CHAPTER 11 – Rafe
The halls of Diego’s estate are the same as ever.
Luxury built on blood.
Marble floors gleam under chandelier lights, the sheer opulence designed to distract from the violence that built this kingdom.
Men in perfectly tailored suits line the walls, armed, quiet, watching.
They don’t look at me.
Not directly.
Because they know better.
I step into the main hall, where Diego is lounging like he owns the fucking world.
Feet propped up, a cigar balanced between two fingers, a lazy smirk curving his lips.
"You’re late," he says.
I shrug, sinking into a chair across from him. "Didn’t realize we were on a schedule."
His laughter is low, sharp.
"For you?" He takes a slow drag of his cigar, exhales smoke through his nose. "Always."
I force a smirk. Business as usual.
But something feels off.
I don’t know why.
Not yet.
Diego taps the ash of his cigar into a crystal tray, the movement slow, deliberate.
"You know, Rafael," he muses, "I was going to start this night off with business. But—"
His smirk deepens.
"I got… distracted."
I don’t react.
Don’t take the bait.
I just watch him.
Waiting.
The air shifts. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But I feel it.
A cold sliver of something sharp, creeping beneath my skin.
I’ve known Diego long enough to recognize when he’s toying with something fragile—something he intends to break.
I lean back in my chair, feigning disinterest. But inside, my pulse kicks up.
He’s playing a game.
And I don’t like where it’s going.
His fingers drum against his armrest.
"Beautiful thing, really," he continues. "Found her in the city. Couldn’t take my eyes off her."
I keep my expression blank. Uninterested.
But something cold curls in my gut.
Diego enjoys power. Control.
He collects things. People.
And when he wants something for himself?
It never fucking ends well.
"She put up a fight?" I ask, keeping my voice even.
His laughter is low, amused.
"Scratched one of my men up pretty good." He grins, like that’s his favorite part. "I like that in a woman—a little resistance before she breaks."
My jaw tightens.
"Want to see her?" Diego grins. "She’s quite the prize."
I nod.
Because what the fuck else can I do?
Diego leads me down the hallway, past the main rooms, down to the private holding areas.
The scent of damp concrete and stale air fills my nose.
I know this place.
I’ve stood in these halls.
I’ve watched men die in these rooms.
It should feel normal.
Routine.
But something about this feels wrong.
The further we walk, the colder the air gets.
Not physically.
But in the way that tells me something is very, very wrong.
The guards stationed along the walls keep their faces carefully blank. But there’s something in their posture—a stiffness, a forced stillness—that makes my muscles coil.
They know something.
Something I don’t.
And whatever it is, I already fucking hate it.
Maybe it’s the way Diego walks—like he’s enjoying this too much.
Maybe it’s the way the guards won’t meet my gaze, their stances just a little too stiff.
Or maybe—maybe it’s him.
My eyes flick toward him as we walk.
And that’s when I notice it.
The gloves.
Black leather, covering his hands completely.
It’s subtle. A small detail.
But something tugs at me.
Diego has never worn gloves before.
Not like this.
Not indoors, in his own estate, in his own fucking kingdom.
And yet—
Now, he does.
Something about it feels wrong.
But I don’t question it.
Because why the fuck would I?
He’s Diego.
My right hand.
The man who’s held the cartel together since I was left for dead.
And maybe things have shifted in my absence—maybe I feel like an outsider in my own fucking world now—but nothing changes between us.
Right?
Right.
We reach the last door.
He stops.
Unlocks it.
Steps aside.
And my world fucking stops.
Because there, on the floor—
Bound. Bruised. Glaring up at me like she’d rather die than let me see her like this—
Is Emilia.
Everything inside me locks up.
My vision narrows.
There is nothing in the room except her.
The blood on her temple. The cut on her lip. The way her wrists are bound behind her back, the skin raw where she must’ve fought.
But it’s her eyes that kill me.
That unbreakable fire.
That rage.
That moment—that fucking moment—where she sees me and realizes where I stand.
Realizes I’m on his side of the room.
Realizes I’m not saving her.
For a second—just a second—I forget how to breathe.
Everything tilts.
The whole fucking room narrows down to her.
To the blood at her temple. The rage and defiance in her eyes.
