45. Robin
ROBIN
My head hurts.
Not in the normal way, either. Not the dull throb of exhaustion or dehydration or too many tears, though I probably have all that going on as well.
This is different.
This is the specific ache of too many puzzle pieces snapping into place.
Diego Vega Junior.
Vega’s son.
For a second, I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe properly. I just stand in the open doorway of the main house, my heart pounding, my mind racing so fast it feels like it might break apart inside my skull.
Because—
God.
Everything makes sense.
Okay, not everything.
But this?
This piece?
It fits.
Eagle, Falcon, and Hawk buried a man in the barn all those years ago.
A man they believed was Diego Vega.
A man tied to whatever happened back then, to Eagle, to secrets, to violence, to the kind of nightmare my brothers spent years carrying.
But they buried the son.
Not the father.
The father is the one Vinnie dealt with.
The father is the one connected to Vinnie’s grandfather. To his organization. To the old alliances and crimes and all the tangled threads.
Hawk, Falcon, and Eagle never met Vega Senior.
Why would they know the difference?
And Vinnie never met Vega Junior.
Why would he?
Two men.
One name.
One dead.
One very much alive.
My stomach turns.
“Wait,” I whisper.
Cruz doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to step inside. Doesn’t reach for me.
I need space to think, and if he touches me right now, I don’t trust my brain to keep doing its job.
“The picture,” I say.
His brow furrows. “What picture?”
“The photo. The one that made us think Vega Senior was dead.” I press my fingers to my temple, trying to slow the stampede in my head. “It turned out to be AI. Fake. But if my brothers had seen it, they would have realized it wasn’t the same man. Right?”
Cruz doesn’t answer immediately.
Because he doesn’t know.
But I do.
I do.
“No,” I say before he can speak. “No, they didn’t see it. They never saw it.”
Only Vinnie saw it.
Not Hawk.
Not Falcon.
Not Eagle.
I let out a shaky breath. “My God.”
Cruz stays still.
There are two Diego Vegas.
One is dead. Both should be.
I look at Cruz again.
Really look.
He’s standing on my family’s porch. He came here after I told him not to. After I kissed him goodbye. After I told him we were even and that he should disappear out of my life and live honestly far away from me.
He came to Texas anyway. I should be angry. But I’d be lying if I said it isn’t good to see him.
God help me.
He looks terrible, of course. He hasn’t slept, and he’s still wearing the same black shirt. If you look closely, you can see Zabala’s blood. Probably Senora’s too. His knuckles are crusted, and his face—his gorgeous face—is hollow and bruised.
But to me he looks wonderful. Seeing him standing here makes something in my chest loosen that I didn’t even realize was still clenched.
I’m just so fucking happy he survived.
And he came.
But can I trust him?
Can I trust Cruz Moreno?
The man who helped abduct me.
The man who staged Eagle’s overdose.
The man who exhumed the body from the barn.
The man who got me out of Colombia.
The man who killed his own coworker when Zabala came to the brothel.
The man who crossed a continent to stand at my door and tell me he loves me.
The man who just told me something that changes everything.
Something useful.
Something true.
Something that makes one piece of the puzzle simpler than it was five minutes ago.
And maybe that matters.
Maybe all of it matters.
The good and the bad.
The damage and the rescue.
I think of ?tefan.
His hand in my hair. His belief that my performance was real. That bond was fake. A thing I built because I needed to survive.
This is different.
Cruz is different.
Whatever happened between Cruz and me in Colombia may have been dangerous and reckless, complicated and even terrifying, but it was not fake.
I look past him at the ranch, at the cars parked outside, at the long drive stretching behind him. He came through all that to get here.
Then I look back at his face, his beautiful, mangled face. “You understand what you’re asking me to do.”
A muscle in his cheek twitches. “I’m not asking you for anything.”
“Yes, you are.”
He doesn’t argue.
Good.
“You’re asking me to believe you,” I say. “After everything.”
“I know.”
“You’re asking me to trust a man who worked for Vega.”
“Yes.”
“A man who hurt my brother.”
His face tightens. “Yes.”
“A man who kidnapped me and took me to Colombia.”
His eyes darken, but he doesn’t look away. “Yes.”
I let the silence sit for a second.
Then another.
I sigh. “I should slam this door in your face.”
“You probably should.”
“I should call Hawk back and let him beat the shit out of you.”
He sighs. “I’m sure he’d enjoy that. And though I’m sure I could take him, I wouldn’t fight back.”
“Hawk?” I look him up and down. “Maybe at your best you’d be equally matched, but right now you look like a good Texas wind might blow you out of here.”
His eyes stay on mine. “Robin.”
I hold up one hand. “Don’t.”
Inside the house, I hear muffled voices. Plates. Someone laughing too loudly in the kitchen, probably trying to pretend this family dinner isn’t one doorbell away from becoming another disaster.
Hawk won’t stay away long. Even if he hasn’t said anything, I know Vinnie is probably already suspicious. Falcon may be watching from a window.
My mother is probably wondering if the enchiladas are getting cold.
I draw in a breath. “I’ll give you one chance.”
Cruz nods.
“One,” I repeat.
“Robin—”
“I’m not finished.”
“All right.”
I speak slowly. “If you give me any indication whatsoever that you are still allied with Vega, I’ll kill you myself.”
His eyes flash.
Not with fear.
With something else.
Respect, maybe?
Good.
“And if I can’t do it,” I continue, “I will sic my brothers and my ex-mobster soon-to-be-brother-in-law on you.”
That does it.
Cruz erupts into a grin.
A real grin.
“Why are you smiling?” I demand.
“Because that is the most romantic threat I’ve ever heard.”
I cross my arms. “It wasn’t romantic.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “It sounded romantic.”
“It sounded homicidal.”
Then, before I can decide whether to slap him or laugh, he steps forward slowly enough to give me time to stop him.
I don’t.
He crosses the threshold of the door and takes me into his arms.
I melt into him. He’s warm. Solid. Alive.
“I will do everything I can,” he says, his breath tickling my ear, “to make up for what I’ve done to you. To Eagle. To all of you.”
I close my eyes.
And for the first time since I left the brothel in Colombia, something like peace settles in my chest.
I let myself have five seconds.
Five seconds in his arms.
Five seconds where I don’t think about Eagle’s hospital bed. Don’t think about Vega Senior still out there, or Vega Junior in the ground, or bodies, passports, embassies, blood, lies.
Five seconds where Cruz holds me and I let him.
Then I pull back.
He looks down at me, and the softness in his eyes almost makes me reconsider the whole pulling-away thing.
Almost.
“Don’t look so relieved,” I say.
“I am relieved.”
“This was the easy part.”
He raises a brow. “Was it?”
“Yes.”
“And the hard part?” he asks.
I gesture over my shoulder inside the house. “You’re about to find out.”
I extend my hand.
He looks at it.
Then at me.
I lift my chin. “You won me over. Now you have to do the same with the rest of my family.”