His Contracted Temptation; Velvet Lies

ROUND ONE

VALERIA

Yeah, I lied. Obviously. But I was genuinely hyped about the whole store hunting... past tense—I was excited till I had to inspect eight stores, none of which fit into my perfect Elle Woods meets Sophia Vergara aesthetic.

Trust me, it's hard to settle for less when you've had a certain idea ingrained into your brain for years. Every single spot had something wrong with them and I just knew I couldn't picture myself serving coffee in any of those sad, dusty little buildings. By the ninth store, I was bracing for another round of disappointment, but it turned out perfect. Too perfect.

I mean, why else would it be across from Matteo's office? Cute coincidence, right? I know, I thought the same when I suggested a popular café to meet with my interior designer only to find out it's also a few streets away from Matteo's home. God really loves arranging my steps like Pinterest boards.

Which is why I'm parked across from my new store, in one of Dante's Mercedes, munching on a double cheeseburger, a pair of binoculars in the other hand, cup of Oreo milkshake tucked between my thighs, people watching... observing my new neighborhood when a black BMW 540i pulls into the road.

"Showtime," I murmur, waiting till the car is about forty meters ahead before turning my engine over. I make sure to keep a safe distance from Matteo and switch lanes often. If there's one thing drug dealers are annoyingly good at, it's staying vigilant. All it takes is him spotting me twice and the roles would be reversed.

It's a thirty-minute drive to Rosehill, and soon enough I'm parked beside a cluster of willow trees about forty feet from his home. Matteo pulls up beside his fancy bungalow. If my info is correct, the whole family's heading to dinner at his wife's parents tonight. Apparently, it's some long-standing family tradition.

Compared to five years ago, I've got to say he looks a lot less like the street thug he really is. I guess that's what money does to the worst of the worst. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his forearm, his pouch of a stomach straining against his shirt, a bit of a double chin, fat cheeks, and of course that hairline. Looks like he ditched the gym the moment he made money, which means two things:

One: he's less fit and has lost most of his form.

Two: killing him would be easier.

Just as he steps onto the porch, the front door swings open and a large golden retriever launches at him—almost knocks him flat—then starts licking his face like it’s auditioning for a Purina commercial. Matteo laughs, drops his briefcase, pets the dog. Two toddlers rush out next, a boy and a girl, and he scoops them up and kisses their cheeks before setting them down.

My grip tightens on the wheel. I glare so hard that it feels like I can't turn my gaze even if I tried to. I'm shocked the glass hasn't cracked. Part of me feels like marching straight to that porch, pointing a gun at his head, and getting over this s**t now, and the logical, boring part of me restrains me.

My mother's prayers—karma, suffering, and troubled dreams on my father's killers—replay in my head, fresh and sad like I just witnessed them. Tear‑streaked face, palms clasped together, rosary dangling between while she kneeled at the foot of her bed, lips moving tirelessly, spewing prayers I grew to despise almost as much as I despised her for being weak. But now, staring at this happy little American family, I can’t help wondering if maybe God didn’t forget us after all. Maybe I’m the answer to her prayers—even if it’s the messy, bloody version.

The family and the golden retriever I might kill just to increase their grief disappear into the house. Lucky for me, Matteo bought a house like this; it's one of those properties that sit in the middle of five acres of trees, woods across the road where I'm parked, a lake behind it... the right scene for a perfect murder.

The door opens about an hour later, and they pile into his vehicle: father, mother, two toddlers, and a baby, like a f*****g ad. And where's my papa? Hell? Heaven? I don't know why it still hurts so bad after all these years, but I can't help but imagine what my life would look like if my papa was still alive, if my mother hadn’t delivered my baby brother early from stress and lost him too, if she hadn’t spiraled. There you have it—way better than this, and that's a no-brainer.

I grab a brown parcel—technically a box—containing the drone I'd ordered from China a few days back. It cost an arm, almost a leg too, given it's small, noiseless, has a polymer disk coated with infrared‑absorbing film, micro magnetic strips to cling to metallic camera rims.

Basically, in normal‑people English: the disk doesn’t block the camera completely. It creates a glare that looks like a natural malfunction—like:

solar bloom

sensor degradation

water condensation

lens flare

All the cute little problems that make surveillance guys shrug instead of suspect sabotage. And the best part? It makes the camera look like it’s been failing for days—not the exact moment I interfere.

"Let's go." I scroll through the manual carefully. The instructions are easy... I think. Whatever. Instead of reading it carefully like anyone who's about to use a drone for the first time in a while would, I slot in the batteries, wind down my glass, and launch the damn machine.

A gust of wind shoots up as it ascends, and so does my mood. First thing first, well, much not to my surprise, it's a bit difficult to control this stuff because of the wind that constantly tries to push it off course, but I adjust instantly, each movement smooth and deliberate.

