16. Confrontation

16. Confrontation
Words are like keys if you choose the right one, they can open your heart and shut your mouth.

ALEJANDRO

After ensuring Gabriella reached home safely, I took a quiet moment with my mother in the grand hallway of our estate. Her worried eyes met mine.

“She almost died yesterday, mamá. You need to look after her while I figure this out,” I said, my voice low but urgent.

She nodded, guilt softening her usually stern expression.

“You must find out who did this. This… this isn’t just some warning shot. It feels personal.”

“I will,” I promised, kissing her on the forehead. “No one threatens my people and walks away.”

I walked out, tension in every step, and slipped into the blacked-out SUV where Carlos was already waiting behind the wheel.

“We need answers, and fast,” I told him. “Find out who ordered that hit—and why.”

Carlos nodded without a word, already shifting into tactical mode.

As we drove through the city, I stared out the window, my jaw clenched. If this was an act of war, my silence would be mistaken for cowardice. And I wasn’t about to give my enemies that satisfaction. Sinaloa wasn’t built on restraint—it was forged in fire and blood. They needed to be reminded of that.

Back at the office, I tried to fall into my daily routine, but the tension gnawed at the back of my mind like a restless ghost. My meetings blurred together. Reports, signatures, decisions—I processed them mechanically. My focus was elsewhere.

By lunchtime, I couldn’t pretend anymore.

Carlos called.

“Boss, meet me across the street. Restaurant by the plaza. We’ll eat—and talk.”

Ten minutes later, I joined him at a quiet corner table. We ordered white wine and spaghetti with meatballs, but food was an afterthought.

Carlos leaned in, his voice measured but sharp.

“I found out who was behind the attack on Gabriella.”

I straightened in my seat.

“Who?”

“The Medellín Cartel.”

The name hit like a hammer.

“Medellín? That makes no damn sense. They don’t make careless moves like this—not without a reason,” I said, slamming my fist on the table hard enough to rattle the glasses.

Carlos didn’t flinch.

“Exactly my point. That’s why this stinks. And there’s something else… strange. The way Gabriella fought, the way she shot the attacker—boss, she’s not just some secretary. She’s trained. Skilled. This isn’t her first time facing death.”

I stared at him, stunned.

He slid a manila folder across the table.

“Background checks. Incident reports. A few unofficial leads. You need to read this.”

I clutched the folder tightly, a storm brewing inside me.

Back at my office, I locked the door and sat behind my desk, flipping through the file. I read it once. Then again. And again.

Each page only raised more questions. Who was Gabriella really? What history was she hiding? And why would Medellín want her dead?

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, my patience had evaporated.

I needed answers. And she was the only one who could give them to me.

I shut the file, grabbed my coat, and headed home.

GABRIELLA

I sat hunched on a cold metal chair, wrists bound, ankles strapped tight. The space around me was suffocating—claustrophobic, dimly lit, and reeking of rot, dried blood, and chemicals so sharp they burned the inside of my nose. It was the kind of scent that stuck to your skin, your lungs, your memory. I had to force down the nausea threatening to rise, steadying my breath.

My mind spun as I tried to piece things together. I remembered the last moment of peace—Sandra and I, giggling over a Netflix thriller. Then Alejandro had barged in, eyes stormy, jaw clenched. No words, no explanation. Just a silent, tense gesture for me to follow.

And now—this.

The silence had stretched for nearly an hour. The only sounds were the hum of distant pipes and my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears like a war drum. Then, I heard it—the mechanical groan of a rusted lever being twisted, followed by a deep, gurgling noise. Like something ancient and monstrous had awakened beneath the floor.

I sat straighter, every nerve in my body on high alert.

Footsteps echoed—two sets, deliberate and heavy. I didn’t need to turn. I already knew.

Alejandro stepped into the dim light, his face carved in stone. Carlos hovered behind, half-swallowed by the shadows.

“Who are you?” Alejandro’s voice cracked through the stillness like a whip. “No more lies. I know about your connection to the Medellín cartel.”

My breath caught.

He knew.

I’d been careful—calculated, even. But clearly, not enough.

My heart thudded against my ribcage, yet I met his eyes. No fear. No pleading. Just the raw, haunted weight of truth—because what I was about to say wasn't a lie, even if it sounded like one.

Tears stung my eyes—not forced, not performative, but real. They carried the echo of a childhood carved by fire and death.

“My parents were part of the Medellín cartel,” I said quietly, the words tasting like rust on my tongue. “My father held a high position. But when he found out what they were really doing—trafficking children, selling secrets, betraying allies—he tried to speak out. They branded him a traitor. They executed him in front of my mother.”

