2 - Adrian #2
"Nico IS trouble," she says, but lets herself be redirected. Almost. There's a beat where she looks at me, really looks, and I see her clock that something's off. The mask holds, but barely. A crack she can see but can't quite place.
Isa emerges from the supply room. Three minutes, twelve seconds. Faster than usual. She's efficient tonight, focused. Already thinking about Lisbon, probably. About the life she's planning without—
"You sure you're okay?" Marisol asks, quieter now.
"Never better," I tell her, and the warmth in my voice is so genuine even I almost believe it.
She studies me for another moment, then shrugs. "Fine. Be mysterious. But when you're ready to talk about whatever's got you tracking Isa across the room like she might evaporate, I'm here."
My blood runs cold. The mask doesn't slip, I'm too practiced for that, but inside, something clenches.
"I don't know what you mean," I say lightly.
"Good." She pushes off the doorframe, presses a kiss to my cheek. "Because that would be a disaster for the ages."
She walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing there with the uncomfortable realization that my surveillance hasn't been as invisible as I thought.
But if she’s seen me watching her tonight, then she sees a man with a crush, maybe. Some harmless pining.
She doesn't see the documentation. The mental files. The nine years of careful observation that tells me Isa has nightmares on the anniversary of something she's never told anyone about, that she counts her steps when she's anxious. Always in sets of eight.
Marisol doesn't know I could have anyone disappeared before morning if they became a problem. That the warmth she likes comes from the same place as the violence I keep leashed.
I check the time. Another ten minutes until close. I should stay, work the room until the last customer leaves.
Instead, I make my excuses and head for the stairs to my apartment. The door to my apartment closes behind me with a soft click. Alone. Finally alone.
For three seconds, I stand perfectly still. The mask doesn't just slip. It falls completely, and what's underneath is ugly.
My fist goes through the wall before I fully decide to throw it. The impact splits skin, sends shock waves up my arm, and the drywall crumbles inward leaving a hole the size of my rage.
Pain blooms across my knuckles. Sharp, clean, real. Blood wells up, drips onto the floor. My knuckles throb in time with the bass from downstairs, each beat a reminder of what I've done, what I'm about to do.
This is what she does to me. What the thought of her leaving does.
Nine years of perfect control, and she unravels it with two words: "I'm leaving."
I flex my hand, watching blood run between my fingers. The pain helps, actually. Focuses things. Turns the spiral into something with direction.
She thinks she can just leave. Pack up her careful, controlled life and disappear to Lisbon like the last nine years are nothing. Like her life in Miami means nothing. Like I mean nothing.
The thought is almost funny. As if she could exist anywhere I don't know about. As if there's a version of the world where Isa is in Lisbon and I'm still here, bringing coffee to an empty bar stool.
I pull out my phone, decision crystallizing with perfect clarity. Miguel answers on the second ring. He always does when I call.
"Adrian, my friend," he says, warmth in his voice because I saved his daughter from a trafficking ring last year. The kind of favor that costs blood in our world.
"That favor you owe me," I say, and my voice is perfect. Warm, easy, the same charming tone I use downstairs. "I need to cash it in."
"Of course, anything."
"There's a passport renewal that came through tonight. Isadora Navarro." I give him her details, speaking like this is nothing, a minor inconvenience. "It needs to get lost in the system. Delayed. Bureaucratic tangle, you understand."
"That's… unusual."
"She's had some threats," I lie smoothly. "The Zayas crew has been sniffing around, making noise about some old business. We need to keep her local until it's handled. For her safety."
"Ah." His voice shifts, protective now. Men like Miguel understand protecting women from men like the Zayas. "Consider it done. The paperwork will get lost. Might take months to sort out."
"You're a good man, Miguel."
"Just returning a favor to a better one."
I end the call and look at the hole in my wall again. My knuckles have stopped bleeding but they throb with each heartbeat.
This is for her protection, I tell myself. In our world, alone means dead. She doesn't understand how dangerous it is out there. Lisbon isn't safe for someone like her. Alone, unprotected, stubborn. She needs someone watching her back, someone who knows which shadows hide knives.
And if that's not true, if she would actually be fine in Lisbon, building a quiet life fixing watches in some sun-soaked apartment, then I would let her go. Of course I would. If it was really what was best for her, I'd put her on the plane myself.
But it's not. She needs protection. She needs someone who knows her well enough to see threats coming. She needs me, even if she's too proud to admit it.
This isn't control. It's care. It's love.
The thought settles in my chest like truth, even as my split knuckles argue otherwise. I'm not a monster. I'm not some possessive psychopath who can't let go. If Isa really needed to leave, if Miami was killing her, if staying meant danger or pain or loss, I would be the first to buy her ticket.
But that's not what this is.
This is Isa running because she’s scared. Because staying means someone might see past the walls she's built. Because five years at La Sirena is longer than she ever intended to stay, and the itch under her skin won't let her rest.
She doesn't need Lisbon. She needs someone who won't let her disappear every time the past gets too heavy.
My phone buzzes. Miguel again: "It's done. The passport renewal hit a snag. Could be months before it's sorted."
The first thread pulled. By the time she realizes the cage is closing, she'll already be mine.
Whenever she checks on her renewal status, she’ll find delays. Technical difficulties. System errors. She'll be frustrated but not suspicious. These things happen. She'll wait a week, maybe two, before following up. More delays. More complications.
By the time she realizes something's deliberately wrong, I'll have fixed whatever's making her run.
Because that's what I do. What I've always done. I solve the problem before she knows it exists. Clear the path before she walks it. Make her world safer, easier, better, all without her knowing I'm there.
It's not control if she never feels the cage.