Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
NINE YEARS AGO
“Tell me that line doesn’t look off,” Mateo muttered, pointing at the screen. “Right there. That transfer loop.”
Lucía leaned closer, squinting. “It’s a recursive shell.”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“It’s not an error. It’s a masking sequence.”
“Yeah. But why would a customs brokerage in Veracruz need that much masking?”
Lucía didn’t answer. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then withdrew.
Mateo sat back and folded his arms. “I don’t like it.”
“Then don’t poke at it.”
“Seriously?”
Lucía finally met his eyes. “You want to stay employed?”
“I want to know what the hell we’re actually working on.”
“This isn’t new, Mateo. Every intern here knows the game. We tidy the fronts. We make things pretty on paper.”
“Pretty’s not the word I’d use for this.”
Lucía looked away.
He softened his tone. “I know you see it, too.”
“It’s none of our business,” she said quietly. “We have contracts.”
Mateo leaned in. “You think contracts matter to people like Esquivel?”
That caught her attention.
He tilted his head. “You really think he doesn’t know what we’ve seen in those logs? The redundancies? The offshore payouts? Come on. It’s a washing machine. Just a fancy one.”
Lucía’s silence said enough.
Mateo reached out and gently closed the laptop. “You’re scared.”
“I’m cautious.”
“No,” he said. “You’re smart. There’s a difference.”
She stood, pacing toward the windows. Below them, the city glittered like a mirage.
Somewhere out there was the version of her that hadn’t taken this job.
She wondered what she would have been doing.
Maybe she was out on a date with a hot guy, which was something this version of her hadn’t done in forever.
Mateo’s voice was quiet behind her. “He watches you, you know. Esquivel.”
Lucía turned slowly.
“Everyone sees it,” he went on. “You think it’s subtle, but it’s not. He looks at you like you belong to him.”
Her face didn’t change, but something in her shoulders tightened.
“He’s never touched me,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean he hasn’t made a claim.”
She didn’t respond. Only crossed her arms, holding herself in the silence.
Mateo stood now too, closing the distance between them, but not invading it.
“Lucía,” he said softly. “I know it’s not my place. But if you ever need out, if something happens, I want you to know I’d help you.”
She met his eyes.
The affection there was quiet, steady. Not obsessive. Not possessive. Just…real.
And she wanted to believe in it. She wanted to believe in someone. So she stepped closer, close enough to smell the cologne on his collar, faint and clean. For one moment, it felt like she might reach for him. Let herself fall toward the safer gravity.
But then, down the hall, the elevator chimed.
She tensed. A long pause followed. No footsteps. Mateo looked toward the corridor. When he turned back, Lucía was already gathering her things.
He didn’t press. He just watched her go.