Carlos shifted slightly. Alejandro said nothing.

“She was next. But before they got to her, she sent me away. I was barely ten. She used what little loyalty she had left to smuggle me to Mexico. I grew up in a cathedral orphanage.” My voice cracked. “The head nun was close to my mother. She told me the truth when I was older. Ever since then… I’ve been planning my revenge. Not for justice. Not even closure. Just... because someone had to.”

Silence.

Alejandro’s face was unreadable, but I could sense the war inside him.

Carlos scoffed, stepping forward, his skepticism like a blade. “That’s a nice story, really. You could sell it to a Hollywood producer. But now, let’s hear what really happened.”

“It is the truth!” I snapped, my voice rising, trembling with more than just anger—grief, shame, memory.

“Liar!” Carlos hissed, his fist slamming against the wall. “You’re hiding something. Trained hands, perfect aim, no hesitation—and yet you pretend to be a clueless secretary?”

I looked him dead in the eye.

“Every word I said is real. I’ve lived with this truth for years. If you want to investigate, go ahead. My life’s been open since the day they burned my world down. I didn’t come here to destroy Sinaloa—I came here because Medellín has to fall. And if you’re in my way, then maybe so will you.”

Carlos stared at me, trying to read between the lines. But Alejandro’s gaze never wavered. He didn’t speak. He just... watched. Calculating. Listening. Deciding.

The silence in that moment was louder than any accusation.

And I knew—I had just lit the fuse to something far more dangerous than I ever imagined.

I repeated my statement once more, unwavering, almost mechanical in delivery. I had recited it so often, it now rolled off my tongue like scripture. In moments like these—interrogation, high stakes, predators masked as protectors—you don't deviate. You don’t explain. You don't waver. You repeat, and you own it. Whether truth or lie, you sell it with conviction.

I knew what kind of man Carlos was—my spies had painted him well. Ruthless. Loyal. A man who didn’t think twice before pulling a trigger if it meant protecting Alejandro. More brother than friend. The type who could sniff out lies like blood in the water. If he even suspected I was a threat to Alejandro, I’d be reduced to a memory before sunrise.

The silence was growing heavy now. Cold. A suffocating stillness that clawed at my nerves. Alejandro’s expression was unreadable. The warmth I’d once seen in his eyes—gone. Now, only stone.

Carlos snapped first.

"Enough with your mind games. Stop wasting our time and tell the damn truth!" His voice ricocheted off the walls. "You're connected to our enemies. Just admit it. Why are you really here?"

"I am telling the truth. Believe me." My voice was firm, but inside, I was bracing for what might come next.

Carlos scoffed. "Don’t make me use my methods. I’ll strip the truth out of you if I have to."

I swallowed hard, mentally preparing myself for whatever “methods” meant.

But then—"That’s enough."

Alejandro’s voice, low and authoritative, cut through the tension like a blade.

Before Carlos could argue, the door creaked open, and the sound of stilettos echoed through the room like a gavel striking marble.

Rosa.

She entered with that same regal, terrifying grace she always carried. Her expression was unreadable—less like a mother and more like a queen ready to decide someone’s fate.

"Alejandro. Carlos. Leave."

They obeyed. Alejandro hesitated only a moment, glancing back at me before following Carlos out. The door clicked shut behind them.

Rosa circled me slowly, predator-like. Her eyes studied every inch of me, reading past skin and flesh and straight into soul.

"Tell me your story," she said, voice cool and poised.

I repeated everything I had said before—my parents, Medellín, betrayal, escape, vengeance. Her face remained motionless.

Then, she struck with the real question.

"Did you know who Alejandro was before the attack?"

I hesitated for only a heartbeat, then nodded. "Yes. I knew he was Alejandro Martinez, leader of the Sinaloa Cartel. I didn’t reveal it to you because I feared you’d doubt me—think I was spying. I was scared... and I didn’t want to lose the only protection I had."

She nodded slowly. Still unreadable. And then her voice dropped an octave.

"I believe you. You saved my son’s life. You risked yours. That buys you a certain level of trust. But listen carefully—" she leaned closer, her voice sharp enough to slice skin, "—if you ever try to dismantle this family, if you so much as breathe in a way that makes me doubt your loyalty, I will find you. You can run to the edges of this earth, and I will
still find you. And when I do... I won’t hesitate."

She walked behind me, undid the ropes with clinical ease, and without another word, turned and exited the room, her heels echoing like a countdown.

Relief washed over me like a cold tide—but I knew better than to feel safe. Rosa Martinez may have accepted my words, but she would be watching. Every blink. Every breath.

And if I slipped once, even by accident—there’d be no second chance.