Chapter 34 - Daniela
DANIELA
I jerk back the moment I see him.
Reyes is worse for the wear than the last time I saw him in my father’s office.
He’s cut and bruised. One cheek sags where the skin is split and healing.
His smile is still the same awful thing, all teeth, but it’s crooked now, as if someone rearranged it and forgot to put one side back right.
He’s got that cocky tilt of the chin he always had when he thought he was in control, and for a second I almost expect him to pull out his repulsive dick and command me to kneel.
This is the man who taught me to fear all men. The one who taught me shame when I didn’t know the name for it yet. The betrayal, the humiliation, the way my body remembered things my brain was still trying to bury—all of it wakes up and floods my mind with images I’ve tried to forget.
In that moment I forgive Hawk.
I forgive him for everything he did to this man.
It doesn’t mean I condone violence. It just means I understand. I understand why a man would stop being patient when one of the worst men in the world is standing in front of him.
Reyes fills the doorway, dressed in black slacks and a pressed white shirt. No jacket, no tie. Just that calculating smile I’ve come to dread.
“Miss Agudelo,” he says softly, almost politely. “Right on time.”
I go very still. My heart doesn’t race. It hardens. Like a stone in my chest.
“Where is he?” I ask. My voice doesn’t shake. I’m proud of that.
He tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Who?”
“You know who.”
“Ah.” His smile widens, slow and reptilian. “The chef. You were expecting him?”
I narrow my eyes. “He’s the one who sent the message.”
“Was he?” He steps aside, gesturing toward the dark interior of the house. “Please. Come in.”
I don’t move. “I’ll stand.”
He gives a quiet chuckle. “Still stubborn. I see why Hawk Bellamy likes you.”
At the mention of Hawk’s name, my stomach tightens. “If you’ve hurt him—”
“Relax,” he says lightly. “I’ve hurt no one today. Yet.”
“Where’s Belinda?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Ah, the girl. The starter, was it?” He seems to savor the word.
So he knows. Somehow he knows everything.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice low.
He studies me for a moment and then gestures toward a dilapidated porch swing. It hangs crooked, one chain shorter than the other. “Sit, Miss Agudelo. You’ve driven a long way. Let’s talk like civilized people.”
I remain where I am, jaw tight.
He sighs, almost theatrically. “You think defiance makes you strong? Strength, Daniela, is knowing when to yield.”
I brush the back of my thigh lightly. “Where is she?” I ask again.
“Straight to business.” He takes a seat and crosses his legs. “Very well. She’s safe, for now. But she’s not my concern.”
“Then whose concern is she?”
He smiles again, that horrible, easy smile. “That depends on you.”
I take a small step forward. “If you think I’m afraid of you, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think you’re afraid,” he says calmly. “I think you’re exhausted.” He drums his fingers on the arm of the swing. “You’ve been running your whole life, haven’t you? From your father, from Vega, from yourself.”
His words hit harder than I want them to. I clench my jaw. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough. I know you were raised in a house of monsters.” He stands, takes a few steps toward me, brings his face so close to mine I can smell his bad breath.
“I know your father sold you piece by piece until there was nothing left but rage.” A grin cracks across his face. “I know about the girls, too.”
My vision tunnels. “Shut up.”
He shrugs. “I know about the one you chose. The one who screamed.” His lips curl. “When I met your precious Belinda, I noticed she bore quite a resemblance.”
For a second, the world goes soundless. Then I lunge forward, fists balled, ready to strike, but he doesn’t even flinch. His eyes gleam with satisfaction. “There it is,” he says. “There’s the fire.”
I freeze, forcing myself to inhale, to remember why I’m here.
Belinda. It’s about Belinda. Not about the past.
Not about me.
“What do you want?” I whisper again.
He closes in on the little space remaining between us, and I notice his cologne—something subtle and expensive, the kind of scent that hides malice beneath sophistication.
It makes me want to puke.
“I needed to see what kind of woman would trade herself for another.”
My pulse spikes, though I keep my face neutral.
He studies me as if I’m a specimen. “There are pieces moving, Miss Agudelo. Pieces you don’t understand. Vega, your father, Hawk—they’re all connected, threads of the same web.”
My skin crawls. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he says simply. “Or maybe I’m the only one telling you the truth.”
