Carlos pov
The door shut softly behind me, muffling Isabella's presence.
But I could still feel her — the sharp edge of her voice when she told me to find the sender, the crack in her mask when she admitted to the message. For someone who walks through fire like she owns it, she bleeds more easily than she realizes.
I don't know if that makes her dangerous. Or if it makes her doomed.
My shoes echoed against the polished floor as I moved down the hall. Staff kept their eyes down when I passed. They always do. I've never needed to raise my voice to command silence — that's the luxury of being both invisible and feared.
The message. Blocked number. Anonymous. The kind of coward's move that suggests two things: someone close enough to know the right pressure points, but far enough to hide behind shadows.
And Isabella, for all her bravado, had looked shaken. Not the kind of shaken you fake for sympathy. Real. Bone-deep.
My mind flicked back — not to her, but to Richard Sterling. The fights. The hushed arguments through locked doors. Vivian's voice sharp as glass, slicing through the air as she spat about the money, about loyalty, about "that woman and her brat."
Sterling would always lower his voice, try to calm her, but I heard it. The threat in hers. The quiet exhaustion in his.
And now Richard's dead. I don't believe in coincidences.
By the time I reached the elevator, my plan was already forming. First, trace the number. Whoever sent the message slipped once — they always do. And if they didn't, well… there are other ways to peel back masks.
The doors slid shut, sealing me inside the mirrored box. My reflection stared back — sharp suit, cold eyes, a man who's made a career out of cleaning up other people's messes.
But this time? This wasn't just a mess. This was a game. And I intended to win.
The elevator slid open into the underground garage, concrete cold and echoing. My car waited in its usual spot, black, unremarkable. Invisible by design.
I unlocked it, slid into the driver's seat, and pulled my phone from my jacket. No fumbling. No hesitation. I knew exactly who to call.
"Torres," I said when the line clicked.
Static crackled, then a low chuckle. "Carlos. Haven't heard from you in months. What needs burying this time?"
"Not burying," I said. "Digging. I've got a number. Blocked. Sent two messages to Sterling's daughter."
A pause. Then, sharper: "Anonymous?"
"Yes."
"Send me the details. I'll trace it. Might take a day, might take an hour. Depends on how careful they were."
"Careful or not," I said, starting the engine, "they made a mistake just by sending it."
I hung up. Torres didn't need small talk; that's why I trusted him. He'd dig into the dirt without asking why it mattered.
The car rumbled to life, headlights cutting across the empty concrete. I tightened my grip on the wheel, and for a moment, Isabella's face flashed in my mind — the way her hand trembled when she admitted the truth, the way she tried to hide it under steel.
Most people would crumble under that kind of pressure. She didn't. She cracked, yes. But she didn't crumble.
And damn me for noticing how beautiful she looked even when she was unraveling. The fire in her eyes. The sharpness of her tongue. The shape of her mouth when she snapped at me to stop speaking for her.
I shouldn't want her. She's trouble. But wanting isn't the same as acting. And if there's one thing I'm good at, it's control. I pulled out of the garage, the city swallowing me whole. Somewhere in its maze of lights and shadows was the person playing games with her.
I'd find them. And then I'd decide if they deserved to walk away.
The cemetery was empty by the time I got there. Just rows of marble stones under the weight of the evening fog, names half-faded, flowers left to rot.
Richard's grave sat high on the hill, like he'd demanded the view even in death. Sterling Global had paid for the best spot, no doubt — polished headstone, fresh lilies, the Sterling crest carved clean and proud above his name.
I stood in front of it, hands in my pockets. No flowers. No prayers. Just me.
"You'd hate this," I muttered. "All this noise. Reporters circling your family. Lawyers picking apart your empire. Buzzards waiting for scraps."
The fog curled at my ankles. The silence pressed close.
I remembered the first time we spoke — really spoke. Not orders. Not instructions.
He'd poured himself a drink, crystal glass sweating in his hand. I was still standing, waiting for the next command, but he waved me down. "Sit, Carlos. You're not a soldier tonight."
I sat. Uncomfortable. Too close to the fire in the hearth, too close to a man who saw more than he said.
"You're sharp," he told me. "You see the cracks before anyone else does. That's useful. But it's dangerous too."
I remember frowning. "Dangerous how?"
"Because people like you," he'd said, leaning back in his chair, "always know the truth. And the truth makes enemies faster than power ever will."
I didn't answer him then. Didn't have to. He wasn't asking for one.
Now, standing over his grave, the memory burned fresh.
"You were right," I said softly. "Enemies everywhere. And now she's standing in the middle of it."
My throat tightened before I could stop it. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, jaw locked against words I wouldn't let out. The wind picked up, tugging at my coat. I stood there until the fog blurred his name, until the ache in my chest dulled into something colder.
Then I turned and walked back down the hill, leaving Richard Sterling to his peace — if he'd ever had any.
The gravel crunched under my shoes as I made my way back down the hill. The fog had thickened, rolling low across the ground like smoke, swallowing the rows of graves until the world felt empty.
Too empty.
I slowed, hand sliding into my coat pocket where the weight of my gun sat heavy, familiar. I wasn't paranoid — paranoia doesn't keep you alive. At the gates, the iron creaked. A sound that didn't belong to the wind.
I turned my head just enough to catch it — a shape at the edge of the fog. Standing too still. Watching. Not a mourner. Not this late.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then, as if they knew I'd marked them, the figure melted back into the haze, swallowed whole by the mist and the dark.
I didn't follow. Not here. Not now. Whoever it was, they wanted me to know they were there. That was the point. I pushed through the gates, jaw set, and slid into my car. The engine roared to life, headlights cutting sharp across the cemetery road.
The rearview mirror showed nothing but fog. Still, the back of my neck prickled all the way down the drive. Whoever sent that message to Isabella wasn't just playing games with her.
They were watching me too.