Chapter 20 Chapter 20
Lola
The plane kissed the runway like it knew better than to announce itself. Lola felt the shift before the wheels even finished their complaint, pressure changing, air thickening, something warm and damp pressing in through the seams of the cabin like a held breath finally released. She opened her eyes as the engines eased down, stretching slowly, bones loose in that familiar way that meant she’d slept just enough to be dangerous. Across from her, Rafael was already upright.
Of course he was.
“Welcome,” he said mildly, glancing out the window as ground crew moved into position. “Latest intel has Marco nowhere near the port.”
Lola hummed, unbothered. “Of course he isn’t.”
“He’s deeper in the city,” Rafael continued. “Embedded, busy, not hiding exactly, but not visible either.”
That earned him her attention. She turned her head, eyes sharp now but not alarmed. “Busy men make mistakes,” she said. “Especially when they think they’re safe.”
Rafael studied her for a second, then smiled faintly. “This is where most people would sigh and ask how complicated that makes things.”
Lola grinned, slow and unapologetic. “This is where I get excited.” The plane rolled to a stop, doors unlocked, heat flooded in immediately, thick and alive and humming with a thousand competing scents. Lola stood, shrugging her bag over her shoulder, already feeling herself settle into the rhythm of a place that didn’t ask permission to exist. “It’s a fox hunt,” she added lightly, stepping into the aisle.
Rafael laughed under his breath as he followed. “You say that like it’s a hobby.”
“It is,” she said over her shoulder. “I just don’t always get to keep the souvenirs.”
The city didn’t greet them, it swallowed them. Noise hit first: vendors calling, scooters whining through impossible gaps, music bleeding from open storefronts in competing rhythms. Then smell: oil and citrus and sugar, smoke curling off grills, something sharp and fermented that made Lola’s mouth water instantly.
She slowed without meaning to. Not wary only curious. “Oh, absolutely not,” she muttered, stopping short.
Rafael glanced back. “What?”
She pointed. “That. We’re not walking past that.”
A vendor had something skewered over open flame, meat lacquered in sauce so glossy it looked illegal, fat hissing as it dripped onto coals. Lola was already digging into her bag for cash.
“You just landed,” Rafael said. “You don’t want to—”
“You’ll regret not trying this,” she cut in, already reaching. “Deeply. Possibly forever.”
He sighed like a man indulging a foregone conclusion and paid before she could argue. Lola took the skewer with a pleased sound, biting in immediately. “Oh my god,” she said around the mouthful. “That’s obscene.” She didn’t wait for him before moving again, weaving through foot traffic with practiced ease, eyes everywhere. She grabbed something fried and spiced from another stall, didn't even slow down, just bit and laughed. “Just try it,” she said. “So you can say you did.”
He took it, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”
“I prefer thorough.” She laughed, bright and familiar, the sound turning a few heads. For a moment—just a moment—she felt like herself again. Not a symbol, not a survivor; just a woman loose in a city that didn’t know her name.
They passed a stall spilling over with scarves and lightweight wraps, linen, cotton, colors sun-faded and soft. Lola slowed, fingers brushing fabric as if absently, then picked one up and held it against Rafael’s chest. “Nope,” she said immediately. “Too clean.” She swapped it for another, darker, looser, something that looked like it had lived a life. Tossed it at him. “And you,” she added, already pulling one for herself, looping it around her shoulders and knotting it without fuss. “Lose the jacket. You look like you flew in.”
Rafael arched a brow. “I did fly in.”
“Yes, and I’d rather not announce it.” She stepped back, assessing him critically, then nodded once. “Better. You look less… export.” He huffed a laugh but shed the jacket anyway, folding it and handing it off to the vendor along with cash. Lola picked up a hat, nothing flashy, brim soft and worn and settled it on her own head.
There. Anonymous enough.
She moved on, already forgotten by the stall, already absorbed back into the flow. She stopped again, this time at a fruit cart piled high with things she couldn’t name. Picked something orange and dripping, juice running down her wrist as she bit in. “Wow,” she said, blinking. “That’s aggressive.”
Rafael watched her, amused. “You’re enjoying this.”
Lola didn't slow. "Having a plan helps," she said. "It takes some of the weight off."
He waited.
"The last few weeks," she added more quietly, "everything felt reactive. Like I was always bracing." She glanced back at him, smile flickering but real. "This feels like me again. Plus you don’t just come to a place like this to rush through it, no matter the circumstances. That’s disrespectful.”
“To the city?”
“To me.”
She wiped her hands, stole a napkin from a nearby table, and kept moving—lighter now, sharper, her humor sliding back into place like muscle memory. She teased him about his accent when he tried to bargain. Mocked his instincts when he hesitated over spice. Made him pay again. And again. The lines between them softened, not trust, not forgiveness, but familiarity. The kind that came from time spent in close quarters and shared silences. He laughed more, she let him. She was very careful not to let him see how much she was watching. How she tracked reflections in windows. How she clocked exits without breaking stride. How every laugh had weight behind it. This wasn’t a vacation, she'd known that the moment she slept just enough to be dangerous, and somewhere in the city’s endless sprawl, the fox was still breathing.
Her steps had already quieted when she realized she was listening for metal; the knife found her. That was how Lola would remember it later, not as a decision, not as a step in a plan, but as inevitability.
They drifted deeper into the market where the stalls tightened and the air grew heavier, humid with bodies and spice and old stone. Somewhere nearby, metal rang against metal in a steady rhythm, sharpening, shaping, grinding.
Lola slowed. “Oh,” she said, delighted. “Now this is promising.”