The porch creaks beneath us. Somewhere in the distance, a crow caws.
I glance past him into the house. It’s dark inside, but I can make out the faint outlines of furniture draped in white sheets. No movement. No sound. No Belinda.
I weigh my options. I could reach for the knife now, end him here. But if Belinda really is alive, killing him could kill her too.
So I smile. It feels unnatural on my face. “Fine,” I say softly. “Let’s talk.”
Reyes’s expression changes. “Good,” he says. “Come inside, Daniela.”
He steps back and holds the door open. I hesitate only a second before entering, still carrying my belongings.
The air inside smells faintly of dust. The floors creak. Sunlight filters weakly through yellowed curtains. There’s a grand staircase, its banister broken in two places.
Reyes gestures toward a sitting room. “After you.”
I walk ahead of him, every sense on high alert.
The room is sparse—a few old chairs, a fireplace with blackened bricks, a table with a single glass of water. No other doors. No movement.
I stop in the center of the room. “Now what?”
He closes the door behind us. The click echoes through the silence.
“Now,” he says, “we find out how much you’re willing to sacrifice for the people you love.”
“Where’s the chef?” I ask, my voice flat. I don’t let the tremor in my throat give anything away.
He doesn’t reply.
“What about Belinda? Where’s Belinda?”
His laugh is pure amusement this time. “She’s fine. You’re always so dramatic.” He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and hands it to me, palm up. The screen is bright in the dull morning light.
There she is in a photo—Belinda, tiny against the seatback, hair in a messy ponytail. The timestamp ticks across the corner. An hour ago.
She’s on a bus. She’s moving away from here.
My breath goes thin. “What is this?”
“You wanted proof,” Reyes says. “She’s on her way to Austin.” He taps the phone screen. “The Chef planned it. He was confident you’d come. So confident he left no loose ends.”
I stare at the photo until my eyes sting.
“Why would he send her?” The question is way too small for everything I feel. “Why would he leave her on a bus? What kind of—”
Reyes’s face hardens. “You can run back to your car,” he says. “You can make a dash for it, try to get to Austin and stop the bus. I imagine you’d be very quick about it.” He shrugs. “But the chef is not an idiot.”
My hands fly to my mouth before I can stop them. “What did you do to the bus?”
He leans in close now, voice low as if sharing a secret.
“If you give me the keys to your car and walk down into the basement, Belinda will make it the last five miles in one piece,” he says.
“If you try anything else, there are consequences. He planned for that. Even once she’s off the bus, she’ll still be in harm’s way if you don’t cooperate. ”
My heart punches against my ribs so hard I think it will break free.
Chef planted a live grenade inside a teddy bear. He could have easily planted a remote-controlled bomb on a bus. And then have someone posted at the bus station to keep an eye on her in case I get any ideas.
Fear courses through me, but I’m determined not to show it.
“You want my keys,” I say.
He barks a laugh. “Yes. Give me your keys and go to the basement. Be sweet. Put on the blue thing.” He gestures to the garment bag.
Everything inside me collapses. The world tilts and doesn't right itself. I think of Hawk’s face when he said he loved me. I think of the way his hand fit mine. Of our bodies joined, and the feeling that at last I found where I belong.
I think of Belinda’s laugh, about her beautiful fingers making the piano sing. I would trade anything to hear those sounds again.
For an instant I imagine driving away and calling Hawk, telling him to sprint after me, to find the bus, to rip it down and drag Belinda into his arms and make everything okay.
But I know better.
I hold the keys in my hand for an extra second. They feel heavy.
If Belinda gets home safely, nothing else matters. If she’s harmed because I tried to be clever, I’ll never forgive myself.
So I hand him the keys.
Reyes takes them.
I hold back a gag as his fingers graze mine.
He tucks the keys into his pocket, still smiling that stupid crooked smile, and then steps to the side and points to the cellar door. “Down,” he says.
I walk toward it. I don’t cry. I don’t plead. I don’t look back. I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me unravel.
The cellar steps are steep and smell like damp and old wood.
Before I go down the last stair, I think—oddly—of Hawk telling me he loves me.
I think of myself saying it back.
The basement door closes behind me with a decisive thud.
And everything’s dark.