6: A dramatic invitation

At the end of the square, across the street, a black SUV idled at the curb, the kind of car with tinted windows that stood out in a quiet neighborhood.

Santiago’s hand rested against my back with a gentle touch, though it still guided me forward toward the car without giving me much of a choice. My lips still tingled from the unexpected kiss.

As soon as Santiago appeared, the driver’s door opened, and a tall man in a perfectly tailored suit stepped out. He scanned the street before walking around to open the rear passenger door.

His gaze swept over me with cool precision, like he was filing away every detail. Damp hair. Pale face. Santiago’s jacket around my shoulders. His eyes lingered on that last part for half a second too long.

I stopped.

Santiago noticed immediately. His hand slid lower to the small of my back, light enough to pretend it wasn’t a command.

“Something wrong, mi ángel?”

I looked at the SUV. Then at the man holding the door. Then back at Santiago.

“Do I have a choice?”

His expression did not change, but something sharpened behind his eyes.

“About dinner?” he asked.

“About getting into that car and pretending to come with you willingly.”

For a moment, the square seemed to quiet around us. Rain still whispered against the stones.

Something dark flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Interest.

His mouth curved faintly. “You did take my hand.”

“You threatened Ana’s father.”

“I reminded Ana of consequences.”

“That’s a very pretty way to say threatened.”

His smile deepened, but it did not soften him. “Careful, Valería. There are limits to my kindness. And my patience.”

Silence stretched between us while the rain fell, wet and cold.

“Julián,” Santiago said without looking away from me, “this is Valerie.”

“Señorita,” Julián said with a curt nod. Then he turned his attention back to Santiago.

“¿A dónde, jefe?” Julián asked.

Where to?

Santiago finally looked away from me. His gaze moved toward the café window, where Javier stood with one hand on Ana’s shoulder. They watched us through the glass, both pale, both trying too hard not to look afraid.

Santiago slipped his phone from his pocket, tapped a number, and waited.

When someone answered, his voice lowered. “Dos afuera, uno atrás. Nadie entra sin mi permiso.”

Two outside, one in the back. No one goes in without my permission.

He ended the call and tucked the phone away.

The gesture should have made me feel protected.

Instead, it made my stomach twist.

He had men waiting in shadows. Men who answered without hesitation. Men who would stand outside a café because he ordered it with a few quiet words.

He looked back to Julián. “La Alameda. The back entrance.”

Julián nodded.

Santiago turned to me, offering a hand toward the open car door as if we were attending a ball.

“Our chariot awaits.”

I didn’t move.

His eyebrow lifted slightly. “No?”

“This is kidnapping.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “This is protection. If you stay here, you’re dead.”

I opened my mouth to spit something back. But I couldn’t.

Fear tangled in my chest, tightening my throat.

Fear that he was right.

I glanced back at the café. Ana lifted one hand from behind the glass. Small. Worried.

I lifted mine in return. It felt like goodbye.

Santiago watched the exchange quietly.

“They’ll be okay?” I asked.

“They’ll be watched,” Santiago said. “And when the time comes, they will be protected.”

“When the time comes,” I repeated.

“We wait.” His voice was calm, almost gentle. “They show their hand first. Then I show mine.”

It sounded like strategy.

It sounded like war.

Santiago made another motion toward the SUV. “Get in, Valería.”

“Is that an order?”

His mouth curved. “Would you obey if it was?”

“No.”

“Then consider it an invitation.”

“With armed men and tinted windows.”

“A dramatic invitation.”

“What happens if I say no?” I asked.

Santiago’s gaze darkened.

He didn’t answer quickly.

That answer was loud enough.

My laugh came out small and bitter. “That’s what I thought.”

“Get in the car, Valerie,” he said softly. “Please.”

The please made it clear he was done being patient.

Soon, he would be done being polite too.

I swallowed, knowing there was no way out of this. And even if there was, it involved Marek’s cold smile and hungry eyes.

Somehow, that seemed worse.

So I hugged Santiago’s jacket tighter around myself and slid into the SUV.

Santiago followed.

The door shut beside him with a heavy, expensive sound.

Like a lock clicking into place.

La Alameda wasn’t flashy.

It was warm.

Terracotta tiles. Hanging ferns. Candlelight trembling across dark wood. The smell of garlic, oil, smoked paprika, and fresh bread drifted from the kitchen, rich enough to make my empty stomach ache.

It should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

The back entrance opened for Santiago before Julián even knocked. A woman with copper-braided hair and a nameplate reading Lucía greeted him with a smile that was warm, but careful.

“Buenas noches, Señor Morales.”

Her eyes flicked to me. Curious. Kind. Then cautious.

“Welcome.”

“Gracias, Lucía.” Santiago’s voice was smooth, familiar. “A quiet table.”

“Of course.”

She led us deeper into the restaurant. Conversations dipped as Santiago passed, then resumed in softer tones.

They knew him.

Everyone seemed to know him.

That frightened me.

We stopped at a corner table half-hidden by candlelight and shadow. On the table sat a bouquet of red roses, dark and perfect.

I looked around.

No other table had flowers.

That seemed… unsettling.

Santiago pulled out my chair. “Sit.”

I sat slowly, because my legs were tired, and because standing there arguing while Lucía watched felt like losing another kind of battle.

Santiago sat opposite me.

Not beside me.

That surprised me.

I didn’t trust it.

Lucía placed the menus down and retreated.

For a moment, silence settled between us, warm from the candles and sharp from everything unsaid.

I picked up the menu just to have something between us.

Santiago studied me over the flickering light.

“Allergies?” he asked.

I looked over the edge of the menu. “Are you asking or deciding?”

“Asking.”

“That must be new for you.”

His smile was slow, but he said nothing.

I narrowed my eyes. “No allergies.”

“Good.” He leaned back, glancing once at the menu without really reading it. “Anything you refuse to eat?”

I hesitated.

It was such a normal question.

So irritatingly normal.

“Everything served by my kidnapper.” I glanced defiantly at him.

“Dios mío,” he murmured. “You do have a mouth on you.”

“Yeah? Or maybe you’re just not used to your prey biting back.”

That earned me a devilish smile.

“Bite back all you want, Valería.”

He leaned closer, his hand sliding over mine, pinning it down.

“But…” he drawled, eyes locked on mine, “…just remember…” His lips curved into a dangerous smile. “…bad girls get punished.”