His Forbidden Obsession

*- : Before the Cage* *FLASHBACK - 12 YEARS AGO* The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and oranges. Malia was 12, barefoot, standing on a chair next to her mother, Camila. Camila was laughing, flour on her nose, guiding Malia’s small hands over dough. “Like this, mi amor,” Camila said softly. “We make it with love. Always with love. That’s what makes a home.” Across the room, Don Cole watched them. 32 then. Handsome. Charismatic. Still wore suits but no blood on them yet. He wasn’t Don Cole, king of LAS ESPADAS. He was just "Papi" who traveled for "business." He pulled Malia down from the chair and into a hug. “My two girls,” he said, kissing Camila’s temple. “My whole world.” Aiden, 20, leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed and tried not to smile. “You’re gonna spoil her, Papi.” “Let me,” Don Cole said. “She deserves the world.” For 2 years that’s what their life was. Camila’s paintings on every wall. Sunday dinners with loud music. Aiden teaching Malia how to ride a bike in the driveway and catching her every time she fell. Malia thought that’s how all families were. Safe. Loud. Warm. Then she was 14 and she found her mother crying in the bathroom. Lip busted. Eye swollen. And she saw the red lipstick on her father’s collar that wasn’t Camila’s shade. And she heard him on the phone at 2am: “Move the shipment through the docks. And if anyone talks, make them disappear.” The word “cartel” entered their house and never left. Camila died 6 months later. "Car accident," the news said. Malia was the one who saw the bruises on her mother’s arms the night before. She was the one who heard Don Cole screaming at Camila about "disrespect." At the funeral, Aiden, now 22, held Malia’s hand so tight his knuckles went white. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again,” he whispered. “Not ever.” *PRESENT - RIVERA WAREHOUSE. 10 YEARS LATER.* The air smelled like salt, gasoline, and blood. Malia Scott, 24, pressed her back against the cold concrete wall and counted her breaths. One. Two. Three. It was the only thing keeping her from screaming. Daughter of Don Cole. King of LAS ESPADAS Cartel. Woman beater. Cheater. Drug lord. Mafia boss. To the world, that meant money, power, and fear. To her, it meant the cage Aiden built after their mother died. "For your protection, hermanita," he’d said. Aiden was 32 now. A monster to the world. The man who executed rivals without blinking. But he was also the boy who slept outside her door for a month after Mom died so the nightmares wouldn’t get her. He would kill the world for her. And he kind of had. 3 years ago Don Cole forced her engagement to some ally’s son. "It’s good for business." 11 days ago she ran. She ran to Central. Sold Camila’s old paintings in Sun Market for coins. Slept in a room with no lock and a window that didn’t close. She swore to destroy LAS ESPADAS for what they did to Camila. She thought she was free. She was wrong. The warehouse door screeched open. Two men in black dragged her inside by the arms. Her bare feet scraped across the dirty floor. “Let me go!” she spat, but her voice cracked. The men shoved her forward and she stumbled to her knees. Standing in the middle of the room, back to her, was a man in a black suit. Shirt half-unbuttoned at the collar. He didn’t turn when she came in. The whole room went quiet. Lorenzo Reyes. 34. Ghost Enforcer from Border City. LAS ESPADAS’ worst nightmare for 20 years. Scarred. Silent. And unfairly built. When he finally turned, the wet fabric of his shirt clung to hard *abs* and broad shoulders. A thin scar cut across his jaw. Three girls from the docks were hovering by the exit, pretending to sweep, dropping their brushes just to get him to look. One of them laughed too loud. Lorenzo didn’t glance at them once. Her father killed Lorenzo’s father 20 years ago. The Reyes and Scotts had been at war since. Last year, Aiden executed Lorenzo’s twin brother in the street. Lorenzo’s orders were simple: bring Don Cole’s daughter in and break the heir. He looked at her. His eyes were dark, tired, but sharp. Like he hadn’t slept in days. “You ran far,” he said. His voice was low, rough, like he didn’t use it much. “11 days.” Malia lifted her chin. Her knees hurt. “Kill me then. I’m not going back to that cage.” A ghost of something flickered across his