Chapter 11 – Noa
It is easier to recognize that Matías is skilled at reading people, but he is not the only one with this ability.
Since the wedding, I’ve been watching, tracking the rhythm of this place.
The security rotations, the habits of the men guarding the estate.
It had been a way to acclimate myself to the goings-on of the Castillo operation, to which my loyalties now implicitly lay.
Today, however, it’s about to be my way out.
I already know my window. I just have to take it.
I pull on a hoodie I’d stolen from Matías’ closet, the fabric loose and too big on me.
It drowns my figure, hides anything that might give me away at a glance.
The scent of him clings to it, a mix of spice and faint tobacco, and I hate the way it makes my stomach flip-flop, flooded with schoolgirl butterflies.
I push it all out of my mind, putting my body into motion.
The halls are mostly empty, the morning lull settling over the house like a slow-moving fog.
I walk with purpose but not urgency, keeping my pace even.
The moment I rush, I’ll be noticed. It would be a rookie mistake to rouse suspicion while I head toward the kitchen, slipping past the loitering staff, just before I veer toward the hallway leading to the side entrance.
I hear voices. Two men, talking in low, bored tones.
I flatten myself against the wall, waiting.
Now, my pulse holds steady. My body knows, on some intrinsic level, that this is nothing I haven’t done before.
When I was a child, I used to sneak past my father’s men all the time, slipping out into the world to pretend to be free for stolen bouts of time. That skill, fortunately, never left me.
One of the guards chortles lewdly through a foul anecdote about some woman he met in town. Footsteps shuffle, fading away as they turn the corner.
Now.
I slip through the door swiftly. The supply truck is already parked, the back hatch still open as the last of the deliveries are unloaded. I don’t hesitate. I move swiftly, pressing my body into the narrow gap between crates, bundling myself small.
A few seconds later, the truck rumbles to life.
The driver doesn’t check the back. They never do.
By the time we’re moving, I’m already brushing up on my return strategy.
I’ll have an hour. Maybe two.
That’s all I need.
The café hums with quiet conversation, the clinking of cups against saucers, the occasional hiss of the espresso machine as another order is pulled.
The complex aroma of coffee is rich, familiar, swirling into my lungs and settling there like a memory I forgot I had.
It laces with the sweet hint of freshly baked pandebonos, the same ones I used to devour in the early mornings before heading to university.
This place—this life—feels unchanged. Preserved by nostalgia.
But I am not.
I dawdle just inside the doorway, my fingers picking at the sleeves covering my hands.
The midday heat is mild compared to the demons breathing down my neck.
It’s been over a week, and it already feels like a lifetime.
The estate, the walls, the ever-present watchful eyes—I was suffocating.
Now, standing here, stepping back into my old world, I feel something I didn’t expect: like an intruder.
The sight of my friend is a saving grace.
Renata sits near the window, her dark hair pinned up in a messy bun, a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head. She’s stirring her coffee lazily, her nails—painted a bold crimson—tapping against the ceramic rim. She’s not looking at the door, but I know she feels me. She always does.
I take a breath and walk toward her.
The second I’m close enough, she rises from her seat and pulls me in. Her arms are warm, grounding, and I sag into her hold as she smacks a kiss to one cheek, then the other, holding my face between her hands as she leans back to study me. “Dios mío, look at you,” she sighs, her brows pinching.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t look that bad.”
“You look like you haven’t slept in days.” Her lips purse, her thumb taps at the shadows beneath my eyes, like she can feel them beneath the dabs of concealer I’d applied. “Or eaten.”
I scoff, stepping out of her grasp as I slide into the chair across from her. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear, thanks,” I quip wryly.
Renata doesn’t laugh. Her shrewd gaze pierces me.
It isn’t often, if ever, that Renata makes me squirm.
Ours is the only relationship in my life with inherent equality.
She’s reading me now, and I can’t shake the feeling of her picking apart the small changes I hadn’t even realized I carried on my skin like scars.
There’s no outright judgment there, but it’s close enough to it to prickle.
I watch her take a thoughtful sip of her coffee. Then, finally, she asks: “How bad is it?”
It, she says with unsuccessful mercy. She means he and we both know it.
I open my mouth, ready to say what I should say. That it’s unbearable. That Matías Castillo is a monster. That I’m trapped and she was right, I should’ve risked the body bag and fled with her on my wedding day.
The words just don’t come.
