The room spins. Blood drips from my lip. I grit my teeth, tasting copper.
“You don’t get to ask for anything,” he says calmly. “You’re not a queen anymore, Vera. You’re a ghost. And from now on, you belong to me.”
He walks out without another word.
The door slams shut.
I lean my head back against the wall, chest heaving. My cheek stings. My body throbs. But the rage—it’s alive. Breathing. Crawling up my spine like fire.
You can’t kill a storm like me.
And I will see him choke on everything he thinks he owns.
Starting with me.