To the fact that she’s here.
That Diego took her.
And that he has no idea what he’s just done.
I force my face to stay blank.
Every muscle in my body screams to lunge, to rip Diego apart with my bare hands, but I lock it down.
My hands flex at my sides, itching for the gun tucked against my spine, but I can’t draw it—not yet.
One wrong move, one flicker of weakness, and this room becomes her grave.
Diego’s too smart, too fucking paranoid.
He’s watching me, waiting for the crack in my armor, and I’ll be damned if I give it to him.
He tilts his head, the cigar glowing red between his fingers as he takes a slow drag.
The smoke curls upward, thick and acrid, stinging my eyes.
“Well?” His voice is a taunt, his smirk a blade twisting in my gut. “What do you think?”
I drag my gaze off Emilia, forcing my eyes to slide past her like she’s just another piece of furniture in this hellhole.
My chest tightens as I shrug, casual, dismissive.
“Not bad.”
The words taste like ash, bitter and heavy on my tongue.
Diego’s grin widens, predatory, like a shark scenting blood.
He steps closer to her, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete, and my pulse spikes.
He doesn’t touch her, but he’s close enough that I can see the tension ripple through her shoulders.
She’s still, too still, her breathing shallow but steady, like she’s holding herself together by sheer fucking will.
I want to scream at her to look away, to stop staring at me with those eyes that cut deeper than any knife, but I can’t.
Not without tipping my hand.
He flicks his gaze back to me, testing the weight of my indifference.
“Not bad?” he echoes, mocking.
“Come on, Rafael. You’ve always had an eye for quality.”
He gestures toward her with the cigar, ash crumbling to the floor like dirty snow.
“This one’s got spirit. Took two of my men to drag her in here.”
My stomach twists, but I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms to hide the tremor in my hands.
“Sounds like a hassle,” I say, keeping my voice flat, bored.
“Hope she’s worth the trouble.”
He steps forward, crouching beside her, dragging a finger slowly down her cheek.
I almost snap his neck.
Almost.
But I don’t.
Because I can’t.
Not yet. He is still my brother.
Emilia glares at me.
Furious. Betrayed. Confused.
She’s waiting.
Waiting for me to do something.
To say something.
To prove I’m not who she thinks I am.
But all I can do—all I fucking can do—is play along.
Because if I step out of line?
Diego will gut her in front of me.
And I’m not losing her.
Not like this.
So I smirk.
Force a lazy drawl into my voice.
"She looks expensive."
Diego laughs. "Oh, she is. But don’t worry—I’m willing to share."
I nearly black out from the rage.
I almost don’t hear him.
Because my pulse is roaring in my ears, drowning everything else out.
I taste metal. Realize I’ve bitten down too hard.
I make myself breathe.
One.
Two.
Three.
I can’t kill him.
Not yet.
But if he lays one fucking hand on her, brotherhood be damned.
I push the thought down, shove my hands in my pockets to keep from snapping, and lean against the doorway.
Force out a smirk I don’t feel.
"That right?"
Diego grins. "Don’t tell me you’re not interested."
Emilia’s breathing hitches.
She’s staring at me, eyes wide, sharp, desperate.
And I can’t say anything.
Not yet.
Not until I figure out how the fuck I’m getting her out of here.
Diego stands, exhaling another drag of his cigar.
"Let’s talk business," he says, turning away. "She’ll keep."
I don’t move.
Not yet.
Not until I know Emilia won’t do something stupid.
Like fight back and get herself fucking killed.
Her gaze burns into mine.
Say something, Rafe.
Give me something.
Tell me this is a lie.
But I can’t.
Not here.
Not now.
So I do the only thing I can.
I look away.
And I walk out the door.
Already planning how many men I’m going to kill to get her back.
The second I step out of the room, I exhale.
A slow, controlled breath.
The only thing keeping me from tearing this entire fucking place apart.
I keep walking, keep my pace steady.
Diego is watching. His men are watching.
I can feel them.
Assessing. Calculating.
Waiting to see if I break.
I won’t.
Not here.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very, very fucking soon.
I know I can’t keep still. Diego cannot have her.
Diego cannot find out that we’ve been together.
More importantly, I have to reach out to Emilia as soon as possible.