Chapter 4
Katarina
The cobblestones are uneven beneath my tiny pair of shoes, but I don’t stumble.
A large, warm hand holds my left, and a softer one grips my right, holding me steady.
We walk together through the golden afternoon light, the street busy with buskers and cars. Yet, I feel safest among the two tall figures walking with me.
“Careful, little queen,” a deep voice rumbles.
The woman at my side hums a tune that’s haunted my dreams a thousand times. The sound of her laughter feels so warm, and when the man’s voice chimes in out of tune, my heart swells.
I tilt my head back with a desperate hope.
This time I’ll see their faces.
This time, there will be no haze.
But the moment they look down at me, the sunlight flares—blinding me—washing their faces into a white void, their features dissolving like smoke. I reach for them anyway, my small fingers stretching, grasping at nothing but light.
“Mamá… Papá…”
My tiny voice pleads as the song dies. Then the warm hands vanish, slipping through my grip like sand. The gold light dims, leaving me stranded, alone on the empty street.
My eyes snap open.
I jolt upright on the sofa, heart hammering against my ribs, breath coming in shallow gasps. I press the heels of my hands hard on my closed eyes, trying to push the nightmare back into the dark where it belongs.
It always ends the same way—right before I can see their faces. And every single time, it’s followed by an ache that is worse than any wound.
I get up and walk towards the floor-to-ceiling windows of our apartment and stare out. Buenos Aires spreads below me, the sun setting into the Río de la Plata in purples and orange hues.
The view is stunning, but it doesn’t touch me. Nothing does lately.
The hole in my past has become so wide that my entire life feels like it was built to cover it. That if I don’t hold on tight enough, everything could just topple over and fall into that void.
I have money, fame, and a face people recognize on billboards and magazine covers. Katarina Flores, “Darling of Argentina.” A million girls would kill for this life. And yet most days it feels like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
The guilt settles in my throat as I start to loathe my life. My therapist calls it Imposter Syndrome. She tells me to practice gratitude and some good ol’ self-reflection. But she doesn’t understand how empty it feels to yearn for people you can’t even remember.
I shake my head to banish the dark thoughts. I walk to the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the marble floors. I open the fridge and pour myself a glass of water. But before I can take a sip, my phone buzzes on top of the kitchen island.
Unknown Number
I freeze. The water glass hovers halfway to my mouth. I let it ring.
I take a sip of water, waiting for the call to drop. It stops eventually, but a second later, a text notification lights up the screen.
“Hi, Kat, it’s me, Alfonso Cruz.”
My stomach drops. A cold feeling washes over me, instantly killing the quiet of the evening. I don’t even get to open the message before the phone rings again.
What does he want?
Still ignoring the call, I text Sol instead, saying, "Alfonso is calling me."
She replies instantly, three dots dancing on the screen before her text appears: “Answer. Find out what he wants, but promise nothing.”
Like a good little robot, I slide the toggle on the screen to answer. "Hola, Katarina. It’s me," An unfamiliar voice comes through the phone.
“Hola?” I force a polite tone, leaning my hip against the counter to steady myself. “How did you get this number?”
“I have my ways,” he laughs, but it sounds hollow, sending a chill down my spine. Immediately, I regret answering.
“I’m doing well, thanks for asking.” I offer a curt reply.
“Listen, I know this is sudden, and I know I shouldn’t be calling you out of nowhere, but... are you free tonight? For dinner?” He rambles.
What the hell?
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say, almost too fast. “I have a prior commitment,” I lie.
“Cancel it,” he says. The words snap out of him, sharp and commanding. Silence stretches between us before he realizes his mistake.
“I mean,” he stammers, softening his tone, “it would mean a lot to me. Please, Katarina.”
