All Chapters of TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN: Chapter 31 - Chapter 39

Dinner at the Serrano house never stayed quiet. Unless you were dead or had just shot someone. I hadn’t done either today, so the clatter of silverware mixed with laughter, muttering, and dramatic stories like always.I scooped arroz con pollo onto my plate for the third time. There were empanadas, arepas, pastelitos, even papaya that Mama swore was good for “spiritual purification.” Me? I’m just hungry. The after-being-kidnapped kind of hungry.“My sweet sister,” Bretta watched me from the far end of the table, her face dipped in telenovela-level concern. “You’re sure you don’t want beet juice? It helps with post-war trauma.”“I prefer post-chili trauma. Thanks.”Mama shot me a look, then piled more empanadas onto my plate like they could rinse my sins away. “If you can still be snarky, you’re not eating enough,” she said. “And you need cleansing. I already called Pastor Rodrigo. He’s coming in the morning.”“Pastor?” I muttered, chewing. “I thought all we needed was a hitman and a t

This afternoon, Medellín feels like a city fresh out of the shower: streets still damp, sunlight cutting through low buildings, the air laced with coffee and sweet dust.I walk alone along the sidewalk without a hint of fear. This city is my home, my blood, and Papa built half the blocks in this district. No one is stupid enough to mess with me in Medellín.Very different from Bogotá, where Matteo would send a small squad every time I said “I’m going to buy bread.”I pull my new phone from my bag. Isabella has called three times since morning. I finally answer.“KRYSTAL SERRANO, ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!” Her scream nearly drills through my skull.I hold the phone slightly away. “Honey, if I were dead, who would remind you that your new eyebrows aren’t symmetrical?”“DON’T JOKE ABOUT MY EYEBROW!” she shrieks again. “I was about to book your funeral mass!”I roll my eyes as I step into the centro comercial, the biggest mall near my house. Cold AC hits my skin, the smell of popcorn mixes wi

The Serrano dinner table looked the same as always tonight: too full, too loud, and with too few people actually paying attention to their food.I stared at my plate like it was a math exam.Roasted chicken with crisp skin, fragrant yellow rice, fresh salad… on any other night, I’d clear a plate like this down to the bone. Now, my fork just pushed the rice around, carving tiny meaningless lines.My neck felt… empty.Reflexively, my hand lifted, brushing the skin just below my collarbone. No cool chain. No green sea glass hanging like a small claim on my skin. The necklace was in my room drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. Far enough not to be seen. Not far enough to forget.“Wow.”Javier’s voice sliced into my thoughts like a dull knife. Slow and annoying.“Look who suddenly went on a diet.” He shoveled rice into his own mouth, then eyed my plate. “Is this because Matteo’s not here? You only eat properly when your husband’s around, is that it?”One comment. One second. I wanted to throw m

Morning in the Serrano house never understood the meaning of the word slow.Somewhere down the hall, a blender roared to life. Children’s laughter bounced off the walls. The old kitchen radio murmured soft reggaeton. And someone—God knew who—had already started yelling about shoes before the sun had even fully hauled itself up.I stood at the kitchen sink, fingers curled over the cold granite edge, letting the faucet run for a second before I shut it off again.My neck felt… bare.Instinct tugged my hand upward, stopping halfway. Upstairs, in the drawer of my room, rested a single piece of sea-glass on a chain, engraved with one small word on the back. Found.“If you stand there any longer, the floor’s going to get depressed,” a warm, raspy voice called from near the stove.I blinked, lifting my head.Aunt Marisol stood before the big stove, spatula in one hand, cast-iron pan in the other, a red checkered apron cinched around her waist. Her dark hair, streaked with white, was twisted

I opened my eyes again, staring up at the blue sky between the coffee leaves, and the sentence I’d just read resurfaced in my head like an annoying song.[You never see him. You just know when he’s there because everyone else starts acting careful.]“Yes,” I muttered under my breath. “I know.”But that wasn’t the part that made my throat feel bitter. It wasn’t the fact that Zach knew we were going to Los Angeles. It wasn’t even the way he texted like my neck was property of the Romano family.What made me sick was the simple part. The part too domestic for my life.Papa had only mentioned the L.A. trip at the family dinner table. And I had only mentioned it in one chat.Bogotá & the Idiots.That was it.Two circles. Two possibilities. And one of them leaked.I lifted my phone off my chest, unlocked the screen again, and opened the old chat with the +39 number. The two messages were still there neat, cold, like fingerprints on glass.[Your neck is empty.][Don’t go to Los Angeles witho