17. Robin
ROBIN
I don’t move right away.
I just stand there. Breathing. Trying to understand what just happened and failing completely.
He zips up his jeans and looks at me smugly. Like he belongs there. And that’s the part I can’t wrap my head around.
Because this was supposed to be business. A calculated move. A way to buy time. To delay what he was going to do to me.
And it worked.
But it didn’t feel like that.
Not really.
I look up at the cracked ceiling. I shouldn’t feel this comfortable. I shouldn’t feel anything but fear and anger and the sharp awareness that I’m still trapped.
But instead, a quiet ease settles into my bones.
Familiar.
That’s the word that comes to me.
Familiar. Like I’ve done this before. Like I’ve known him longer than a handful of hours in a locked cell.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve had relationships. Real ones. Long-term boyfriends. Men I dated for years, including Falcon’s best friend, Leif Ramsey.
None of those ever felt this right.
Cruz walks toward me, hands me my shirt and jeans. I quickly put them on.
Then he does something I don’t expect. He sits down on the cot and pats the spot next to him. I sit.
For a while, neither of us says anything.
Finally, he speaks. “I never knew my father.” He’s staring up at the ceiling now, his expression distant. “My mother never told me who he was. And I stopped asking when I realized it didn’t matter.”
I don’t interrupt. Something in his tone tells me he doesn’t tell this story to just anyone.
“She worked in a brothel,” he says.
I blink.
That wasn’t what I expected.
“Local place. Nothing fancy. But steady business.” He clears his throat. “Men from Vega’s organization were regulars. I grew up there.”
“And your mom?” I ask.
“She did what she had to do,” he says. “Same as the rest of them. They took care of me.”
“Who did?” I ask.
“All of them. The women.” His expression softens. “They rotated. Watched me when my mother couldn’t. Fed me. Kept me out of trouble…mostly.”
I smile a little.
“I had a lot of mothers,” he says. “Or aunts. Depends on how you look at it.”
“And the madame?” I ask.
“Senora Valentina,” he says. “She ran everything. She was firm but fair. She made sure none of us went hungry. None of the women, either. She was like a grandmother to me.”
I glance at him.
“They weren’t what people think,” he continues. “Not to me.”
I nod. “I believe you.”
He looks into my eyes. “Most people wouldn’t. Most people would write them off as common whores.”
I shrug. “I’m not most people.”
“I learned early,” he says, “that respect isn’t about what someone does for a living. It’s about how they survive.”
“That’s a good lesson,” I say quietly. “But why are you telling me this?”
He goes still.
For a second, I think he might deflect. Shut down.
Instead, he draws in a slow breath. “Because,” he says, his voice quieter now, “I’m going to get you out of here.”