Seducing My Husband's Brother

The Old Chapel II

PURITY

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~~~

BACKTRACK [Pátzcuaro, Mexico/Early December]:

Capilla de Nuestra Señora del Silencio. A mouthful, I know. That's probably why the locals decided to nickname it La Capilla Vieja—The Old Chapel.

Breathing through my nose, I tighten my hold around the handle of the suitcase. "Walk in. Locate buyer. Hand suitcase over. Leave." I repeat my aunt's instructions like a recital.

No. Aunt Renata didn't put me up to this. I did this to myself. Blame it on that tiny part of me that craves the rush of adrenaline that comes with dangerous situations. The part that gets off on being under the heat of life threatening situations and whatnot.

Subconsciously, my free hand closes around the cross on the chain around my neck. Cruz de Penitencia.

Papá got us out a long time ago, when I was only a little girl. Aunt Renata decided to remain—a decision that has cost her a lot—yet she didn't hesitate even once when I showed interest.

"We de la Cruz were made for this," she said, pressing her claw-sharp nails into my cross. "It's why we use this. It's why we are who we are."

With one last heave, I step through those big old wooden doors, willingly venturing into the world of crime.

It isn't at all difficult locating the supposed buyer who's already made himself comfortable on the left wing of the chapel. He's the only one around. I approach without much hesitation and take the seat next to him.

"Buen día."

My voice is firm, almost sure, but my heart tells a different story. Hammering nonstop in my chest as my hand continuously clamp and unclamp around the handle. If this is the wrong person, this could turn ugly really quick.

He rotates his hand just a bit, and glances at the diamond-inlaid watch resting on his wrist. The surface catches the light easily, flashing like a grand chandelier. "Beware the wasp that hunts in shadows."

My heart stops, and my breath catches.

I turn to look at him, but he keeps a straight face, staring at the altar ahead.

Sighing, I move the case from my left and hand it over to him.

He does a little manual weighing, probably checking the viability of the goods. "Hm."

He rises silently, advancing towards the side exit that's mostly hidden behind a thick stone pillar. Easy to miss if you're not looking for it. The door is pushed open even before he reaches, the doorman hidden behind the walls. Once he steps through, the door closes again.

I listen until the rev of their car completely ebbs, before sinking into the pew with a sigh. "Fuck."

Well, that wasn't as tricky as I had imagined.

My first assignment and I aced it, Aunt Renata would be so proud.

Wiping my dress straight, I rise to my feet, ready to leave. This place works in a certain way, and it's advised to exit once you've concluded your business so you don't stumble upon another.

But just before I pull the doors open, I turn back towards the altar, the beauty of the chapel settling in.

compared to what's on the outside, the inside is quite new. Here, the colours are bright and intact, almost like they were painted just yesterday.

A statue of the Virgin Mary stands slightly off-center, chipped at the base, flanked by two other paintings of her that are attached to the walls.

Candles burn unevenly, some melted low, others newly lit, some completely out. This place isn't dramatic. It's intimate. Private. The kind of place people go when they don't want to be seen breaking.

Deciding to stay a little longer, I move back in, choosing the row closest to the altar. It's a bit of a struggle squeezing myself through the pew, but I manage. Once in position, I drop to my knees, fingers intertwining as I clamp my hands in front of my face.

I don't pray for miracles. I pray for steadiness. I pray for purpose. For something that will bring meaning into my otherwise meaningless life.

After minutes of staying in this holy position, a sudden chill creeps up my back, raising the hair on my arms.

Something's up. Something... someone is here.

I feel him.

Not hear—feel.

Debating a little, I slowly allow my lashes to peel apart, letting the light to reach into my eyes after depriving myself for so long.

Somebody's there, I know it. But he's not saying anything. Did I somehow botch my earlier success by stumbling into another person's meeting?

Bracing for what's to come, I turn my head slightly, just enough to get a visual representation.

A man. A handsome one.

With a tall build, he hovers above me like a lighthouse guarding lost ships home.

He stands in the aisle not too far from me, his eyes are sharp, possessing a strange hue. Gold?

From his expensive jacket to his shrouding presence, he looks like a man who wouldn't be in places like this except if necessary.

His lips move first. "You shouldn't be here."

It takes me a moment, but when I understand what he meant, I almost laugh.

"It's a chapel."

He exhales like he's had enough. He thinks me to be too fragile, he believes I'm lost or something.

"That's not what I meant."

Adjusting the rest of my body so I fully face him, I take a proper look at him. The way he stands like nothing ever surprises him. The way his eyes keep flicking, measuring.

"You look like someone who counts things," I state my honest observation.

This man might have the face of an angel, but I fear his deeds are worse than those of the devil.

If I want to live, I have to play smart.

His mouth twitches. "Debts. Mistakes. Bodies."

He says it like I should be scared.

I'm not.

I continue. "Then you must be very tired."

His response is sharp; he expected I'd try to be a little smart-ass. "Tired people don't last."

I bite down a smirk, glad he ventures that way. "The last longer than bitter ones."

That gets to him. I see it in his jaw. "Bitter?"

My hands flatten on the wooden frame of the pew as I help myself up, dusting my knees in an attempt to brush away as much debris as possible. "I know you keep score."

He looks at me like I've nailed it. Like I've named something he didn't realize had a name.

"In my world," he says calmly, "keeping score is survival."

I nod. I believe him. That's how the world works. That's how the world some of us are so eager to get involved in works.

But believing him doesn't mean that I agree.

"Keeping score may keep you alive," I say softly, "but it will never let you be whole." My lips pull into a delicate smile. "Love keeps no record of wrongs."

He frowns, but there's a flicker of something beneath those molten-gold pupils. "That sounds expensive."

I smile despite myself.

"First Corinthians. Thirteen. Verse five."

Without missing a step, I walk past him, my heart steady.

I don't look back.

But I know—without a doubt—that he's looking.

"And love makes one whole?" he calls after me, and I halt.

Barely turning my neck, I shrug. "Who knows, mister."

"Ryan," he says. "Me llamo Ryan."

Thump. Thump.

Something snaps in my heart—not the kind that breaks something in two, but the kind that fuses them together. The type that makes it whole.

Scared, I walk off.

And I know, somehow, that I've just said something he won't ever forget.

~~~

PRESENT [Chelsea, USA/Mid February]:

The paper quivers in my hand, shaking like tree branches during a storm.

Why does this evoke that memory?

It's one of Marco's notes. It was dropped off just a minute ago, and as usual, I couldn't catch the messenger.

'Love keeps no record of wrongs.'

Written on the same paper, in the same handwriting, and enveloped just like the others, but for some reason, this feels so different.

A creaking noise cuts through the room, and my eyes snap to the door.

It's Ryat.

"Huh?"

His eyes drop to the sheet and linger for a few seconds. When they return to me, his expression doesn't shift. Not at all. "Rooftop."

My heart jumps. The date! I'm not even dressed yet.

"Make it quick." A certain twisted form of mischief dances in the depths of his eyes. "I've got a surprise for you."