CHAPTER FIVE
1057 Words
THE LINE HAS BEEN DRAWN
Lorenzo’s POV
The drive to her house isn’t eventful at least, not on the outside. The town is alive with early Christmas excitement. Children run across the sidewalks wearing Santa hats too big for their heads, parents hang strings of blinking lights from balconies, and a few homes already have Christmas trees glowing proudly behind frosted windows.
My mind isn’t on the season.
It’s on her.
Mathilda Marisol Abrahams.
A sharp woman. A confident, relentless lawyer, one of the best in Spain from the research I’d read before coming. Beautiful, stubborn, and fiery confident and a powerhouse in court, the last case she won a proof of that, against a top politician, she wins the case that many would fail in but apparently foolish enough to think she could walk out of a man’s bed like she was escaping a hotel room instead of my arms.
Her mistake.
Not mine.
I pull up to her family house, kill the engine, and knock lightly.
“Come in, the door is open!” someone calls.
I almost laugh.
Only if these people know who they’d just invited in without question.
It doesn’t matter. They aren’t my target. She is.
The moment I step inside, the smell of food wraps around me warm, rich, comforting. The dining table is covered with dishes: tortilla de patatas, pan con tomate, croquetas, gazpacho, huevos rotos. A full spread. Her mamá clearly cooks like she’s feeding half of Barcelona.
Kids run around excitedly, decorations are being adjusted, and the older men are gathered out back smoking and laughing. Before I can say anything, her mamá pushes me toward the backyard, insisting the “men” are there.
Mathilda doesn’t look at me.
Not once.
Outside, I join the older man her father, Mr. Abrahams and two brothers-in-law, Mark and John. They smoke, drink, and talk like old friends. They’re all force men: a retired soldier, a private investigator, and a police officer.
Great.
Or terrible.
I haven’t decided yet.
Dinner is called shortly after, and I deliberately take the seat directly across from Mathilda but she avoids my eyes like they’re weapons. Smart. They are.
I lift my gaze to her mother.
“Ma, may I use the restroom?”
She smiles warmly and turns immediately to her daughter. “Mathilda, cariño, show him.”
Perfect.
The older woman sees far too much but I owe her for this moment.
In the hallway, the second the others are out of sight, I press Mathilda gently but firmly against the wall.
Her breath catches.
Mine is steady.
“Why did you leave like that?” I ask quietly.
She swallows. “I didn’t want things to be awkward.”
“That’s not the tone you used when I was deep inside you last night,” I murmur.
Her eyes flash with heat and anger.
“For someone who barely speaks, that’s a whole paragraph,” she snaps.
I ignore the bite in her tone and drop what I know will hit hardest.
“You might be carrying my child right now.”
She freezes.
“My child,” I continue, “will need a father. And a mother.”
Her voice shakes. “How would you even—?”
“If you weren’t moaning loud enough to wake the entire town,” I interrupt, “you might remember we didn’t use protection.”
Her face drains of color. Goosebumps ripple down her arms.
Good.
Reality is finally registering.
“Go to dinner with me tomorrow,” I say. “Somewhere private so we can talk. .”
She hesitates.
Then… a small nod.
That’s enough for now.
After dinner, I make my exit. I have things to prepare. Meetings. And the Guel's Family to deal with soon
On my way to pick her up for the evening, my mind drifts back to my conversation with Miguel, the boss handling this territory, in the morning and I feel a sense of uneasiness but I wade it
Getting there by 5pm and she steps out of her house…
And I forget how to breathe.
The dress hugs every curve
soft, sinful curves and her breasts… Dios. My palms ache just looking at them. I could take her back inside and get on my knees without a second thought, but I keep that desire locked behind my teeth.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, voice low.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, almost too soft to hear.
Through the window, her entire family is watching and her mother even gives me a thumbs-up.
I smirk.
Of course Mathilda gets her fire from somewhere.
The drive is quiet. Too quiet for a woman who talks as fast as she thinks.
“Would you like some music?” I ask.
“Yes.” Crisp. Controlled.
“What kind do you listen to?”
“Anything’s fine.”
I gesture to the iPad already connected to the car. “Choose whatever you want.”
She scrolls, picks something soft Spanish acoustic and the melody fills the car. The silence becomes comfortable and heavy, but not suffocating.
When we arrive at the restaurant, I get out and open her door. She steps out gracefully, and I hand my keys to the valet.
A young boy, maybe new, gushes over the car loudly. I hear him mutter admiration under his breath, but then his eyes flick to Mathilda lingering too long, too boldly.
I narrow my eyes.
He doesn't know whom he is playing with, this is my woman and I don't like how friendly he is with her
I don’t like his look.
At all and wish so badly that I am with my gun right now
Mathilda walks ahead, unaware. I turn and take two steps
BOOM.
A deafening blast erupts behind me.
Heat.
Light.
Shrapnel.
The car explodes completely engulfed in flames with the boy still very close beside it and his body is thrown backward, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. People scatter, yelling, smoke rising into the air like a warning.
My blood runs cold.
This wasn’t an accident.
This was a message.
I stare at the burning wreckage of my car and exhale slowly.
“The battle line,” I whisper, jaw tightening, “has been drawn.”
- Writer
