9: This is my home

The SUV slowed, turning down a long drive flanked by stone walls. At the end, an iron gate slid open without a sound, lantern light spilling across cobblestones.

I pressed closer to the window, my chest tight. It wasn’t a house. It was a fortress.

The vehicle rolled into a courtyard, and I noticed shadows moving – no, not shadows. Men. Armed men.

They were watchful, eyes scanning the perimeter with soldier’s precision. One at the gate, two at the steps. Another pacing the courtyard, a rifle slung casually across his chest.

My pulse stuttered.

The SUV stopped. Julián was out first, opening Santiago’s door with the silent efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Santiago slid out, then turned, offering me his hand.

I froze. Every man in the courtyard was looking at me.

Santiago’s hand stayed extended, patient but commanding. “Valerie.” His voice was deep, allowing no refusal. I placed my trembling hand in his. He pulled me out gently, then tucked me against his side, his palm firm at my waist – protective and claiming all at once.

We ascended the wide stone steps. The guards inclined their heads. “Señor Morales.” Respect, reverence. Santiago nodded once without breaking stride, never easing his grip on me.

The double doors opened into a space that stole my breath.

Dark terracotta tiles. Tall windows draped in heavy curtains. A carved stone heath with a fire glowing, above it a massive painting of a majestic lion in mid-roar. In the center of the room stretched a massive oak table scattered with papers, maps, photographs.

Armed men stood on either side of the doors, greeting Santiago with a respectful nod, one of them murmuring, “El León.” Santiago didn’t respond, his hand on my waist pulling me with him as we entered the room. The fire from the heath wrapped around me, a warm, but false, welcome in contrast to the cold night air. I shivered. Santiago noticed, his hand caressing my waist, pulling me closer.

Passing the oak table, a face stood out among the photographs. Marek’s ice-blue eyes staring at me, his vicious scar gouged across his left eye. Slightly above it was another photograph of an older man, grey hair, elegant suit - nice looking man. Scribbled in black ink beneath: Wiktor Mazur.

Ice flooded my veins. My breath caught audibly. Wiktor. The man who wanted to hurt Santiago. The man who might hurt me to do so.

I hadn’t noticed I’d stopped moving. I stood by the table, staring at the photograph. Staring at Wiktor.

Santiago’s presence filled the space behind me, his arms wrapping protectively around me, pulling me close.

“Remember the name if you must, mi ángel. But don’t waste your fear on him.” His tone was soft, but I could sense the fury burning beneath. “Wiktor believes this city has space for him – it doesn’t.”

They way he said it – calm, certain, terrifying – sent goosebumps down my arms. Once El León decided to hunt, nothing survived.

“Señor Morales.” A young man with a rifle, standing near the table, stepped forward, speaking low in Spanish.

I didn’t catch the words, but I saw Santiago’s head incline once, decisive. He looked at the man, acknowledging him – the man seemed surprised, startled even, looking Santiago in the eyes for just a second, before his eyes darting toward the ground.

“What is your name, soldier?” Santiago’s voice was curious, yet heavy underlined with authority.

“T-Tomás, señor. Tomás Santos.” His eyes were still glued to the ground, his face turning red.

Santiago smirked. “Ah, the saint. Good job, Tomás.” His voice carried rare approval.

Tomás stiffened, the corner of his mouth twitching. “G-gracias, El León.” His voice was barely a breath.

Just as I was watching the young man, studying him, Santiago’s hand slid lower on my back, steering me toward the staircase. “Come, mi ángel.”

The staircase rose grand and white, white marble gleaming in the firelight. As we climbed, I whispered, barely able to breathe, “So this is… your safehouse?”

“This is my home,” he corrected. His hazel eyes flicked to mine, sharp and unyielding. “The only place Wiktor’s men won’t dare step. And the only place you’ll sleep from now on.”

My heart thrashed. “I can’t –“

“You can. And you will.” His tone left no space for argument.

At the top of the stairs, he opened a pair of tall doors, revealing a bedroom. Massive, elegant, warmed by another fire. A bed of dark wood and red silk sheets.

The cage was closing in. I turned to him, panic bubbling up in my chest. “I-I can’t stay here – “

His hands cupped my jaw, silencing me. The gentle but firm touch was comforting against the storm inside me. “You will. Because this room is the safest place in the city tonight.”

My lips parted, but no words came.

His thumb brushed my cheek once, deceptively gentle, before that slow, devastating smile appeared.

“And because, Valería…” His voice dropped, a promise wrapped in fire.

“…we have unfinished business, you and I.”