20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
C amille
The courtyard hums behind me, music still playing, drinks still flowing, the warmth of the evening thick with laughter and the smell of roasted meat. Kane’s hand hasn’t left my lower back since we came back out, and I haven’t asked him to move it.
But after a while, I need space.
Air.
Stillness.
I slip away with a quiet murmur that he lets me go to, reluctantly. His gaze follows me until I disappear into the edge of the garden, down a narrow stone path lined with flickering lanterns and overgrown flowers.
It’s quieter here. Quieter than it should be, like even the noise of the party knows when to leave you alone.
I lean against a low wall overlooking the bay, the sky now navy and freckled with stars. My skin still buzzes with him. My pulse hasn’t settled. My thighs ache in the best possible way.
But my mind, my mind hasn’t stopped since the twins told me about Colombia.
I’m trying to catch my breath when I hear footsteps behind me. Not Kane. Lighter. Slower. Intentional.
I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
“Thought you might need a moment,” Rosa says softly.
I glance over my shoulder.
She’s carrying two drinks one wine, one water. She hands me the water without asking which I want. Somehow, she just knows.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking it.
We stand in silence for a while.
The kind that doesn’t press.
The kind that waits for you to fill it on your own terms.
“I don’t really know how to be here,” I admit quietly. “In this world. With all of this.”
Rosa smiles faintly, not unkind. “Neither did I.”
That surprises me. I turn fully to look at her. “You?”
She nods, her gold earrings catching the light. “I was Twenty-five. Raised in a quiet home. My father was a tailor. My mother taught piano. I didn’t even know what a gun sounded like until Diego.”
I blink. “And now?”
Her expression softens, deepens. “Now I know what it means to love someone who moves through the dark. Who lives with blood on his hands and a code in his bones. It’s not easy, mija. It doesn’t get easier. But it gets clearer.”
I swallow, my throat tight. “What if I’m not built for it?”
Rosa steps closer, her hand brushing my curls gently off my shoulder. “You are. Not because you’re hard. But because you’re not. You make him softer. You make him human. And men like Kane?” She pauses. “They need a reason to stay tethered to this world.”
I look down at the stone beneath my bare feet. “And if I get lost in his shadows instead?”
“Then you come find me,” she says simply. “Or Reina. Or Marisol. You’re not alone anymore. That’s what being part of this family means.”
Family.
The word lands differently here. Heavier.
Wider.
Not just blood and birthright, but survival. Shared silence. Women who know how to smile through the weight of what their men carry.
I close my eyes, just for a second, and let myself feel it.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Just... belonging.
“I never thought I’d have this,” I say softly. “Not after what I’ve lost.”
Rosa doesn’t ask what that means. She doesn’t need to. She just reaches out and cups my cheek in her warm, callused palm.
“You do now,” she says gently. “And I think you knew that the second you got out of that car holding his hand.”
My eyes sting.
I nod.
And for once, I don’t apologize for the tears.
Kane
I watch her from the edge of the courtyard.
No one notices me, people rarely do when I don’t want them to. It’s a trick I learned a long time ago, in places where showing your face meant risking your life. Where stillness meant survival.
But this isn’t survival.
This is... something else.
Camille stands by the stone wall, silhouetted in moonlight, her curls wild and soft around her face, her back straight, her hands wrapped around a glass like she’s trying to keep herself anchored.
Rosa is next to her, calm, steady, knowing.
She always knows.
She places her hand on Camille’s cheek, gentle and maternal, and I watch Camille blink hard. I know that look. The way her lashes lower when she’s trying to blink away something that’s not ready to be said.
I know the weight of everything she’s carrying.
What I don’t know is how she’s still standing.
After everything.
After me.
Because I’ve touched her in ways I can’t undo. Claimed her in rooms that should’ve stayed locked. Taken her to the edge more times than I should’ve allowed. And still, still she shows up. Barefoot. Laughing. Burning too bright to belong to someone like me.
And yet... here she is.
Letting Rosa hold her face like a daughter.
Letting this family wrap around her.
Letting herself be seen.
It hits me harder than I expect.
Because I don’t believe in softness. I was raised in blood, fire, and silence. My father taught me how to listen through walls. Colombia taught me how to disappear. The cartel taught me what kind of man I’d have to become to survive without a name.
And I did.
But none of that prepared me for this.
For her.
For the image of Camille Sinclair standing in the home I bled to protect, laughing with my people, glowing from my touch, and belonging like she was carved to fit here.