face. Pity? Amusement? She couldn’t tell. He stepped closer. She smelled gunpowder, rain, and something clean, like soap. “I’m not here to kill you, Malia Scott,” Lorenzo said. “Not yet.” From the corner, Elena, 58, Lorenzo’s housekeeper, watched. She had raised Lorenzo since he was 10 after his own mother died. She wrung a dish towel in her hands and said nothing. Beside Elena stood *Mateo*, 35, Lorenzo’s right-hand man. Broad, loyal, and the only person Lorenzo trusted to watch his back. Mateo cracked his knuckles and shot a look at the girls by the door. “Boss, tell them to move before I do.” Lorenzo didn’t even look at them. Lorenzo’s phone buzzed. He put it on speaker without asking. “Lorenzo.” It was Don Cole. That smooth, dangerous voice Malia hadn’t heard in 11 days. Her stomach dropped. “Send her back. Tonight. Or I take everything you have left. The shipping docks. The safehouses. Your name. Even that little niece of yours.” Malia saw it then — the twitch in Lorenzo’s jaw. Family. He was a family kind of guy. He was raising his 7-year-old niece after his sister died last winter. Lorenzo ended the call. He stared at Malia for a long time. “You have two choices,” he said finally. “I send you back to Aiden. Or I keep you here. 3 months. Hidden.” “Why would you—” “Because 3 months ago Aiden killed my brother,” Lorenzo cut in. “This is revenge.” So that was it. She was a pawn. Again. He turned to leave, then stopped. “Pack one bag. Elena will show you to a room. No phones. No running. Try, and Mateo will drag you back.” Mateo gave her a small, apologetic nod. That night, in a small room with one window and bars, Malia lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She remembered cinnamon. She remembered bruises. 3 months. That’s what he said. She didn’t know that across the hall, Lorenzo was on the phone again. Don Cole’s voice was ice. “Last chance, Reyes. Send Malia back. Or I hurt your niece.” Lorenzo was quiet. Then: “Touch her, and I’ll burn your whole empire to the ground.” He hung up. Outside, *Marco*, Don Cole’s right-hand man, 40, with a scar across his jaw, smiled into the dark. “He chose wrong,” Marco murmured into his radio. “Now we take it all.” And inside the LAS ESPADAS mansion, *Monica*, Aiden’s girlfriend, 26, drifted into the living room in a silk robe. Angel face. Soft voice. “Baby,” she purred, running fingers through Aiden’s hair as he sat with a glass of whiskey. “You’re working too hard. Come to bed.” Aiden caught her wrist. “Have you heard anything about Malia?” Monica’s smile didn’t falter. Inside, she was seething. _That little brat._ She wanted Aiden to herself. No sister. No distractions. No one for him to love more than her. “No, amor,” she lied sweetly, kissing his jaw. “But I’m sure she’s fine. She’s stubborn, just like you. Maybe she’ll come home when she’s ready.” Aiden pulled her into a lap. “She’s all I have left. If anyone touches her...” “I know,” Monica whispered. “I’d kill for her too.” _Lie._ In her head she thought: _I hope Marco finds her first. And I hope she never comes back._ Mateo’s phone buzzed in his pocket at the safehouse. He looked at it and frowned. It was *Diana*. `When are you coming home? We need to talk. About us. About forever.` He put the phone face down. “I can’t,” he muttered to no one. “Not with this life.” Lorenzo clapped his shoulder. “She loves you, i***t. Don’t lose her.” Malia couldn’t sleep. At 3am there was a soft knock on her door. It was Elena with tea. “You look like your mother,” Elena said quietly. “Same eyes.” --- *3 DAYS LATER. NIGHT BEFORE THE FORCED WEDDING.* The safehouse alarm blared. Red lights flashing. Smoke filled the hallway. Knock on Malia’s door. It was Lorenzo. Hair damp, jaw tight, gun at his hip. He held out his hand. His voice was rough. “Burn it with me,” he said. Malia took it. Her heart was in her throat. *And that’s when the front doors burst open.* *Aiden stood there, flanked by 12 men. Guns raised.* *And behind him, smiling sweetly with fake tears in her eyes, was Monica.* “Found you, hermanita,” Aiden said. His eyes locked on Lorenzo’s hand holding Malia’s. His jaw ticked. “Let. Go. Of. My. Sister.” Lorenzo didn’t let go. He pulled Malia closer behind him and reached for his gun. * — who does Malia choose when the guns go off: the brother who caged her, or the enemy offering to burn it all down with her?* ---