“Alfonso,” I say, my voice hardening into steel. “I apologize for the rumors circulating in the press. But I truly don’t believe being seen together helps either of us. In fact, it might just add fuel to the fire. I am sure a man in your position doesn’t want the wrong idea getting out.”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupts, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. Then he clears his throat. “Listen, if you can’t do it tonight, we can do lunch tomorrow instead. Or coffee. Ten minutes. I can pick you up. No one needs to know—” The call cuts off.
I stand there, staring at my phone’s lock screen, fully expecting it to ring again.
When it doesn’t, I walk over to the window, letting the last of the sunset calm the stress in my body.
“He wanted to meet, but I declined. He sounded desperate. It was weird.” I text Sol.
I toss the phone onto the sofa and rub my temples.
God, I hate this world. And I hate the way men like him look at me, like I’m a prize to be claimed or bought.
When the phone rings again, I scoff, spinning around, ready to scream at Alfonso. I snatch the phone that settled in between two cushions, expecting the same unknown number, but different letters flash on the screen.
DAMIANO
My anger vanishes, replaced by a sudden, liquid heat that floods my veins and fills my stomach. It rings four times before I find the courage to answer; my throat turning dry, and my palms are damp.
“What?” I manage to sound nonchalant.
"What took you so long to answer?" His voice is rough and instantly annoys me.
“I answer when I want to answer,” I snap, gripping the phone tighter. “I’m not one of your employees, Damiano.”
“Come to the new club tonight,” he commands, dismissing my obvious irritation.
"And why would I?" I ask, walking back toward the window, looking in the direction of Palermo, where his new club is.
“It’s the grand opening,” he says, as if that explains everything. “I want to celebrate with you,” he adds, tone shifting to something softer. The arrogance bleeds away, replaced by that signature rasp—the one that sounds like whiskey and smoke and makes my knees feel unstable.
“Celebrate the club?” I ask, arching an eyebrow even though he can't see me. “You have a thousand people lining up to do that with you.”
“I don’t care about them,” he murmurs, “I don’t want to toast my success with anyone else. Just you.”
I’m silenced. The arrogance should repel me. I should tell him to go to hell. But the admission that he wants me, on his big night, wakes up the butterflies in my stomach that refuse to die.
“I’ll wait for you, okay?” he adds softly after a beat.
Click.
He hangs up—that arrogant, infuriating, beautiful jerk.
I stare at the phone, hating that I’m already considering going. That I have zero self-control around him. It’s pathetic, really. I can have any man in Argentina. But the only one I want is the one who already told me a few months ago that he doesn’t feel the same way about me. I sigh.
Then the sound of the front door unlocking snaps me out of my frustration. The heavy deadbolt slides back with a metallic thud.
“Kat! Come here.”
I check my face in the reflection of the window, smoothing my expression, before jogging toward the entryway.
Mateo is standing in the foyer, kicking off his shoes.
He looks massive in the confined space, his shoulders filling the doorway.
He’s wearing his usual black tactical pants and a muscle t-shirt that shows off the ink on his arms. He’s hunching over something on the floor, his body blocking my view.
“What is it?”
He stands up, turning around with a grin that transforms his intimidating aura into something almost boyish. In his large, tattooed hands, he holds a ball of black-and-tan fur.
“What did you do?!” I squeal, my hands flying to my mouth.
“Here,” he laughs, thrusting the bundle of fur toward me.
I take the creature in my arms. His paws are big, clumsy things, and his belly is round and warm. He immediately starts licking my chin with rough, enthusiastic affection—a little puppy rottweiler.
“Mateo!” I laugh, burying my face in the soft fur behind the puppy's ears. He smells like milk and baby powder. “Oh no, he’s so cute! Is it someone’s birthday? Did I forget a holiday?”
“Security,” Mateo says, though his eyes are soft as he watches me wrestle the puppy out of my face. “A client gifted him to me. I thought we needed... reinforcement.”
“Reinforcement?” I lift the puppy, and he dangles helplessly, blinking blue puppy eyes at me. “Teo, he’s the size of a shoe. What is he going to do? Lick an intruder to death?”