A sharp breath rattles my ribs.
I feel something unsteady.
Not rage. Not lust.
Need.
To keep her.
To be worthy of keeping her.
For the first time, I understand what Diego meant when he told me years ago, You’ll know when she’s the one worth making peace for.
And now she’s here.
And I have no peace to give.
Only war.
Only me.
Only this broken thing I’ve built and called protection.
She turns slightly then, as if she feels me watching, her gaze drifting toward the shadows.
Our eyes lock.
And it hits me like a fucking bullet to the chest.
She’s letting me be seen, too.
Not as Kane Rivera.
Not as a name spoken in fear.
But as a man.
And fuck, it ruins me.
***
We leave the party quietly.
No big goodbyes. No fuss.
Diego nods from across the courtyard, understanding passing wordlessly between us. Rosa gives Camille’s arm one final gentle squeeze as we walk past, her gaze meeting mine briefly with an intensity that tells me everything I need to know:
She’s ours now. Protect her.
The drive home is quiet.
Comfortably so, but charged. Camille’s head rests against the seat, her eyes soft, her mouth slightly swollen still, and something deep in my chest tightens every time I glance at her in the passenger seat.
We don’t speak.
We don’t need to.
When we finally arrive at my compound, she lets me help her from the car. Her fingers stay locked around mine, small, trusting. I lead her inside through shadowed halls until we’re back in the bedroom, back in the quiet darkness where the world outside doesn’t exist.
I take my time undressing her tonight.
Slowly, gently, almost reverently. Her dress falls away first, silk pooling at her feet. I skim my palms over her bare skin, watching the goosebumps rise beneath my touch.
Her breath catches softly. She reaches for me, undoing my shirt buttons with careful fingers, taking her time too. It’s not rushed. It’s not hungry.
It’s different.
Deeper.
We make love slowly, nothing hurried, nothing rough. Just slow thrusts and careful kisses, her eyes locked on mine as if she’s reading every word I can’t say out loud. My name escapes her lips in gentle gasps, whispered into my throat like a promise.
Afterward, when our breathing settles, she curls against me, her cheek resting against my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles along my skin.
I close my eyes, memorizing the feeling.
“You’re quiet,” she murmurs eventually.
“I’m always quiet,” I say, softly brushing my lips over her hair. “You should be worried if I’m not.”
She smiles against me, soft and warm. “Not worried. Just wondering.”
“About?”
“Everything,” she admits quietly. She hesitates. Then softly: “About Colombia.”
My chest tightens sharply.
I knew this was coming. I felt it the second I saw her speaking with Rosa, with the twins. It was there, hovering beneath the surface, waiting for us in the quiet dark.
She props herself up slightly, looking down at me, eyes gentle but unyielding. “I want you to tell me.”
I tense involuntarily, old wounds waking instantly beneath her gaze. “There’s nothing good there.”
She strokes my face gently. “Maybe. But it’s still yours.”
I exhale slowly, threading fingers through her hair, focusing on the feel of her skin. “What do you want to know?”
She takes a careful breath. “You went back after your father died. The twins said you disappeared.”
“I did,” I say quietly. My jaw tightens, but I don’t stop her.
“What happened?” Her voice is careful, soft, waiting for me to pull away.
I don’t.
I just hold her tighter, gathering my thoughts. Memories rush back, violent, sharp, suffocating. The streets of Medellín. The echo of gunshots. The smell of rain and smoke and blood. The nights spent in alleys and safehouses, surviving hour to hour, teaching myself how to live in shadows.
“I went back for revenge,” I finally admit. My voice is rough, gritty. “I needed answers. Someone had to pay.”
She traces my collarbone slowly, grounding me. “Did you find them?”
I close my eyes briefly. “I found all of them.”
“And?” Her voice barely above a whisper.
“I made sure they knew who I was,” I say softly, darkly. “They learned what it meant to cross a Rivera. Every single one. I didn’t leave until everyone who knew my father’s name was buried or bleeding.”
Her hand stills, just for a moment. “Did it help?”
“No,” I murmur. “But it taught me who I had to become.”
She leans down, pressing her lips softly to my chest, lingering there. “And who’s that?”
“A man who does what others won’t,” I whisper. “Who can’t walk away from violence because it lives inside him.”
She lifts her gaze back to mine, eyes softening further. “That’s not all you are.”
I stroke her cheek gently, feeling my heart beat unevenly beneath her touch. “It’s most of it.”