Chapter 12
RAFAEL
T he shirt wouldn’t sit right. It wasn’t the fabric or the fit—tailored and pressed just the way I liked—but something in me itched beneath the collar. My fingers adjusted the buttons slowly, but my mind was nowhere near the mirror in front of me.
She hadn’t answered the message I sent her last night. Just a set of instructions—time, place, dress code. I didn’t need confirmation. She’d come. I knew it like I knew how to pull a trigger in the dark. Isabella was the kind of woman who walked through fire just to see who lit the match.
And I was the one holding the damn lighter.
“Still brooding over your little tattooed mystery?” Yuri’s voice cut through the room, teasing as always. He sat sprawled across one of the armchairs in my suite, a drink in hand, sleeves rolled up, looking like trouble wrapped in charm.
Nikolai stood near the minibar, silent, always watching.
I didn’t answer at first. Instead, I turned slightly, letting the light catch the gleam of my watch as I fastened the cufflink. “She let you tattoo her,” I finally muttered, voice low but sharp. “On her chest.”
Yuri chuckled. “I didn’t hear a thank you , boss.”
I glanced at him, jaw tight. “You inked my symbol into her skin. You know exactly what that thread means.”
“I know what you think it means.” He raised his glass lazily. “You’re pissed because you didn’t get to be the one to mark her first.”
The ice in his glass clinked. I didn’t respond to that either.
He wasn’t wrong—but it was more than that. It was the way she wore that tattoo, the red thread gleaming against her skin like a warning, like a promise. She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t hesitated. She didn’t do it
for me. She did it for herself. That was the part that really fucked with my head.
“I should’ve taken her right there,” I said, voice colder now. “At the pool. Against that chair. She would’ve let me.”
“But you didn’t,” Nikolai finally spoke, his voice even, unreadable.
“No,” I muttered. “Because she still smells like war.”
Yuri whistled low. “You’re either going to end up killing her, or marrying her. No in-between.”
I turned to face him fully now, eyes narrowed. “Tell me something, Yuri,” I said, “when you wrapped that thread into her hair… was it for her first kill?”
Yuri’s expression sobered. “No. It was for the moment she finally survives everything she doesn’t talk about.”
A beat of silence passed. The kind that carried weight.
“Cartel meeting,” Nikolai said, checking the time. “Ten minutes to wheels up.”
I grabbed my jacket and ran a hand through my hair, fixing it back. “They’ll want the usual—shipment routes, weapons, numbers,” I said. “But this time we show them control. No favors. No desperation. We deal from power.”
“They’ll smell weakness if we let them,” Nikolai added.
“And they’ll watch your eyes when you walk in with Isabella,” Yuri grinned, standing up and straightening his shirt. “Let’s just hope she behaves.”
I didn’t bother answering. She never behaved. And I wasn’t sure I wanted her to.
We stepped out into the hallway, the sound of our footsteps sharp against the marble floors. Outside, the night was thick with Caribbean heat. Black SUVs were parked in a line, engines rumbling low like a warning.
I slid into the backseat, Nikolai beside me, Yuri across. The door shut, sealing us in. She’d be there.
And I had no fucking clue what would happen when she walked in.
The city passed in a blur of humid lights and shadowed alleyways, the kind that always whispered secrets to anyone who knew how to listen. My fingers drummed against the leather seat, the movement slow, calculated. I wasn’t thinking about the route. Or the meeting. Or the cartel. Not really.
I was thinking about her. The red thread. The dagger. That fucking tattoo inked into the softest part of her skin by someone who wasn’t me.
“Touch her again like you did last night,” I said quietly, not even looking at him, “and I’ll carve your own damn tattoo into your ribs.”
Yuri let out a low whistle beside me, not the least bit intimidated. “You want her branded? Do it yourself next time.”
I didn’t laugh. “I don’t share what I haven’t even taken yet.”
“That’s rich,” Yuri muttered, sipping from a flask he pulled out of his jacket. “Coming from a man who pretends he doesn’t want her, but watches her like she’s his next breath.”
“I watch everything,” I said. “That’s how I stay alive.”
“Is that what you’re doing with her?” He raised an eyebrow. “Staying alive?”
I glanced at him now, eyes sharp. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Nikolai didn’t say anything from the passenger seat, but his silence was always weighted. Calculated. If he had thoughts, they’d come out when they mattered.
