CHAPTER 151 - COUNTER-INTELLIGENCE

CHAPTER 151 - COUNTER-INTELLIGENCE
Bella's POV

Diego came in like a breath of cold air, boots clacking the tile, hands full of takeout boxes. He was always loud when he wanted me to notice him and quiet when he wanted me to talk, which meant tonight he wanted both.

"Something's off," he said, dropping the bags on the table so the plastic clinked like a small alarm.

"What do you mean?" I closed my laptop and felt it warm against my palms, like a small animal I could soothe.

"Car out front. Been there for an hour." He unzipped the container of empanadas with a carefulness he used when he was nervous. "Silver sedan. Tinted. No one I know."

"Maybe someone visiting Roberto," I offered, too quickly. My voice tangling like a thread.

Diego shook his head. "No. It's been idling. No music. Guy inside keeps watching the house." He said the watch in his voice like he was counting something out loud for safety. "Look."

We moved to the window together, shoulders almost touching. His skin had that steady heat that always made me ache when Alex wasn't here. Outside, under the sodium light, the car looked like a shadow with chrome. The driver sat low, one hand on the wheel, head down. When he lifted his face for a second the windshield flashed and I nearly made a sound.

"Was he taking pictures?" I asked. The question was thin.

Diego blinked. "No. He was writing. Notebook. Pen. Law school habit." He folded his fingers like a judge with a gavel. "He wrote it down like it mattered."

I laughed then, a small, broken sound. "Because it probably did."

"Leave it to me," he said, because he always said those words when he wanted to be brave for both of us.

"You do not have to play spy," I said, and I hated the tremor in the sentence because it meant I wanted him safe and he had a way of bracing for danger like it was something to handle.

"I am a lawyer in training," he corrected proudly. "Sort of. I read people like dossiers. I can do a look."

He buttoned his jacket even though it was warm inside and crept to the door like a kid who wanted to be unseen. I followed because not following felt like walking away from my own shadow. We slid down the stairs and the floor smelled like coffee and parmesan and home. Roberto hummed in the kitchen; the house sounded ordinary and therefore wrong.

Diego kept low and moved to the side of the driveway, pretending to tie his shoe. I stayed a step behind him, heart thumping loud enough to think someone might hear it through the house walls. The sedan's engine was a slow, patient animal. The man inside had his head turned toward the house, the streetlight catching his profile. He had a camera bag on the passenger seat. My breath stopped.

Diego whispered, "License plate."

He had already seen it and said it like it was a piece of evidence he was gifting me. Numbers rolled off his tongue. He bent and pretended to tie his shoe, then straightened and walked over with the casual gait of someone who belonged on sidewalks. The man in the car looked up like he had been waiting for someone to show up. His eyes were too calm.

"Evening," Diego said, voice casual as soda bubbles. "Lovely night for sitting in cars."

The man smiled a small, taught smile that did not reach his eyes. "Waiting for someone," he said. He had an accent that tasted like humidity and airports. "You the Martinez girl?"

My name on his lips felt sharp. I hated the sound of my name in anyone else’s mouth who was not family or Alex. "Bella," I said, because the answer would come anyway and then everyone would know we knew.

He nodded. "Nice house. I take notes for clients."

Diego blinked. "Clients? Like who?"

The man's hand was quick as a lizard. He reached into his pocket and slid something across the hood of the car. A business card sat there like a small accusation. I read the bold font without meaning to: a private investigations firm, number, a name I did not recognize and a small tagline. On the back someone had handwritten a note. The handwriting was tiny and tidy.

Diego read it out loud, because he could not stop himself. "Board consultation."

"Board consultation?" I echoed. The words stacked in my mouth like stones.

The man shrugged. "People hire people to watch other people." His tone was casual, the kind of tone that lived in elevators and parking lots.

"Who hired you?" Diego asked bluntly. He was very good at being raw and clear when it mattered.

The man took a breath that smelled faintly of cigarettes. "I get paid for what I see. I do not ask many questions."

Diego's jaw flexed. He was the size of an apology or a promise depending on the day. "Did you take photos?"

"In the morning maybe," the man said. "Not much. Just a face. A car. A movement. That's enough sometimes."

"Who pays you to watch our house?" I asked, and it was the real question. My hands were colder than I thought.

The man tapped his temple. "Not my place to say. Contract."

He reached for the steering wheel like he was closing a book. Diego stepped forward, the way someone does when they own a room. "You will leave," he said.

The man considered it like he was weighing coffee versus pay. Then he nodded and started the car. His headlights painted the garage door for a second and I could see the camera bag. The car rolled away like a tide and the notebook glowed in the dim light where it had sat on the passenger seat.

Diego watched him go until the taillights made a red smear. He felt smaller after that, like someone who had read bad news aloud and needed to put the paper down. We went inside and Roberto asked if we wanted more tamales and we said yes though our mouths tasted like metal. The ordinary sounds tried to stitch the hole the evening had left.

"Do you think it's Victoria?" I asked later, in the kitchen where the kettle sang.

Diego's face folded. "I don't know. But whoever did this has money. Whoever did this knows how to hire people without asking why. That is a pattern in legal cases. People who want influence, not truth."

I thought of Alex in his boardroom, of sharp faces and softer hands, of a woman who seemed determined enough to do harm. My throat made a small tight sound I could not swallow.

Diego reached across the counter and took my hand with fingers that had learned to anchor. "We will call him back," he said. "We will find out who signed the contract."

"How?" I whispered.

He smiled the brave smile he always used when he wanted to make me trust him. "I have a friend from law school who knows how to trace invoices. We follow the money and we find the name."

We stood there a long time with the kettle cooling and the house humming. Outside, the street was empty and ordinary. Inside, I could feel the thin thread that connected the man in the car and the people in polished boardrooms. It pulled taut and I realized the next step would not be quiet.

A notification blinked on my phone. An unknown number. A message read, We prefer questions to be handled privately. Call when you can.

My hand shook when I picked up the phone. My mind filled with names and faces and the small, terrifying possibility that the person in the car had been more than curious. I looked at Diego and he looked back, and in his eyes there was something like fury and fear braided together.

"Who was the client," I said.

He let out a breath like a knife. "We're going to find out," he said.

And then the line on my phone lit again as another message arrived, this time with a single line and no signature. I read it and the kitchen seemed to tilt.

We are watching more than you think.