“He’ll grow,” Mateo says, his voice serious. “Rottweilers are loyal. Lethal to strangers, sweet to family. He’s the best protection money can buy.”
He reaches out and scratches the dog’s head gently.
“We’ll call him Pedro,” he decides.
“After Pedrito?” I smile, the memory warming me. We had a Doberman growing up—or at least, that’s what Mateo told me. My memories before age eight are foggy, just snapshots really, but I remember a dog named Pedrito.
“Yeah. After Pedrito.” Mateo’s smile fades slightly, a shadow passing over his eyes.
“Pedro, it is. But you’re cleaning up the poop.”
“Deal,” he agrees easily.
We move to the living room, the tension of the day melting away slightly. Pedro crawls onto Mateo’s lap and falls asleep instantly, trusting the strange humans around him completely. Mateo strokes the dog’s back, staring into space.
I watch him. Under the chandelier light, he looks tired. There are new lines around his eyes and a tightness in his jaw that wasn't there before. He strokes Pedro's back in long, slow passes, staring at nothing.
“You okay, Teo?” I ask softly, sitting on the opposite end of the velvet sofa.
He blinks, snapping out of his trance. “Yeah. Just... long day.”
“You work too much.”
“Well, there’s nothing else to do anyway,” he says with a sad smile in his eyes. “You work just as much,” he adds after a beat.
“Well, what else am I going to do? Lay here and spend your money?” I say.
“That sounds good to me.” He chuckles.
“Nah, I’m not homebuddy material,” I say, scratching the top of Pedro’s head.
“You’re going to be a terrible furmom,” he adds, trying to banter.
“Good thing I’m never going to be a real mom,” I joke, leaning back on the sofa. “You know, since you threaten every man who looks at me with bodily harm.”
Mateo sighs a long, heavy exhale that seems to rattle in his chest. He stops petting the dog and looks at me. His brown eyes are suddenly full of a sadness I’ve never seen before.
“I’ve been too tough with you. Haven’t I?” he says quietly, and I almost glitch.
“Huh? Did you hit your head at the gym?”
“You’re twenty-eight, Kat. You should have a life. A real life.” He looks down at his hands. “If... if I’m gone one day, I’d be happier knowing you have someone looking out for you.”
The air leaves the room, and my heart sinks.
“Gone?” I sit up straight. “Where are you going? Are you in trouble?”
“No. Nowhere. I’m just saying.” He avoids my gaze. “In our world... the people I work with... You never know. Life is short.”
“Don't say that.” I reach out and grab his arm, nudging him slightly before leaning on his shoulder.
His security company is the best in Argentina. He has a clientele full of business tycoons and politicians, whom he says are all bad people. Sometimes I do worry that he will get in trouble just by associating with them.
“Stop talking like you’re dying. We’ll grow old together. You’re stuck with me.”
He looks at me then, and the familiar look of love in his eyes is so fierce. He kisses the top of my head.
“You should date,” he says firmly. “Have fun. Go out. Just... don’t get caught up with the wrong ones. Promise me that.”
“I’m not into anyone right now anyway,” I lie smoothly, praying my face doesn't betray me.
“Good. God knows you always choose the wrong men.” He pauses, his expression hardening back into the brother I know.
“Shut up.” I slap his arm, laughing.
He’s not wrong, though.
After a long silence, I say, “By the way, I'm going out tonight.”
“Where?” he asks.
“Damiano invited me to the opening of his new club,” I say, then get up and walk towards my room. I could hear him grunt from where I’m standing.
“When I said you could date, Damiano is off-limits!” I chuckle and shake my head. I reach for my phone to text said man, letting him know I’ll be there.
As I enter my bedroom, my phone buzzes in my hand as his reply comes almost instantaneously.
“I can't stand the urge to see you.”
I bite my lip, staring at the screen, guilt warring with the excitement.
Sorry, Mateo.