Rafael followed her gaze to a narrow stall half swallowed by shadow. A man sat behind a low table scattered with blades, small ones, long ones, curved, straight; nothing polished, nothing decorative, tools, honest in their violence. The vendor looked up as they approached, eyes flicking over them with quick intelligence. He smiled first at Lola.
“Looking for something special?” he asked.
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands like she was considering pastries instead of weapons. “That depends,” she said. “What do you recommend for someone with excellent grip strength and very good follow-through?”
Rafael coughed.
The vendor’s smile widened. “First knife?”
“Oh no,” Lola said lightly. “Just the first one I won’t be able to bring home in my carry-on.” She reached out and picked one up without asking—a narrow blade, balanced, unassuming. The kind of knife you didn’t notice until it was already inside you. She turned it in her fingers, testing the weight.
Too light.
She set it down and chose another. This one sat heavier in her palm, blade clean and lethal without flourish. She gave it a small experimental flick, wrist loose, natural.
Better.
The vendor watched her with open approval. “You’ve used one before.”
“Arts and crafts,” she replied. “I’m very hands-on.” She smiled at him then bright, charming, utterly disarming. The kind of smile that made men forget to ask the right questions. “How much?” she asked.
He named a price. Lola didn’t even blink. Rafael stepped in, already reaching for his wallet, but Lola shot him a look. “Absolutely not.”
“I don’t mind—”
“I do.” She dug into her pocket and slapped cash down on the table. “This one’s personal.”
The vendor counted quickly, then wrapped the knife in cloth and slid it toward her. “Use it well,” he said, not joking.
Lola took it, tucking it into her bag with practiced ease. “Always do.”
They stepped away from the stall and melted back into the crowd. Lola’s mood hadn’t shifted, she was still smiling, still glancing at food, still teasing Rafael when he lagged behind but something in her had clicked into place.
A quiet alignment.
“You seem cheerful,” Rafael said after a moment.
“I am,” she replied. “I love a good market.”
“And knives?”
She shrugged. “Everyone has a hobby.”
Rafael laughed, shaking his head. “I really should be worried about you.”
“Probably,” she agreed easily. Then added, almost cheerfully, “I love stabbing people.”
He stopped walking.
She glanced back at him, amused. “Relax. That’s why I tattoo for a living. Same hand skills. Less paperwork.”
Rafael stared at her for a beat, then snorted. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’ve been told,” she said, already moving again.
They walked on, somewhere ahead, the city narrowed. The noise thinned just enough to sharpen into focus. And Lola felt it—the subtle tightening in her chest, the way her steps grew quieter without conscious thought.
The fox hunt had begun And she had just bought the teeth.
“Why take this on yourself?” Rafael asked. “Why not let Enzo deal with it?”
Lola was quiet for a beat. She didn't think of Enzo's anger, only of his grief.
“Because he won’t,” she said. “He’s a man of honor.” She adjusted the bag at her side. “And I can’t lose anyone else. They’re my family now. I just want our home to be safe.”
They left the market in layers.
Noise first.
Then color.
Then smell.
The street narrowed into something older and more deliberate, stone worn smooth by feet that had learned where not to linger. The vendors here weren’t shouting, they didn’t need to. Their goods were laid out with quiet confidence: lacquered boxes, dried herbs bundled with twine, folded fabrics stacked by color rather than size. This was a place for people who already knew what they wanted. Rafael slowed, not because he needed to, but because this was where slowing mattered. Lola adjusted the scarf at her neck, letting it fall just low enough to shadow the line of her jaw. The wrap they’d bought earlier did its job, local cut, local fabric, nothing about either of them that screamed foreign unless someone already knew what to look for. And if Marco still had eyes here, they were the kind that noticed hesitation, not confidence. Rafael stopped at a tea stall tucked between two shuttered storefronts. The man behind it was older, spine curved but eyes sharp, hands steady as he poured. Steam curled up between them, fragrant and bitter.
No greeting.
Just a glance.
Rafael set money down—not on the counter, but beside the kettle. The man’s gaze flicked to Lola for half a second longer than necessary. Not interest, assessment.
“She’s walking,” the man said finally, voice low and roughened by smoke.
Lola didn’t react.
Rafael nodded. “Still?”
The man tilted his head toward the street behind them. “Inward.”
That was all. They moved on without another word. The next contact was younger, perched on a low stoop with a crate of fruit at his feet. He didn’t sell anything. He just sat there, skin sun-browned, eyes lazy in a way that fooled no one who mattered. When Lola passed, his gaze tracked her reflection in a darkened window, not her face, her hands.
Rafael paused. “Anything new?”
The boy shrugged. “He stopped pretending he’s careful.”
Lola felt the shift then; not excitement, not anticipation, alignment.
“Where?” Rafael asked.
The boy jerked his chin toward a side street so narrow it looked like an accident. “That way. Third turn. You’ll smell bleach before you see him.”
That earned a flicker of something like amusement from Lola. “Classy,” she murmured.
The boy’s mouth twitched. “He always did overcorrect when he got nervous.”
They walked on. By the time the sounds of the market had fully died behind them, Lola had stopped thinking about food. The city felt closer here, walls pressing in, shadows layered, every surface offering either cover or reflection. She clocked exits without effort. Counted steps. Adjusted her pace so it matched Rafael’s without appearing to. Rafael spoke quietly beside her, voice steady, familiar. “Last sighting puts him alone. He trusts the location. Thinks it’s neutral.”
Lola huffed softly. “Neutral never exists.”
“No,” he agreed. “It just convinces men they’re safe.”
The street ahead bent out of sight, the air sharper now, cleaner in a way that had nothing to do with sanitation and everything to do with control. Lola rolled her shoulders once, loosening tension she hadn’t noticed building.
This was the point of no return.
And whatever had gone missing inside her had finally clicked back into place.