Chapter 6 : Elena Vázquez

POV: Elena Vázquez.

Clinking silverware, the hiss of the espresso machine, and loud, echoing chatter assault my ears. The small downtown restaurant is cozy, smelling heavily of roasted garlic and fried dough, but I can barely pull air into my lungs. I sit in a worn leather booth across from my best friend, Bianca, desperately trying to drown out the spiraling chaos tearing my mind apart.

It has been two agonizing days since my disastrous, alcohol-fueled one-night stand. Two days since a total stranger—a ruthless, cold-blooded killer I met in a dark alley—pushed me onto my mattress, spread my thighs, and shoved his bare cock deep inside me. We crossed every single line. Now, the crushing guilt of physically cheating on my boyfriend, Varo, sits on my chest like an anvil. Every time I blink, I see Varo’s face. I betrayed him.

But sitting right alongside that massive guilt is a gnawing, secret terror. A terror so heavy it makes my hands shake. He didn't use a condom. That dominant, terrifying man unloaded his raw seed inside me. The sickening realization that I might already be pregnant from that unprotected night threatens to trigger a full-blown panic attack right here in the booth.

“Relax, girl. These things happen,” Bianca says easily. She casually flicks her manicured nails against the edge of her laminated menu, not a care in the world. She doesn't know the full story. She just thinks I had a wild hookup. “Just because he knows your first name does not mean he knows everything about you. You don't know him, and he doesn't know you. It was one night. Chill out, Lena. I'm hungry.”

I lean forward across the small wooden table. I grip the edge so hard my knuckles turn white. I keep my voice to a frantic whisper, but my tone is practically a yell.

“He found my apartment, Bia! He knows where I fucking live! In case you somehow forgot, that is exactly where we had sex!” I hiss. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “He didn't just take me to a hotel. He came into my home. He knows the layout of my bedroom. He knows my scent. I am pretty sure he knows all there is to know about me by now.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. The deeper, life-threatening panic claws at my throat. I want to confess my fear about the pregnancy, but I can't. I told Bianca a long time ago that I was on birth control. A stupid lie to avoid lectures. Now, shame anchors my tongue. I am too embarrassed to admit how reckless and stupid I was.

Oblivious to the true danger circling my life, Bianca drops her menu. Her face softens with sympathy. “Do you want to come live with me for now? Just crash at my place until Varo finally gets back into town?”

I let out a shaky breath. I reach out across the table and cover her warm hand with my trembling fingers.

“No, I don't think Varo would like that. I don't want to impose on your space,” I decline gently.

That is only half the truth. The real reason I can't stay with Bia is Varo himself. My boyfriend possesses a deeply scary, aggressive side. A dark, violent temper that simmers just beneath his charming surface. I have always carefully and deliberately kept that side of him hidden from my best friend. If Varo comes home and finds me cowering in Bianca's apartment, his rage will spill over, and I refuse to put Bia in the crossfire.

“I just want you to be okay, El. I am always here for you,” she says with a knowing smile.

“I know. Thank you.” I force a weak smile onto my lips, feeling a tiny fraction of the tension leave my shoulders.

“Now, what are we eating? I feel like something sweet. I am going to get the pineapple sticky rice,” Bia announces, shifting the conversation.

I welcome the mundane change of subject. “I will get the grilled shrimp with a side of mango salad.”

I turn my head, my nervous gaze skimming randomly across the busy room. I search the crowded tables and booths for an available waitress. Instead, my eyes sweep past the dining area and land directly on the front takeout counter.

My blood turns to ice. My lungs stop working.

Oh God, no.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stands casually near the register. He wears fitted black pants and a crisp, expensive white shirt that stretches tight across his muscular back. A heavy, gleaming silver watch rests on his tattooed wrist.

There he fucking is. The killer.

The exact striking features I had tried so hard to erase from my traumatized mind are now standing right in front of me in broad daylight. The man who fucked me into oblivion. The man who murders people in alleys.

Bia notices my sudden freeze. The color drains from my face. She starts to twist her head around in her chair to follow my line of sight. “Who are you lookin' at—”

I snatch her hand. My nails dig into her skin. My brown eyes stretch wide in pure panic.

