THE VENDOR AND THE MAFIA BOSS

CHAPTER TWO

Rafa Monteverde walked into the sleek, modern mansion perched in the heart of Makati, his black leather shoes clicking softly on the polished marble floor. His bodyguards were close behind, but they were careful to maintain a respectful distance. They knew better than to speak unless spoken to, and Rafa liked it that way.

The house was eerily quiet compared to the chaos of Divisoria. The walls were lined with contemporary art, the furniture minimalistic but undeniably expensive. Rafa’s family wealth and power were visible in every corner of the mansion, but there was a coldness to it, an emptiness that he couldn’t quite shake.

He walked to his study, a spacious room with panoramic views of the city skyline. His father, Hector Monteverde, sat behind a massive oak desk, papers scattered in front of him, a glass of whiskey in hand. His expression was grim.

“Rafa,” Hector greeted him with a nod but didn’t bother to get up. “Have you handled the situation with the Delgado family?”

Rafa set his briefcase down and sighed. “Yes, but they’re becoming a problem. We need to move quickly before they start pushing back.”

Hector didn’t seem to care. His eyes were fixed on a set of financial documents in front of him, the lines on his face deepening with every passing second.

“I’ll take care of it, Father,” Rafa said, his tone sharper now. “But I have other business to handle.”

Hector didn’t acknowledge him, his attention still focused on the papers. Rafa took that as his cue to leave.

Before exiting, he paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder. “By the way, I met someone today. A woman.”

Hector looked up briefly, then back down at his papers. “A woman? Is she important?”

Rafa’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “She might be.”

His father didn’t respond. The old man had never been interested in his son’s personal life, nor did he care about relationships that didn’t serve the family business. Rafa didn’t care either, not in the traditional sense. But there was something about Amara Salazar that had caught his attention.

Meanwhile, in Divisoria, Amara was dealing with a different set of challenges. The events from earlier in the day had left her feeling unsettled. Despite the incident with Edgar and his goons, she couldn’t shake the thought of Rafa Monteverde. She had felt his gaze on her long after he had left.

“Why’d you let him help us, Ate?” Paulo asked, his voice filled with curiosity as they ate dinner in their cramped apartment.

Amara set her spoon down, staring out the window into the darkening streets. “I didn’t ask for his help, Paulo. There's a big difference with the two.”

“But he saved us.” Paulo’s voice was tinged with awe. “He could have just ignored us, but he chose to help. He really is a good person.”

Amara shook her head. “I don’t know what his game is, but I’m not trusting anyone who throws money at me to fix things.”

“But... what if he really wants to help?” Paulo asked. “He seemed nice.”

Amara turned to her brother, her brow furrowed in concern. “Nice? You don’t understand, Paulo. People like him don’t just help for nothing. They want something in return.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of experience. Amara had learned early on in life that nothing came for free. Not in the world she lived in. She’d seen enough to know that kindness could be just another form of manipulation.

Despite her caution, curiosity lingered. What had Rafa seen in her? Why did he care? And why had he left her with his card?

Two days passed, and life in Divisoria returned to its usual pace. Amara tried to push the thoughts of Rafa from her mind, but they had a way of creeping back in at the most inconvenient moments.

She was busy tending to her stall when she saw him again—Rafa Monteverde, striding through the market like he owned the place. His black SUV was parked just outside, and the guards at his back made it clear that he was someone of importance.

This time, he wasn’t there to save her from gangsters. He was here for something else.

Amara stood still, her heart beating faster than usual. She wasn’t sure why his presence made her feel both intrigued and uneasy. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—composed, untouchable. Or perhaps it was the way his eyes seemed to lock onto hers, as if he could see right through her.

Rafa approached her cart with a casual, almost predatory grace.

“Amara,” he greeted her with a nod. His voice was smooth, carrying an undertone of something she couldn’t place. “I hope I didn’t startle you the other day.”

Amara crossed her arms, setting her jaw. “I told you, I didn’t need your help.”

“Yet you’re still here,” he said, his smile never quite reaching his eyes. “That means something, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t owe you anything,” she snapped, irritation bubbling to the surface. “What do you want this time?”

Rafa looked around the market, his eyes scanning the crowded street before returning to Amara. “I wanted to offer you something—an opportunity.”

Amara raised an eyebrow. “Opportunity?” she repeated, skeptical.

He handed her a card, the same one he had left before, but this time with a different message written in neat handwriting: Meet me at El Sentro tomorrow at 7 p.m. I want to talk.

Amara’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I think I do,” Rafa said. “But I’m offering you something you can’t refuse.”

His words were confident, almost smug.

Amara hesitated, the card in her hand feeling heavier than it should. Her instincts told her to turn him down, but something in his gaze made it difficult to say no.

“I’ll think about it,” she muttered, not looking at him.

Rafa nodded, his expression unreadable. “I’ll be waiting.”

As he walked away, Amara felt the weight of his presence linger, pulling at her thoughts. What was he up to? And why did she feel like she was being drawn into something much larger than herself?

That night, Amara lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The familiar sounds of the city drifted in through the window—the honking of jeepneys, the distant chatter of people in the streets, the occasional shout of a street vendor.

But inside her mind, all she could think about was Rafa Monteverde. She could feel the pull, the temptation to find out more about him.

Paulo had fallen asleep beside her, and the apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall.

Amara reached for the card Rafa had given her. She turned it over in her hand, studying the simple black ink. El Sentro.

Her fingers hovered over the number, her mind racing.

Tomorrow. Would she go?

Finally, with a deep breath, Amara made her decision. She’d go. But only to find out exactly who Rafa Monteverde was—and what game he was playing.