“She’s dangerous,” Yuri added, tone a little more serious now. “You know that, right? That look in her eyes? The one that never blinks? She’s not afraid to bury someone and then sleep like a baby.”
“I’m counting on it,” I muttered.
“Just wondering when she’ll decide to bury you,” Yuri grinned, eyes glinting.
I smirked. “She won’t.”
“You sure?”
“She hasn’t yet.”
That silenced him, if only for a moment.
The car curved along the final stretch of road, tires crunching gravel as the headlights bathed the gates of the abandoned villa we were using for the meeting in harsh white.
The villa loomed like something out of a ghost story—stone and shadow and secrets crawling along its walls.
It was old. Hidden. Perfect for a gathering that required silence and the absence of memory.
And then I saw her. Standing under the soft orange glow of one of the security lights. Black fitted pants. A tucked-in silk top. The faintest trace of red still braided into her hair.
Kellan and Ash flanked her, tense and watchful. Their posture was military—protective but sharp. Not relaxed. Never relaxed.
But she was the storm they were standing behind. Still. Controlled. Unreadable. Her eyes found the car before it even stopped moving. Mine never left her.
Not until the door clicked open, and I stepped out, the weight of the coming night settling across my shoulders like war.
And just like that— Game on.
The hot and humid air of Cartagena hit me like a slow punch to the gut. The sun had dipped just below the horizon, bleeding a final strip of gold across the sky, but the heat lingered—clinging to my skin, soaking into the collar of my shirt.
I stepped out first. Nikolai and Yuri followed close behind, speaking low in Russian behind me, but my attention wasn’t on them. It locked instantly on the figure standing by the edge of the lot—Isabella.
My steps were steady as I walked toward her. I didn’t rush. Never had to.
“You’re early,” I said, voice cool, curious.
She didn’t look at me—at least, not right away. Her eyes stayed on the building ahead, sharp and unreadable. “Didn’t want to be late,” she said simply.
That was it. No snark. No bite. No smile. Just that calm, distant reply.
It should’ve irritated me. It didn’t. It amused me. She was playing a game—her own kind of warfare. And if she thought I wasn’t fluent in that language, she was underestimating the wrong man.
My gaze flicked to Kellan, then Ash. “You two stay out here,” I said, tone clipped. “We won’t be long.”
Ash’s jaw flexed. Kellan gave a stiff nod.
We moved as a unit—me, Nikolai, Yuri, and Isabella. She walked beside me, silent, her steps perfectly in rhythm with mine like we’d been doing this for years
The entrance to the building was guarded by two men in dark shirts, earpieces barely visible. One of them stepped forward—a broad-shouldered man with scars on both knuckles and a semi-bored look that screamed ex-military. Likely cartel security.
“El jefe wants to know who’s coming in armed,” he said in Spanish. “And who’s coming in at all.”
I answered without hesitation, in the same language. “Only three with me. You can pat us down.”
Isabella didn’t react outwardly, but I felt it—that subtle shift in energy next to me.
The guard gestured toward the wall. “Against there.”
We moved to the side. The second man stepped forward, professional and methodical as he patted down Nikolai first, then Yuri. When it came to me, I held his gaze the whole time. His hands were careful. Respectful. Smart.
He reached Isabella last. I tensed—but only slightly. She lifted her arms with no protest, her expression unreadable, jaw set, eyes locked on the door ahead like it was her kill.
Once cleared, the guard nodded once. “They’re clean. Go ahead.”
We stepped inside. The hallway was narrow, dimly lit with a soft amber glow lining the walls. The scent of leather, sweat, and smoke lingered in the air, thick like oil. My thoughts sharpened with every step we took. No mistakes. No emotions.
We reached the wide double doors at the end of the corridor. A man in a suit waited there, one hand on the gold handle.
I glanced once at Isabella as the doors opened—at the way she held her chin high, shoulders straight, fire simmering beneath her skin like it never left.
She had no idea what she was walking into. And yet, somehow, I knew—neither did I.
The door closed behind us with a heavy thud, the kind that settled like finality in your bones. I walked into the room first, Nikolai and Yuri flanking me on either side, Isabella a step behind—silent, unshaken, and dressed like a calculated sin.
Three men sat at the long table already, their posture relaxed, but their eyes sharp. One of them—the one I knew best—tilted his chin up slightly in acknowledgment, then let his gaze slide over to her. Slowly. Deliberately.
I didn’t like the way he looked at her. Not one bit.