Next step, sedate doggie.

I guide the drone higher, steadying my hand on the controller like I'm performing brain surgery instead of committing a felony. The little machine hums forward, slicing through the air so quietly it almost feels smug.

“Okay sweetheart… don’t embarrass me,” I mutter under my breath, because if this thing crashes into a tree or a bird or—God forbid—their window, I’m literally throwing myself into the lake behind this house.

I steer the drone lower, tap the release button, and watch a soft scatter of brown doggy snacks rain over the porch tiles. The golden retriever, whatever its name is, bolts out seconds later, nose twitching, tail wagging like a malfunctioning fan. Perfect—one distracted dog buys me the silence I need.

My pulse kicks up a notch, but not from fear. From pure, greedy, sexy anticipation. The good kind. The kind that tastes like revenge marinated in adrenaline.

“Round one,” I whisper, starting the engine.

“Completed."

Round two, I steer the drone through a wide‑open window on the second floor. It's the first thing you'd do if you were me and plan on inserting cameras, monitor your victim closely, then break in days later to commit the perfect murder.

The second bedroom is large, and the decor is ummm... tacky? For my taste at least. It's like Barbie exploded in here (I'm sorry Barbie, I love you but... urgh) because why in the living hell is everyfuckingthing the same obnoxious shade of bright pink that should obviously be banned but hasn't? One look, and you'd know it's Mrs. Matteo's room. Pink walls, sheets, curtains, dresser. Jesus Christ.

The rest of the house is normal, less assault on the eyes. Its interior looks like what any type of house built this way would, if you get my drift—the classic white kitchen with the usual middle‑class stuff in it, a living room that's neat... too neat considering Barbie Junior has three kids under seven to deal with, the kids' room is a bit disorganized, few toys on the floor, unmade beds... regular kids' stuff.

Matteo's room is orderly too, not surprising given I suspected he might have OCD. My lips curl as I compare husband and wife: who knew Matteo would end up with the less exciting version of Paris Hilton? The more I whizz past the rest of the house, the more I'm convinced everything is perfectly wrong. I don't know why, but I can just feel it...

Something feels off about this household. And I'm about to find out soon. I fly the drone back to the car and dial Diego's line.

"Hey!" I chirp.

"Hey—wait a minute, what are you up to, Camila?"

"Can't I call my bestie?" Diego grumbles something under his breath. I ignore him.

"Look, I don't have a lot of time on my hands. Make it quick."

"Fine," I draw out a long breath. I'm probably going to regret doing this. "I need you to help install cameras into Matteo's home."

There's a beat of silence—maybe Diego just muted himself to shout "that little bastard," or something along those lines. I bite my lip, counting down with my fingers.

"Where the f**k are you, Camila!?" he shouts.

Twenty seconds.

"Oh my goodness," I exhale aloud, palm against my face. "Santa cielo Maria! Are we really doing this, Diego?"

"Doing what? You promised me you won't do anything stupid and here you are—full opposite. What's gotten into you, Camila! What do you want? To get killed? Are you crazy?" Diego asks aloud. I imagine him at this very moment pacing around, shaking his head while he speaks, which isn't a good sign, but I'm desperate. And he's the only one who can help.

"Do you realize you'd blow your cover and mine from one little mistake, huh?" He mutters something incoherent under his breath, and I roll my eyes, head resting against the window.

"Do you ever think?" he rasps, irritation heavy in every word, and something in my chest snaps. The question hits me like a blow as I stare wide‑eyed at my screen to make sure I'm speaking to the one person who has always believed in me.

Is he seriously saying this?

I think he's spoken enough.

"Do I ever think? Of course I do, Diego. But you know who I should ask that question? You, mi amigo. What on earth did you think I would use intel on my father's rapists for? Huh? Did you think I was collecting it because it's a new hobby? Or I'd back off halfway because of a silly promise?" My nostrils flare, hot breath pouring out.

"And while you're free to wail like an opera singer and convince yourself I've gone crazy or whatever it is you think is wrong with me, just know I'm not backing down! Not now, not in a f*****g gazillion years, and if you're not going to help me, I swear on my late father's grave, I'll do it myself!"

The words spill carelessly, like something hit forward, and I don't care because I mean every f*****g word. My heart is thrashing like crazy, its sound echoing through my body.

A painful silence stretches, and Diego finally lets out a breath.

"Even if you're stupid, I'll make sure you don't get killed, Camila. It's the least I can do for you as a friend." His voice is soft. A smile tugs at my lips.

"Does that mean you're helping?" I ask in a small voice, even though I know very well he would.

Diego groans. I smile. "Don't make me change my mind, Camila."

Next step activated.