CHAPTER 4: THE MAN WHO WANTED HER
1018 Words
DANIEL'S POV
Three days.
Their laughter still played in my head. The red drink spread across my white shirt. Her voice. Two words. Walking out while a room full of people watched every second.
Shameful man.
“Forget her, Dan.” Julian rubbed my back outside the venue. “She is not worth it.”
“I told you from the beginning, didn’t I?” Kyrian shook his head. “Leave that girl.”
I drew on the cigarette. Said nothing.
My jaw tightened.
Inside me, something that used to feel like wanting had become something colder and more focused.
She thought it was over.
I had decided to change my game.
Andrea was outside the compound, leaning against the wall near the east gate.
I walked up to him.
“There is this young lady,” I said. “I will go to any lengths to get close to her.”
His eyes stayed on the gate. He took a slow breath.
“I pity such a woman.”
His fingers tapped once against his arm.
"Be careful. Life pays back even when you are not watching."
Andrea raised an eyebrow at me.
"It's like you’re trying to get noticed." His voice was flat.
I drew on the cigarette and said nothing.
"How did you meet this girl, Dan?" He watched my reaction. "Who gave you her contact?"
Smoke left my mouth in a slow line.
"I know what you can do, Daniel."
"Hmm." I tapped ash onto the ground. "Mr. Goal-getter."
Something older than anger moved behind his eyes.
I looked at him. Seven years of doing what needed doing, here he is, sounding like someone's priest, acting as if he cared.
He stayed silent.
I shifted from his side without looking back.
By evening, I walked into a flower shop.
The salesgirl looked at the flowers I pointed at, then at me.
"Roses?" she said.
"Are they too much for a casual visit?"
She tilted her head. "Yes."
"Then give me something simpler."
She handed me another type. I took it without looking at it closely and walked back to my car.
I told myself that was exactly what this was.
Her building was the last in her quiet street. I climbed the stairs one after another.
I was still deciding what I would say when I heard her voice.
Her window faced the corridor, the curtain slightly open at the corner, evening light coming through. I stopped walking. Through the gap, I could see the blurred pictures on the television. The volume was low. On top of it was a framed photograph. A young man with his arm around her waist, both of them smiling.
I kept my eyes on the window.
Then I heard her voice from inside. It got my attention, and everything else stopped.
Camila sat on the bed with her legs stretched, her back to the window, holding the phone to her right ear. She jotted down what the caller gave her.
She had no idea I was there.
"I have answers to my assignment," she said. Her eyes turned toward the window, her left hand beside her as she looked through the gap in the curtain.
I stepped back quietly.
She continued.
"He is a well-known gangster. He runs the Brotherhood and has been looting people's businesses."
My hand tightened around the flower stems.
"Ortega Cruz." She mentioned the name. "Yes. That one. I have enough evidence to print if you give me two more weeks."
My phone was in my hand. I opened the camera. Then I pressed my shoulder against the wall. Record.
Through the lens, she was small and bright, completely unaware. Television lights painted her face blue while she called out a man who could end her life with a single call.
She said the name once more.
I kept recording, then went back through the gate.
I sat in the driver’s seat, the engine off.
I pressed play. Her voice came back through the speaker, every word clear and usable in the silence.
Then I zoomed into the photograph. The young man. His arm around her shoulder. I enlarged his face until the pixels stretched.
Something stopped in my chest.
I held the zoomed photograph and sat with it.
Same jaw. Same build. Same age.
Andrea's voice came back. My little brother. Samuel. Medical student. Leaving for a conference.
I had not thought much of it then.
But I had also seen a young man climb into a car outside this building that very morning. She had stood at the gate behind him, pendant catching the light, waving until he turned the corner.
My thumb stopped over the photograph.
I was not certain.
But I was certain enough.
I opened Ortega's contact page.
He answered on the second ring.
"There is a journalist," I said. "She has been investigating you and the Brotherhood. I have a recording. Names. Figures. Enough to cause problems."
A pause. Then his voice, flat and careful. "How long has she been at this?"
"Long enough." I kept my voice even. "I know how this is handled. I wanted to bring it to you before anyone else."
Before Andrea.
"Bring it tonight," Ortega said.
The call ended. I sat with one hand on the wheel, a photograph still open on my screen. I thought about calling Andrea. To tell him what I had found.
I put the phone in my pocket instead.
Some information was more useful kept close.
I started the engine.
The flowers were still on the passenger seat when I pulled away. I left them there. Two days later, the petals had curled inward on the dark leather.
Nobody needed to know I had brought them.
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