"Control the info, play it smart, lose your grip, and fall apart."
I gripped my fingers tightly around the hot coffee mug, but even when at its hottest, it was unable to subdue the cold fear building in my chest. The café was empty and a bit in the middle of nowhere, with an open view of the door—this place had been selected for a purpose. I wished to have control of this meeting. Control of him. Control of the doubt eating away at me from the inside.
The gun was resting against my hip, covertly hidden under the jacket lining, and my fingers touched its cold metal. I had gone out of my way to come prepared for this meeting, as I did have a strong distrust of Lorenzo Hudson. My faith in him, at this particular moment in time, was non-existent. Not yet, at least. Not when the material of his past was so heavily woven into the very syndicate that I was dedicated to dismantling, piece by piece.
The door creaked open, and my heart pounding. Lorenzo strode in like he owned the place, his presence changing the mood, dark and commanding. His piercing gaze scanned the room before focusing on me. He made no hesitation. He never did. I had asked him to come here, but the way he moved made it look like he had been doing it all along.
I steeled myself, prepared to stay utterly still and unmoving as a second individual entered the café behind him—his bodyguard. This person was wary, big-shouldered, and clearly showing an air of power that obviously made the café personnel somewhat stressed and uneasy. One had to remember that this was intended to be a dialogue, not a fierce encounter.
I tightened my hold on my glass, my fingers squeezing around it as though seeking comfort. "It's obvious that you don't believe in me, and honestly, I have to admit that I don't believe in you either," I said bluntly as Lorenzo took his place directly across from me. Nevertheless, I must admit that I never considered traveling while entanglement.
He hardly turned in the man behind him, as if he didn't even notice he was there. Maddeningly and haphazardly dismissing him, he then slowly and intentionally waved his hand and flatly exclaimed, "Leave."
The guard hesitated.
"Now."
The scene fell still, then his head gently and inelegant nodded in acknowledgment. The man exited and headed away from me right after this quick interaction. Outside the window, I watched him stand just out of view, placed in a spot where he was too close for comfort but still not close enough to hear the words being uttered inside.
"Improved?" Lorenzo questioned inquiringly, a terrible smile fighting its way onto the side of his mouth as he raised his eyebrow.
I inhaled deeply, making a mental note to ignore the fast thumping of my heart at his deep, powerful voice. "We will see what happens."
His gaze fell down, although only for an instant, to my side, where my hand lay close to my concealed weapon that was not visible. "You're packing," he stated with a tone of recognition.
"So are you."
His lips curled into a smile. "Fair enough."
I watched him intently, going out of my way to see past the carefully rehearsed facade that he wore so well. There were certainly no telltale signs of weakness to be found, and there were no cracks whatsoever in the facade that he wore so well. He had become used to having an impenetrable exterior, at ease with the knowledge that people were frequently intimidated by that which they did not understand or know.
"I have to know where you are now," I told him, my voice steady and firm. "You were with them at some point in time."
His expression shifted to a serious and stern expression. "This happened a long time ago."
"And now?"
"At this point in time, they would rather kill me than be sitting directly across from you."
I do not permit myself to feel relief. If so, then he was not my enemy. Not yet. But I wanted more. "Why did you leave?"
For the first time, a look that was hard to decipher and totally opaque flickered briefly in his eyes. He hesitated for a second. For one second only, but that fleeting hesitation was more than enough.
"Because they killed my mother."
I took a breath. That was not what the world had thought. The world had described him as a monster—a man who'd killed his own mother. I'd read the stories. I'd thought them to be true.
"The news—" I started.
"It was a lie that they spread in an attempt to conceal the real truth." His voice was firm, but beyond that calm façade, there was a ferocity that was tangible. "They were looking for a villain. So, they fabricated one to fit their story."
The gravity of his words hung in the air that divided us, and a tangible tension was created. Deception, corruption, and the temptation of power—ideas that I had faced far too frequently in my existence. I felt myself wanting to put my trust in what might be considered as facts; yet, I was acutely conscious that facts could easily be manipulated and moulded to fit different accounts. People like me, and him, we operated in the tangled and dirty areas that existed between the harsh realities of truth and the insidious nature of lies.
"I read the case files," I confessed. "The evidence was overwhelming."
Lorenzo let out a sound that was akin to a laugh that was dry, but wasn't literally a laugh. "It is mostly made up," he maintained confidently.
I raised an eyebrow. "Why you?"
His fists were curled tightly around the burning coffee cup, and that was the only external sign of the enormous tension he had been carrying within himself for what felt like an eternity. "The reason is that I knew too much. The reason is that I was worth something to them, but that worth faded until it no longer mattered anymore."
A grievous truth. one thing I was sadly rather often familiar with. hard to accept a bitter truth. Over the years, I have become used to these things.
