The sun dipped low over Cartagena, painting everything in sharpened gold and shadow. The Torrez mansion—its verandas draped in jasmine and fountains languid with koi—shuddered under quiet urgency.
A woman stumbled down the marble entryway, breath ragged, fingers trembling. Inés Arámbula—or what remained of her former composure—was crying. Face red. Lip trembling. Hands twisted in her gown. Catalina reached her first, pulling Inés upright, hands firm on shoulders until the woman blinked and drew in her breath.
They went back into the great hall together, mother-of-pearl lights flickering overhead. Catalina thought of all the moments she'd lured Inés with false warmth, all the political lies disguised as diplomacy, but this was different.
This terror had a name.
“Where is he?” she asked