How can they, when my body still deliciously aches from the mind-blowing havoc my husband had wrought on my body last night? My skin still feels flushed, tingling at the very memory—of the way he took me like I belonged to him, like I had always been his.
My hands wrap around the cup of coffee she’d ordered for me—probably knowing I wouldn’t have much time with her—the heat seeping into my fingers as I will them to stop trembling. Do I lie to her? I don’t know how to. Not to Renata.
I can’t imagine my lack of answer is much comfort to her.
Before I know it, she asks, “He hurting you?” Her voice drops instinctively.
I shake my head carefully, gaze fixed on the tabletop. “Not in the way you think.”
Her frown deepens at that, trying to catch my eye. “That’s not a real answer, chica.”
I look away, out the café’s window, out to the city beyond it. Medellín hasn’t changed. The world still moves at its own rhythm, untouched by the chaos I’ve been swallowed by. People pass by, laughing, talking, living. My heart aches with the realization that it’ll all keep going on without me.
Renata leans forward, her elbows resting on the table.
Her fingers touch my face again; she tips my chin, cajoling my eyes to her own.
The warmth from just moments ago remains, but beneath it hums some somber undercurrent.
“I didn’t come here to check on you,” she says.
“I’ve been trying to reach you. They took your phone, didn’t they? ”
It feels like the other shoe dropping.
My heart seems to still in my chest. I stiffen. “They’re getting me a burner,” I mutter grudgingly, squirming again in my seat.
Renata sighs, slumping back slightly. She runs a hand through her dark hair before she divulges: “Someone’s watching him.”
A shiver scrapes down my spine, though I force myself to stay still. It is a miracle the ceramic doesn’t outright shatter beneath my grip. “What?”
Renata doesn’t blink now. Just carries on, relentless. “Matías,” she says. “Someone’s been asking questions about his operations. His movements.”
I frown, trying to make sense of the words. “That’s not unusual. He’s a cartel leader,” I reason. “People watch him all the time, surely. That’s just the nature of the business, Ren.”
Renata shakes her head emphatically. “No. This is different.”
Her voice carries a certainty that makes my pulse spike. She isn’t the type to throw out paranoia without reason. She’s a cautious woman. Calculated. She’s had to be, with the kind of life she’s lived. I can’t dismiss her. She wouldn’t tell me to worry if there wasn’t anything to worry about.
I set my cup down with a dull clang. “How do you know?” I ask.
“I know,” she insists, and doesn’t elaborate. Which means I probably don’t want to know. “Whoever it is, they’re careful. They’re methodical. They’re looking for weaknesses.”
A prickle of awareness creeps along my skin. “And?”
Renata’s gaze softens—and that, already, feels like a blow. Then, she says, “They think you are one.”
My heart slams against my ribs, an immediate, violent reaction. The world around me—the café, the murmur of conversation, the scrape of a chair being pulled back—all of it clouds to nothing but white noise.
Me.
I’m the weak spot.
I lick at my lips, my mouth suddenly parched. “That doesn’t make sense. I’m just—”
“A cartel wife,” she cuts in. “A new one. One whose loyalty isn’t cemented yet. That makes you valuable, Noa.”
I shake my head, the movement feeling wobbly. “I don’t know anything that could be useful to anyone.”
Renata levels me with a pitying look that hurts. “That’s not the point. The point is that they think you might. Or that you can be turned.”
I suck in a breath, my fingers curling against my lap. “Who are they, Ren?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” she explains. “I don’t have a name yet. Just whispers. Questions in places where people usually don’t ask. They’re not reckless, but they are persistent.”
I don’t realize I’m gripping the edge of the table until my knuckles grow numb from the pressure. The implications settle in.
I knew marrying Matías came with danger. I’ve been an arms dealer’s daughter my entire life. I accepted my reality long before I walked down the aisle. But this? This is different. I don’t need the unrepressed unease in Renata’s face to confirm it.
Being a liability means putting a target on my back.
“Does Matías know?” I ask, voice coming out faint.
Renata hesitates, then shakes her head. “Not yet. I don’t know what they want from you,” she says. “Not yet. But you need to be careful, Noa. If they think you’re a way to get to him, they won’t stop looking.”
I nod distractedly, my mind already racing ahead. Everything I’d wanted to share with Renata, to ask her wisdom on, has fallen to the wayside.
All I can think is, I have to get back to the estate. I have to figure out what this means. Because if there’s one thing I know for certain—it’s that Matías Castillo does not tolerate weaknesses.
Now, whether I like it or not, I might be one.