Chapter 2
KALEIGH
The elevator creaks like it’s regretting every floor it has to climb, whining beneath my boots as I ride it to the top of the old theater.
Someone gutted the place and rebuilt it into a nightclub for sadists and gamblers, if the street rumors are right.
Pilar didn’t give me much more than that, just a text and a pin drop, followed by the kind of smile that promises trouble.
She was waiting outside my building like the whole thing had already been decided.
The text said: Consult needed. Trauma profile. Discretion required.
I told her I don’t work off the books. She said I do now.
So here I am. In heels that feel too loud and a silk blouse that clings in this humid Seville heat. My notebook’s tucked under my arm, pages blank, my pen clipped with the confidence of someone who isn’t sure if she’s walking into a therapy consultation or a hostage situation.
When the elevator doors open, the hallway yawns out like something from a half-finished noir film.
Concrete walls, crimson lights bleeding from wall sconces shaped like antique horns, and music pulsing faintly from somewhere below.
The scent hits next: cologne, sweat, and the coppery edge of old blood not properly scrubbed clean.
At the end of the hall, a man waits.
He’s older, somewhere north of fifty, in a cream suit that probably cost more than my last year’s rent.
His hair’s slicked back to showcase a widow’s peak, and he holds a cigar between two fingers like he was born doing it.
He looks at me like I’m either a very expensive toy or a disappointment already taking up too much air.
“Doctor Morgan,” he says, offering nothing but the title. “I’m Mateo Cruz. We spoke briefly through Pilar.”
Briefly might be generous. A twenty-second call where he said my credentials were acceptable and hung up before I could even ask what he expected from this consult.
“Yes. You said you needed a trauma assessment on one of your fighters.” I keep my voice steady, professional. My heels click once as I step forward, but I don’t offer my hand. The room smells like power games and I’ve been in too many to fall for the opening handshake.
“Correct. One of my most profitable.” He doesn’t smile when he says it. “But lately… let’s say the bull’s been unpredictable.”
I tilt my head. “You think he’s having a psychological breakdown?”
“I think he’s becoming a liability.”
That word always burns. Like the person he’s referring to is a faulty engine, not a human being. “Then it’s good you called a doctor instead of a mechanic.”
Mateo eyes me, then gestures to a side room with a glass door. “He’s in there. Waiting.”
“Does he know I’m coming?”
Mateo smiles now, and it’s not reassuring. “He was told. That’s different than knowing.”
I don’t reply. I just step through the doorway and into a room that smells of leather, steel, and the kind of sweat that never entirely leaves.
The lighting’s softer here, half the bulbs dead or dying.
There’s a bench press shoved into the corner, an open locker with a torn towel hanging inside, and a few bloodstained wraps left abandoned on the floor like they tried to crawl away.
And him.
He’s sitting on a metal bench, arms braced on his knees, body hunched like a man trying not to punch the ground.
His skin gleams with fresh sweat, dark hair matted to his forehead, and there’s a strip of gauze around one knuckle that’s already soaked through with red.
He doesn’t look up at first. Just breathes slow, measured, like he’s counting to ten but got stuck at six.
“Rafe Calderon?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
His head lifts.
And everything in the room seems to still.
There’s something feral in the way his gaze lands on me.
Not hostile, exactly. Just… alert. Like he’s weighing the distance between us and deciding whether I’m prey, threat, or something that doesn’t matter enough to label.
His eyes are dark, nearly black, with a strange gold sheen just beneath the surface that makes me feel like I’m being watched by something older than time.
“You the shrink?” he asks, voice rough, already tinged with sarcasm.
“Dr. Morgan,” I correct gently, stepping inside. “Clinical psychologist. I’m here for a consultation.”
“I don’t need fixing.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Then what’re you here for? To tell them I’m crazy? To recommend some pills and breathing exercises before the next kill?”
His voice is low but coiled, and there’s something beneath it. Not rage exactly. Just tension. Leashed, but fraying.
I take a seat on the bench opposite him, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate calm. “I’m here to assess risk, not diagnose you. And I don’t make recommendations until I’ve had a conversation.”
Rafe leans back slightly, one arm draping over the bench behind him. His shirt clings to the bulk of his torso, and his other hand plays absently with the edge of the gauze like he doesn’t feel the pain or is used to ignoring it.
“Then start your conversation,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”
“I could ask you about your past,” I begin, keeping my voice neutral. “But I’m guessing you won’t give me much. So let’s keep it present. Last fight. What do you remember about it?”
He shrugs. “Guy stepped in. Guy went down. Crowd screamed. End of story.”
I don’t flinch. “Did you feel anything? Before or after?”
“Yeah,” he says, too quickly. “Boredom.”
“That’s not usually a common response to beating someone unconscious.”
He smiles then. Not with humor or even warmth. “Lady, you ever seen someone deserve it?”
“I’ve seen plenty of people think they do.”
That gets him quiet. His fingers stop moving. His eyes narrow, and for a minute, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far too fast. But then he leans in, elbows on knees, eyes locking onto mine like he’s measuring something beneath the surface.
“You think you’re gonna fix me with talk?” he asks, quieter now, but no less sharp.
“I don’t fix people,” I say. “I offer them a mirror and a safe place to look.”
“Well, I’ve broken every mirror I’ve ever seen, and safe’s just a word people use to sell lies.”
That should shake me. The way he says it.
The way he believes it. But it doesn’t. I’ve sat across from men who scream, cry, laugh at pain.
This one’s different. He doesn’t want to be heard.
He wants to be seen and hated for it. That’s the armor he wears—anger thick enough to keep the world from noticing the cracks.
“You’re not what I expected,” I admit, closing my notebook without writing a word. “Most men in your position either bluster or break.”
“Maybe I’m the third kind.”
“Maybe.”
I rise, dust off my skirt, and tuck the notebook under my arm. “That’s all I need for now.”
He watches me, brow furrowed. “That’s it?”
“I’m not a cop. Not a warden. Just a woman trying to understand what makes you tick.”
“You’ll fail.”
“I usually don’t.”
I turn to leave. His voice follows me like smoke.
“They told you to stay clinical, didn’t they?”
I pause with my hand on the door. “They did.”
“And you gonna?”
I glance back, meeting his eyes again. “Guess we’ll both find out.”
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me, heart pounding for the very first time in weeks. Not from fear. Not even from adrenaline.
Just the sense that I’ve met someone impossible.
And I’m not sure I want to look away.