“Don't look,” I whisper frantically. “It's him.”

Bia gasps, her eyes lighting up with misguided curiosity. “What? Even more reason to look—”

“Bianca, please!” I practically beg her. My voice cracks. I pray to any god that will listen that this is just a bizarre, unfortunate coincidence. I pray he is only here ordering takeout food and hasn't spotted me in the crowded room. I just want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

“Okay, fine. I won't look. I don't see what the big deal is though. I just wanted to see his face,” she pouts, straightening in her seat.

I release her hand. We both force our heads down. We stare intensely at the colorful, laminated menus. I pretend to study the appetizer list, tracing the words on the paper without registering a single letter. My heart beats a frantic, deafening rhythm in my ears.

“Do you want to leave? Go somewhere else?” Bia whispers, sensing the raw distress radiating off my body.

“No. We are already sitting. Standing up and running for the door will just draw attention to us. Besides, I think he is just grabbing takeout,” I reply. A desperate shred of relief begins to take root in my mind. He has his back turned. It is just a coincidence.

“Guess we wait for a waitress then,” Bia mutters.

A cheerful waitress finally arrives at our table. She pulls a notepad from her apron and greets us with a bright smile. She recites the daily specials, takes our lunch orders, and writes down our drinks. I keep my chin tucked, staring at the salt and pepper shakers. I refuse to look toward the front counter. I refuse to draw his attention.

“Such a sweet lady,” Bia smiles as the waitress turns and walks away toward the bustling kitchen.

Feeling that sweet relief wash over me, I let out a long breath. The waitress is gone. Enough time has passed. I assume the dangerous man has paid for his food and walked out the door.

I cautiously lift my heavy head.

I am dead wrong.

He is standing in the exact same spot. He is no longer facing the register. His body is turned, and he is looking directly at my table.

In the clear, bright daylight of the restaurant, my heart leaps into my throat. The shadows of the alley and my dark bedroom are gone, revealing every sharp, ruthless detail of his face. He catches my wide-eyed stare. He flashes a dark, knowing smirk directly at me. A single, distinct dimple hollows out his cheek. It is a predator’s smile, arrogant and territorial, silently acknowledging the dirty, raw memories we share.

Then, smoothly and without a care in the world, he averts his intense green gaze to the shorter man standing right next to him.

My breath hitches in my dry throat. My eyes shift to the second man, forcing me to do a terrified double-take. The man stands with rigid posture, dressed in dark clothes.

I know that second face. I know it all too well. It is a face I intimately grew up with. A face that reminds me painfully and sharply of my ruthless father.

“Diego?” I whisper under my breath. The name tastes like ash. My voice cracks with raw shock.

What is my brother doing standing next to the alley killer?

Bia instantly furrows her perfectly shaped brows. She leans across the table, sensing my sudden distress. “El? What's wrong? You look really flustered.”

I swallow hard. Bile rises in my throat. I fight a massive, rising panic attack that threatens to tip me over the edge. I wipe my sweating palms against my thighs.

“I'm fine. It's just really hot in here,” I lie smoothly.

Bia accepts the excuse, sipping her water. She only knows the surface-level truth about my past. I told her I bravely ran away from home simply to escape a strict, controlling father. She doesn't know any of the terrifying, violent mafia details of my family history. She doesn't know about the blood, the guns, or the cartel.

Inside my mind, I am crumbling into dust.

Diego. My own flesh and blood. If my brother is casually hanging out with the mysterious alley killer, they are connected. They operate in the same dark underworld. It is only a terrifying matter of time before my dangerous family uses this killer to track me down. They will find me. They will forcefully drag me back to the estate, chaining me to the disastrous, arranged mafia marriage I fled my entire life to escape.

I suddenly, deeply wish I had simply accepted Bianca's generous offer. I should have packed a bag and hidden in her apartment. The walls of the restaurant feel like a cage closing in on me. My desperate, burning need for Varo to return amplifies with every passing second. I need him. I need his protection, even with his dark flaws.

I slowly force myself to look back toward the busy counter. I brace my trembling body, terrified of meeting their eyes, terrified of seeing Diego march across the room to grab me.

But this time, to my utter confusion, the counter is empty. They are both gone.