Buried knives

Buried knives
Sofia’s POV

I never liked the silence in big houses.

It didn’t feel peaceful—it felt watched.

Leandro’s estate was quieter than usual. The staff moved like ghosts, whispering more than speaking. The tension was thick enough to cut, and everyone felt it. Even the air smelled different—less like luxury, more like gunpowder and secrets.

Leandro had barely spoken since Marco.

He wasn’t ignoring me—just… locked in. Focused. His phone was glued to his hand, his eyes constantly moving over files, messages, names. He’d been betrayed, and when Leandro Rossi got betrayed, something cold took over.

Not angry. Not loud.

Dead calm.

And that scared me more than shouting ever could.

“You haven’t eaten,” I said, walking into the study with a tray. Toast, eggs, black coffee. He didn’t even glance up from his laptop.

“I will.”

“You said that three hours ago.”

This time, he looked at me.

His eyes were sharp again, but there was something softer underneath. Gratitude, maybe. Or just weariness.

He set the laptop aside and reached for the mug. “Thanks.”

I sat beside him on the long leather couch, pulling my legs up and resting my chin on my knee as he took slow sips. His knuckles were still scraped from how hard he’d hit the desk after the raid.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

He stared ahead for a moment. “Worse than I thought. Marco was part of something bigger. He’s not talking yet, but… we traced some of his calls. They were routed through a dummy number in Veracruz.”

“That’s… cartel territory, right?”

Leandro nodded once. “A splinter group. The ones we shut out of the supply chain last year. They’ve been looking for a way back in.”

“And they’re using your own people to do it.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

That was the buried knife.

Not the betrayal. The humiliation. The fact that someone had been smiling in his face, working beside him—maybe for months—while feeding enemies the very blueprint of his empire.

I leaned over and laced my fingers through his.

“You’ll fix this.”

He looked at me again. This time longer. Like he needed to believe that I believed it.

“I’m going to see someone,” he said after a pause. “Someone who used to be with the organization. He left when things started getting too political. But he still knows things.”

“You trust him?”

“No. But I know how to read him. And he hates these cartel rats more than I do.”

“When are you going?”

“Tonight. And I’m going alone.”

I tensed. “You shouldn’t—”

“I have to. If he sees you with me, he’ll shut down. He’s old-school. Paranoid.”

I exhaled. “Then take backup at least. Silent. Out of sight.”

He nodded. “Already planned.”

By nightfall, he was gone.

And I was pacing.

Every minute he was away, my thoughts kept pulling me down darker paths. What if the meeting was a setup? What if Marco had already given them Leandro’s routes, schedules, plans?

What if the knife was already raised, waiting to drop?

I couldn’t sit still.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I went to the guest room where Leandro stored old files. Paper records, physical photos—stuff too risky to digitize. I started pulling out anything that tied back to Marco Delgado. Employee records. Transfer forms. Meeting logs.

Something about the timing didn’t make sense.

Marco transferred to Ros’Notte two months ago. The leak happened barely two weeks after.

Why so fast?

I flipped through a folder, and a small slip of paper fluttered out.

A shipping receipt.

Not addressed to Marco, but signed by someone named Valerio Diaz.

My eyes narrowed.

Valerio Diaz hadn’t worked at any of Leandro’s clubs. But I’d heard the name before.

He was part of Leandro’s legal advisory team—a quiet guy, rarely in the public eye. Always behind the scenes. Most people didn’t even know he existed.

And according to the receipt, he’d approved a courier shipment to a private address in Veracruz three days before the raid.

My heart dropped.

This wasn’t just about Marco.

There was another knife. Deeper. Older.

And it was still in the house.

Leandro came back after midnight.

His shirt was dusted with dried blood—not his, thank God—and his jaw was tight. He walked straight into the kitchen and poured himself a drink.

I followed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He talked.”

I waited.

“He confirmed what we suspected. The cartel’s been rebuilding. Quietly. And they’ve been using fake shell companies to buy into small clubs around the outskirts. Ones I don’t pay as much attention to.”

“Like Ros’Notte.”

He nodded.

“They’ve been grooming insiders. Promising money. Threatening families. Marco was just one of five names. Maybe more.”

“Then we need to find the others.”

He looked at me, eyes dark. “We?”

“You’re not doing this alone, Leandro. Not anymore.”

He exhaled slowly, then set the glass down.

“I knew you were dangerous,” he muttered, walking toward me.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stopped inches away, voice low. “Not because of what you are. But because of what you do to me.”

And then he kissed me—fierce and grounding.

A reminder that this wasn’t just about war.

This was personal now.

We were in this together.

And someone was going to bleed for thinking they could split us apart.