6: I enjoy a challenge

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

I froze, glancing between them. The tall, slender, and very serious-looking man gave Santiago a curt nod, the kind that carried more weight than words, before his eyes flickered to me. He looked a little curious, surprised even, but it felt more like he was assessing me than interested in Santiago’s company.

"Julián," Santiago said casually, answering the unspoken question, "this is Valerie."

Julián's gaze scanned me, like mentally filing me away, before he turned his attention back to Santiago.

"¿A dónde, Señor Morales?" Where to?

Santiago didn’t answer immediately. He looked past Julián, toward the café window where Javier stood with his hand on Ana’s shoulder, both watching us through the glass. He slipped a phone from his pocket, tapped a number, and when a shadow across the street answered, he said, “Dos afuera, uno atrás. Nadie entra sin mi permiso.” Two outside, one in the back. No one goes in without my permission.

He slid his phone away, looked back to Julián. “La Alameda. The back entrance.”

Julián simply nodded and waited for us to get in.

Santiago turned to me with a warm smile, motioning toward the car. "Our chariot awaits, mi ángel."

I hesitated, then glanced one last time at the café. Ana raised her hand. I raised mine back.

“They’ll be okay?” I asked.

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

“When the time comes,” I repeated.

“We wait,” he said, the words quiet and sure. “They show their hand first, then I show mine.”

I nodded, gathered his jacket tighter around my shoulders, and slid into the SUV. Santiago followed.

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La Alameda wasn’t flashy; it was warm. Terracotta tiles. Hanging ferns. Candlelight on every table.

Garlic and spices drifted out of the kitchen, making my mouth water.

“Mmm,” I sighed, imagining the taste already.

Santiago’s hand rested lightly on the small of my back, “Don’t tease me.” His voice was low and playful.

I turned my head to him, about to respond, but a woman with a copper braid – Lucía, according to the tiny nameplate – appeared with two menus in hand.

“Buenas noches, Señor Morales.” Her eyes flicked to me, curious but kind. “Welcome.”

“Gracias, Lucía.” His voice warm, almost intimate, like he was speaking to an old friend.

“So nice to see you brought company for once,” she said to Santiago while smiling at me.

Santiago slid his hand more firmly around my waist, pulling me closer. “Hopefully it’ll become a habit.”

He winked at me, and I blushed. Lucía smiled knowingly and motioned us toward a quiet, intimate table. A bouquet of red roses. I looked around, noticing none of the other tables had roses.

“You have a thing for red roses?” I asked, not paying notice to Lucía. She smiled awkwardly, placed the menus on the table, and retreated. Santiago waited till she was out of sight, before reaching out, catching my hand and tugging me forward until I nearly stumbled against his chest.

“Oh,” I gasped, bracing myself on him, my palms pressed to the solid heat of his body.

His smile turned boyish, though his eyes were dark. “I appreciate beautiful things, mi ángel.” He leaned in, brushing his nose through my hair, his lips grazing the curve of my neck, inhaling.

I forgot time and space.

I swallowed. Hard. Steadying myself. “I’m not a thing,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He chuckled. The sound vibrating against my skin. “No, Valería,” he pulled back, just enough to meet my eyes, hungry and unyielding, “that… you are not.”

My heart was pounding while he held my gaze, my body aching for him. For his kiss. For his touch. And then, just as sudden as he had pulled me in, he let go – leaving me cold in the absence of his embrace.

He straightened his cuffs, before sliding into a chair.

“Sit.” His eyes didn’t meet mine; they were on the menu.

Confused by the sudden shift, my head spinning, I sank into the seat opposite, watching him warily.

At last, he looked up.

“Allergies?” His voice was calm. Not like mine which was a little shaken, “N-no. None.”

“Good. I pick. We’ll share.” He waved the menu in his hands, casual.

I blinked. “S-sure,” I murmured, forcing a smile.

He waved his hand, and Lucía reappeared almost instantly.

“Sí, Señor Morales?” Her voice was bright, and she battered her eyelashes at him. I couldn’t tell whether she was flirting with him or just being overly polite.

He ordered in Spanish – calm, quick, without looking at the menu.

Tortilla española. Gambas al ajillo. Croquetas de jamón. Pan con tomate. A salad with oranges and olives and fennel that caught the candlelight. For drinks, a glass of Rioja for him, sparkling water and a slice of lemon for me.

“You didn’t ask if I wanted wine?” I raised a brow.

Santiago tilted his head, studying me over the rim of his glass. He swirled the Rioja lazily before taking a deliberate sip. “You looked like you wanted a clear head, mi ángel. And I enjoy a challenge.”

“A challenge?” I frowned.

He set the glass down, leaning forward across the table, his voice low and smooth. “Yes. To see how long you can resist tasting what’s mine.”

Heat flushed through me. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then you don’t.” His smile was teasing. “But your eyes betray you, cariño. You want to.”

I scoffed, leaning back. “You think you know everything.”

His grin widened, wolfish. “No. But I can read you like an open book.”

I leaned forward, daring him, though my pulse was hammering in my throat. “Maybe I’m not as easy to read as you think… Santiago.” I lingered on his name in perfect Spanish.

His eyes glinted, sharp and hungry. “Oh, I like it when you get defiant.” He dragged the last word out like velvet over steel.

I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze, yet unable to look away.

“And if I don’t like your little games?”

He leaned in closer, until only the candlelight separated us, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then you tell me to stop.”

For a second, I thought I’d won – until his hand slid over mine on the table, his fingers grazing deliberately. My breath caught.

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