Chapter 4

The Diagnosis 

Ciro Restrepo POV

The MRI machine sounded like a jackhammer trapped inside a tin can. They had me shoved deep inside that claustrophobic tube, surrounded by sterile white plastic. My left leg was locked in a brace, throbbing with a sick, burning heat that cut straight through the morphine pumping into my veins.

Every time I blinked against the harsh hospital lights, I didn't see the dark. I saw her.

Karol Kensington.

I remembered the brutal hit, the world spinning and floodlights, and the awful sound of my own body snapping. But above the pain and the roaring crowd, I remembered how she looked when she hit the ground beside me. Her golden skin was pale with panic. That cold, untouchable armor she always wore had completely cracked, leaving only raw, desperate urgency as her hands hovered over my knee.

I hated her family. I despised everything her mother stood for. But bleeding out on that pitch, I hadn't wanted my own medics. I'd grabbed her wrist, feeling her pulse race under my bloody fingers, and begged her.

"Only you, only you should help me," I had choked out.

The memory burned worse than the torn ligaments.

The loud thudding of the machine finally stopped. The motorized bed slid me out into the cold air of the radiology suite at Clinica del Rosario, a neutral hospital away from our clubs.

"Transferring you back to the private suite, Señor Restrepo," a nervous technician muttered, refusing to meet my eyes. He looked like a man handling a live bomb.

Ten minutes later, I was propped up in a heavily guarded VIP room, staring at a lightbox on the wall where the chief orthopedic surgeon was clipping up my scans.

The guy was sweating through his shirt, staring at the black-and-white images like they were his own execution order. He knew what was at stake. I wasn't just a patient; I was a billion-dollar asset, and the Restrepo empire's entire sports division rested on my legs.

"Just tell me," I rasped, my voice scraping my throat.

He flinched. "Señor Restrepo, the trauma was catastrophic. The lateral force of the tackle completely blew out your anterior cruciate ligament. Grade three tear. Your meniscus is fragmented, and the MCL is barely hanging on."

I stared blankly at the white blurs on the film. "Timeline."

"Ciro," he said softly, dropping the formal titles. "You need to understand how bad this is. We can do the surgery, but the joint's stability... it's a career-ending injury. Even with a perfect operation, you'll never get that explosive torsion back. Step on a pitch again and your knee will just collapse."

A cold numbness took over.

Football wasn't just a game or a business to me. It was the only place where the Restrepo name didn't follow me, where my father’s cartel-stained legacy couldn't touch me. On that grass, I was my own man. And this guy in a lab coat was telling me it was over.

A dark, violent rage pooled in my chest. I gripped the aluminum bed rails until my palms bruised, ready to rip apart whoever did this, until the heavy oak doors swung open.

Mateo Benítez walked in.

My head of security didn't bother knocking. He scanned the room instantly for threats, two armed men securing the door behind him. He looked at the sweating doctor and snapped, "Get out."

"Excuse me? I'm in the middle of a ….."

"You're in the middle of a locked perimeter," Mateo cut him off, stepping into the guy's personal space with enough quiet menace to make him shrink back. "My men have the charts and films. If a single whisper of this leaks to the press, you're done holding a scalpel. Move."

The doctor practically jogged out of the room.

The heavy doors clicked shut and locked from the inside. Mateo walked over, dropping the cold security act to look at my leg, then up at my face.

"How bad?" he asked quietly.

"He said I'm done," I replied, my voice dangerously calm. "The international cup is in six months. If I don't play by playoffs, the board will strip me of the team."

Mateo reached inside his jacket. "The board is already panicking. They're drafting a retirement press release."

"Over my dead body."

"Exactly," Mateo said.

He dropped a thick folder onto my lap. It hit the sheets with a heavy thud. I flinched, shifting my knee, and flipped the cover open.

Staring back at me was a candid photo of Karol Kensington.

Her dark hair was pulled back into that severe ponytail. Her amber eyes were sharp, radiating the icy discipline that always made my blood run hot. For two years, I'd made it my mission to rattle her, throwing leer her way just to see that mask slip.

And tonight, in the mud, I finally broke her.

"What is this, Mateo?" I demanded, my thumb tracing her picture.

"A solution," Mateo said, leaning on the bed rail. "I pulled data from elite sports surgeons all over the world. That doctor was right about traditional rehab. But her clinic doesn't do traditional. The Kensington Institute uses aggressive acceleration protocols. Athletes with your exact tear pattern have a ninety-nine percent full-recovery rate."

I stared at her face, my chest tightening. "She's a Kensington. Her mother would rather shoot me than let her help us."

"Esperanza is a businesswoman," Mateo replied coldly. "And she ran onto the field for you, Ciro. She broke every rule her mother set just to get to your knee. She's your only path back to the pitch."

I looked down at the dossier, filled with her flawless track record and fierce dedication. She was brilliant, and she belonged to the enemy.

A sudden heat flared in my gut, completely pushing aside the pain in my leg. If I needed her, I wouldn't just ask. I wouldn't negotiate with her mother. I would trap her.

"Draw up the papers," I said, closing the folder and locking eyes with Mateo. "Freeze their supply chains if you have to. I don't care what it costs."

Mateo nodded slowly. "And the Lady?"

I leaned back against the pillows, the ghost of her frantic touch still burning on my skin.

"Buy her contract," I commanded, the arrogant sneer finally returning to my face. "Buy her entirely.”