CHAPTER THREE: THE MAN I SAVED

He stared at me like I was something disgusting stuck to the buttom of his shoe.

The same man I dragged to safety behind crates. The same man I gave my own blood to keep him alive. The same man I worried about while sleeping in an uncomfortable hospital chair with numb legs and an empty stomach from not eating. 

Now he stood in front of me, alive—but his heart full of hate.

“You,” he said coldly, his dark eyes burning into mine. “Are you really the one they chose to send?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt tight. No words to say. 

He limped closer, using a sleek black cane. His jaw was sharp, freshly shaven. His scent hit me—leather, cigarette smoke, and something strong and masculine that made my heart beat fast. He was taller than I remembered. Bigger. Harder. And angrier.

“You look like weak, like a piece of wet paper. ” he muttered under his breath. 

I blinked, confused. “Excuse me?”

“You think I can trust you with anything important?” His tone cut like a blade. “This must be a joke. Or is this a comedy show?”

“No one asked me to be here,” I snapped, my voice shaking with frustration. “Your men forced me.”

“Oh, so now you're innocent?” He sneered. His face twisting with mockery. “You work for me now. That means I own your loyalty. Or would you rather your mother lose her lungs one breath at a time?”

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I wanted to scream but I held it in. 

“You don’t scare me.” I said, trying to sound brave. 

He smiled, slow and cruel. “You should be terrified.”

I was. I just wouldn’t show him.

“You’re going to do a very simple job,” he said, his voice steady now. “You’ll work at a club owned by Santiago Torres. You’ll mop floors, wipe tables, and clean bathrooms—while you listen.”

“Listen to what?” My voice quieter than I meant it to be. 

“Listen to what people say,” he explained. “Pay attention to names they mention, dates they talk about, or anything that seems strange or suspicious. You might find papers, computer drives, or maps. If you do, bring them to me.”

I crossed my arms over my busty chest. “I’m not a spy. I don't know how to do that.”

He stepped so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath. His face inches from mine. “You’re whatever I need you to be.”

I looked up at him, my heart pounding. “What happens if I fail?”

His cruel smile vanished. “You won’t.”

The room went quiet, the silence heavy, like a storm waiting to break. Neither of us spoke. 

I looked down at his leg, noticing the way he leaned on his cane. He caught me staring.

“You limped when I found you,” I said quietly. “Still do.”

His jaw tightened.

“You should be dead,” I added. “I saved your life. You could say thank you.”

He stared at me, expression unreadable. Then he laughed—cold and short.

“I don’t thank tools,” he said. “I use them.”

His words hit me like a slap, and I flinched.

He turned away and walked toward the metal table behind him. Papers were scattered across it—maps, photos, and even a few guns scattered across it.

“I don’t care if you cry. I don’t care if you hate me. You’ll do what I say, when I say it. I’ll make sure your mother has what she needs. That’s the deal.”

“Deal?” I repeated. “This feels more like a prison sentence.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Then don’t break the rules. Or you won’t survive it.”

My throat tightened, but I forced myself to nod.

“What’s first?” I asked.

“First,” he said, reaching for a file. “You move into one of my safehouses. You leave your family. You cut contact. You report to me every night. You do nothing without permission.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him this was unfair but he raised one hand to stop me. 

“You live under my roof. That means my rules. Disobey me once, and I’ll send you back home in a body bag.”

I stared at him.

“Why me?” I asked. “There are a hundred girls who’d beg to work for you. Why force someone who doesn’t want to?”

He walked up to me again. His eyes were dark as ink.

“Because no one notices you,” he said. “No one suspects a poor girl mopping floors.”

His words stung. Not because they were wrong. But because they were right.

I looked down, blinking fast to keep my tears from dropping. I wouldn’t cry in front of him.

Diego stepped back, pulling out a black cell phone. He tossed it at me, and I caught it with shaky hands. 

“From now on, you answer only to me. You don’t call anyone else. You don’t talk to your neighbors. You don’t even think about running.”

“I’m not your prisoner.” I said, gripping the phone tightly. 

“You are,” he said, his voice calm but certain. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”

He turned to walk away, his cane tapping the floor but then he paused.

“Oh,” he added without looking back. “One more thing.”

“What now?” I asked, my voice tired already. 

He looked at me over his shoulder, eyes narrowed.

“If you ever lie to me, Maya…”

He tapped his cane on the floor once. The sound echoing in the quiet room. 

“I’ll bury you where no one will find you.”

And with that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving me standing there, breathless and shaking.

But I didn’t know then—

I’d just stepped into the fire with the devil himself.