"Then, if that is the case, would you please explain to me why in the world you would feel the need to leave that note there on my front porch?" I asked with a sense of urgency. "What in the world would entice you to get yourself a bit of troubling situation?
His clear stare locked on mine, undaunted and fiercely determined. "It's because you're in a situation a whole lot more complex than you realize and the water is really deep."
Standing closer to me, he lightly brushed our hands on the table for the shortest of moments. One that sent a jolt through me, one that I least expected, it was a random contact, an unauthorized one by definition. Automatically responding to surprise, I mechanically recoiled, feigning obliviousness to whatever was out of the ordinary passing among us.
I needed to keep my wits about me.
"If I were to consider working with you," I spoke slowly and deliberately, "what guarantees can you provide that I am not walking into another trap?"
Lorenzo, for a change, didn't smile or suggest amusement this time. He just looked at me with a hard, uncompromising stare, his eyes locked on mine. "Because if either of us is going to survive this one alive, it has to be because we trust each other," he stated.
I did truly want to trust him. Trust is not something that is dispensed like a commodity, however; rather, it is something that is gained through repetition of experience and action. At the time, Lorenzo Hudson had a great distance to travel before he could become that degree of trustworthy. The silence hung about us like a thick fog, permeating the air and heavy with the weight of the enormous burden brought on by the many unasked questions that hung, heavy with expectation, between us. Inside of me, there was a strong wish, almost a burning need, to push him farther, to explore more the domains left unsaid, but some part of me—one that was basic and wise—held me back from following it. Though his past was hidden tightly closed away from sight, my gut told me that if I pressed too hard for the answers I wanted, he would retreat even farther into his protective cocoon and so make the prospect of any sort of meaningful contact seem even more far from reach than it already seemed.
As I broke to halt my actions and glance around the comfortable café, my gaze roved around the entire room, enjoying the soft, muted hum of voices that seemed to fill the air. I saw the barista, carefully wiping down the counter, methodically going about his task as if oblivious to the tense and charged atmosphere that loomed above our table. It felt particularly strange to be having such a heavy and solemn debate about life and death in a setting so ordinary and plain, a backdrop full of ordinary sounds and visions of coffee shop patrons.
Lorenzo, in a deliberate gesture, leaned forward from his seat and stretched out his hand in an attempt to hold onto his coffee. This made his fingers come to lie on the cold surface of the ceramic cup, which held the scalding hot contents within. In that instant, I noticed a faintly perceptible quiver or tremble of his hand as he struggled momentarily before he was finally able to succeed in keeping it steady in place. This said a great deal in my head: was this small indication of movement a sign of nervousness that revealed something was not right in his state of mind? Or might it be something much deeper and more profound than nervousness?
I leaned in just a little closer, my mind racing with a wave of interest and curiosity. "Are you seriously proposing that I should be open to believing that you are just another victim entangled in this complicated issue?"
His teeth clenched. "I expect you to believe the truth."
"And what is that?"
"Getting out before they were able to harm me. Turning my back on them, and having them take revenge."
I watched him intently, trying to catch the smallest hint of a lie with my ferocious gaze, but his face was completely unmoving and unintelligible. It was driving me insane with rage. I was used to solving these kinds of problems and uncovering the hidden truth that was frequently concealed beneath a number of lies and falsehoods. Lorenzo was unlike any person I had ever met; he was far harder to trust and far harder to dissect than I had expected.
Then, in a manner that was almost imperceptible, the look on his face began to relax ever so slightly. "I didn't really need to come and greet you here, Reina. I could have remained hidden away in the shadows, above everything. But I didn't do that."
His calling out my name gave me a peculiar shiver. Personal. Familiar. Threatening.
"I require some form of evidence to support your claims," I eventually said to him after deliberation.
Lorenzo nodded in agreement, as though he had expected me to say that very word. With slow deliberation and circumspection, he pushed his hand deep into his jacket and produced a neatly crumpled piece of paper. Then he pushed it slowly across the table towards me.
I didn't budge for a second before I extended my hand and grabbed it. When I opened it, I gasped. A list of names. Dates. Locations.
"This…" I had a hard time saying the words. "This is them."
"The same people who have control over every facet of the case," Lorenzo assured with a stern expression. "The same individuals who ordered the murder of my mother. If you happen to come too close to the truth, they are the same people who will kill you without hesitation."
I felt a chill go through me. When I started looking into the syndicate, I knew I was in trouble, but this—this was something else. Actual. concrete. I looked into his eyes again, and something was between us this time. Something recognized. I told him, letting my voice become a little softer as I spoke, "I still don't trust you completely." Lorenzo breathed, "I know," with a knowing glint in his eyes despite his expressionless face.