Novel & Cerita Marisol Garcia

He was recently married, his wife was a nice woman, whom I've only spoken to or seen a few times. "And this must be Elijah Camorra, Camila has told me quite a lot about you,Marcel Clair"Marcel says outstretching his hand. "Is that so?" Elijah asks looking down at me in amazement. "Lower your ego, just a tad bit"I offered, closing my index finger to my thumb. "It's an honor to meet you Sir, I've heard nothing but great things about you"Elijah says trying to get Marcel to let go of his hand.

I gave the screen one last look, logged out, shut the laptop. “Send him in.” The door opened. Marcos Montoya walked in like he owned the building. Smooth. Calculated. Arrogant. His presence shifted the air. “Dante,” he said, too casual. “Rumor is there’s a woman in your city. Marisol Franco. That name ring a bell?” Rage crawled under my skin. I kept my voice flat. “I don’t know anyone by that name.” He watched me, eyes sharp. Then pulled out his phone.

Mila sat opposite her, clearly annoyed, and Andrade was in his usual corner—arms crossed, face unreadable, watching everything without a word. But the man sitting beside Marisol was the one who caught my attention. He looks tall, older, mid-fifties maybe—with slick dark hair and a too-perfect smile. Marisol’s hand was resting on his knee and his hand on the small of her back. The picture looked too intimate for comfort. Marisol’s eyes sparkled as she spoke. “This is Cristian Léon Marquez,” she said proudly. “Be nice now.” My chest tightened. I glanced at Andrade, waiting for a reaction, but he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Then a hand went up. “It’s y equals mx plus b.” I turned toward the voice. The guy sitting next to me was Hispanic. Sharp jawline. Curly hair. Blue eyes. Arms like tree trunks. “That’s correct,” Mrs. Payne said. “And your name?” “Marcelo,” he replied. “My name is Marcelo.”

“If there was an accident we would have heard about it, you are Maria Rodriguez, who doesn't know you and besides you don't have a single scratch on your body.” “You are right, I am Maria Rodriguez but you left one thing… Maria Rodriguez does not betray anyone.” Old Grandpa took in deep breaths turning to me. “I believe you, but these pictures say otherwise so until I find out what is going on, this matter remains silent.” I shook my head in disagreement. “I don't know how Allen got his hands on these pictures but for him to have these pictures, he must know about the accident.” “Maria would not cheat on you,” Adam defended. “She might not love you but she would never do something like that.

The photograph was the same young woman. My grandmother. The real Garcia. The live comments erupted. “So THAT is the real Garcia? Then who’s the woman next to him?” “The letters say it plainly. And he just said he ‘rejected’ her. Lying without batting an eye.” “So the real Garcia was abandoned in the rural West. Who is this fake Garcia? This is insane.” Daniel Harrington’s lips pressed into a thin line. He gripped the table. His fingertips were white. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead.

"At least I'll have tried." Marisol was quiet for a very long time. Then she stood up. She went to the old cabinet against the wall and opened it — the smell of herbs intensified immediately — and she moved things aside with the careful memory of someone who knew exactly where everything was, and she produced a small dark bottle and a folded piece of cloth and brought them both to the table.

Maria said waving at Valeria in a queen-like manner. "Que tenga un buen día señora. Goodbye." Valeria said and left the room. Meanwhile, Maria sighed and sipped a little bit of wine from her tumbler. Whenever she got depressed or angry, red wine was her drug to overcome those emotions. She hoped that Philip would not get in her way. He had the special ability to destroy her plans at the most unexpected time.

Vega inquired of Amaria. Amaria dismounted her horse and dashed towards Teresa. "Teresa, What's the problem? What occurred?" Amaria inquired. As Teresa looked at Amaria, her lips trembled and tears welled up in her eyes, "This is not how I recall Silvan." 'I can't feel Gaia's energy.' she thought. She knelt, covered her eyes, and sobbed even more, "I can't feel life at all, every single person in this town is dead."

Once she shut the door, she dropped the pizza on the table and went to stand beside the door with a stoic expression. Mariana looked at her and smiled. "Hi, may I know your name?" "Giana." She said, crossing her arms. Mariana began to wonder if the Mafia society allows a woman to work with them. "How long have you been working for Marcello?" "Since he rescued me from the hands of my abusive husband." A bit of amusement rose in Mariana. Did Marcello actually do that? "He doesn't seem like someone who rescues someone." Not a hero.