Four months passed. No news about Lorenzo since that night. The headlines were vague, the names of the victims carefully withheld. The cartel had its hands firmly on the flow of information, and the media danced around the truth like flames avoiding water. Catarina tried not to think of him, tried not to let the memory of that night, the laughter, the dance, the reckless passion claw at her mind. But every quiet café, every corner of the city bathed in golden light, reminded her of him. She eventually began to tell herself what she feared most, he was one of the fallen.
She sat by her wshould've stayed dead._ indow, sunlight spilling across her skin, coffee untouched at her side. The city hummed below, indifferent, unaware of the storm that had passed through her life. Yet, in the silence of her apartment, she allowed herself the small, impossible hope that he might still be alive. Even as reason whispered otherwise, the pull of his memory was relentless.
One day, just a regular day, she enters the café, nothing unusual, but everything is about to change, a black luxury sedan stopped in front of the café followed by two black SUV's, two man exit from the sedan and stand outside scanning the street, then the rear passenger door opens, a dark suited man with a black fedora exited the sedan, when the sunlight shine his face, revealed his identity, Lorenzo.
Her heart skips a beat, the coffee cup trembling slightly in her hand as the world seems to tilt around her. She blinks, unsure if her eyes are deceiving her, then sees it again, the sharp lines of his face, the silver at his temples catching the sun, the deliberate, measured way he steps onto the pavement.
Time stretches. The café noise fades into a distant hum. Her breath catches, throat dry. He is here, alive, standing just beyond the glass, watching, commanding, the same presence she thought she'd lost forever. Every rational thought fights against the surge of disbelief and relief coursing through her.
Her legs feel weak, but she forces herself to move, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at her to stay calm, to play it cool, even as her body aches to run to him, to close the distance and confirm he is real.
The men beside him remain still, disciplined, but her eyes never leave him. Lorenzo's gaze lifts, meets hers through the glass, and in that instant, all four months of absence, fear, and longing collapse into one heartbeat, sharp and electric.
She sets the coffee down, letting the cup clink softly against the saucer, and takes a tentative step forward, uncertainty and exhilaration warring inside her.
Lorenzo enters in the café, walks passed her like strangers on a street, sit in a table orders a expresso and grabs the news paper that was folded on the table
Her chest tightens as she watches him move with that familiar, deliberate grace, every step controlled, as if the world itself obeyed his rhythm. Her fingers curl around the edge of her chair, knuckles white, but she doesn't speak, doesn't move. She watches him sit, order, unfold the newspaper, the mundane actions impossibly ordinary, yet charged with the memory of the man she thought she'd lost.
Her mind races, trying to reconcile the image before her with the ghost she had mourned for months. The café, the chatter, the sunlight spilling over the table, all blur around him. She feels the pull, a mix of fear, relief, and an uncontainable longing, each heartbeat hammering louder than the last.
Her lips part slightly, as if to speak, but the words catch in her throat. She sits frozen, caught between the desire to run to him and the need to remain unseen, letting him reveal why he has returned, why he has come back into her life so suddenly, so impossibly.
Lorenzo spots a glimpse of her, looking straight into his soul, felt like a knife piercing through. He ordered a glass of whiskey for her with a note, "bring it to me".
She blinks when the waiter approaches, setting the glass of whiskey before her with careful precision. Confused, she looks down and spots the folded note beneath the rim. Her heart lurches as she opens it, eyes tracing the neat, familiar handwriting, only four words that pull her breath away.
"Bring it to me."
For a moment she hesitates, pulse thrumming in her ears, fingertips brushing the edge of the glass. Every part of her screams that this is madness, that she should walk away, that she owes this ghost nothing. And yet, her body moves before her mind can object.
She stands, slow, deliberate, the weight of the glass trembling only slightly in her hand. Each step toward him feels heavier than the last, her heartbeat syncing with the click of her heels. The café seems to shrink around them as she stops before his table, the distance between them is now measured in heartbeats and unfinished memories.
She places the glass before him, voice low, steady, threaded with emotion she can't quite hide
"You came back."
he looks at her, puts down his empty glass and grabs the other one
"Grazie signorina, it was like you knew that I needed this."
Smiles to her but something was different about him, his eyes were of a stranger and not of someone who spent a heated night with her.
She studies him in silence, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. The smile on his lips feels practiced, the tone too smooth, too careful. Her heart aches at the distance in his eyes, eyes she once thought she understood.
She lowers herself into the chair across from him without asking, never breaking his gaze. The air between them is heavy, charged with everything left unsaid.
"Was I supposed to pretend we've never met, Lorenzo?"
She leans in slightly, searching his face for a trace of the man she remembered, the warmth, the spark, but finds only the cold precision of someone rebuilt for survival.
"Because if that's what you want... You should've stayed dead."
he takes a sip of his drink, looks around, looks at his men, looks at her.
Lorenzo? That name's familiar but, regarding you, I cannot say that I have the pleasure of knowing. I could be mistaken, it is true that in my line of work, I meet a lot of people, but...
Looks at her, top to bottum
" I'm not sure that we ever meet."
Her breath catches, a quiet, disbelieving laugh slips past her lips, soft but edged with something sharp.
"Really?"
she leans back, crossing her legs slowly, never taking her eyes off him
"That's quite the performance."
She tilts her head, studying him the way one might study a mask, tracing every controlled movement, every carefully placed glance toward his men.
"You look at me like a stranger, but you ordered my drink."
Her eyes narrow, voice dropping lower, steadier
"So tell me, mister not-Lorenzo, what do you call a man who kills the truth just to keep breathing?"
Lorenzo leans back, challenged by this young feisty woman, he smiles, he likes the challenge
"I never mentioned that my name wasn't Lorenzo, but, I do not recall you miss, indulge me a favour would you?
Could please stand up and do a little turn? That might spark some lost memories perhaps."
Puts the glass down and crosses his arms waiting for her to comply with the request
She lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking her head just enough for the light to catch the gold strands in her dark hair.
"A turn?"
her tone drips with playful disbelief
But she stands anyway, slow and deliberate, her floral dress swaying lightly as she spins once, not for him, but for herself, her chin tilted high, daring him to remember.
When she stops, her gaze locks onto his again, unflinching, steady, the same eyes that once looked at him across candlelight and smoke, full of warmth and danger.
"Well?
Did that help, Lorenzo... or are you still pretending?"
He arches a brow, smiles, looks and glazes up and down, follows the flowers as they spin on her dress, looks at her, he tries, but he lets slip some tender look beneath of that armour he built around him.
"Oh, I remember you, the dancer, right?
So, what have you done since we had that drink?"
He keeps looking around to other tables analysing every since look, every movement, it's like he's looking for something but he's talking with her to mask it.
She sits again, slow and graceful, folding one leg over the other, eyes never leaving him. There's a flicker of relief, he remembers, but it's quickly buried beneath the sharp awareness that he's not really here for her.
"Dancer, yes."
she lets the word linger, tasting the ghost of that night on her tongue
"Since then? I've been busy trying not to think about a man who vanished before sunrise."
she leans in, voice lowering, measured
Her gaze follows his, the subtle scanning, the way his fingers twitch near the glass, and the unease settles deep in her stomach.
"But you're not really here for me, are you, Lorenzo?
Who are you looking for? "
He looks at her, finishes his drink, stands and grabs his fedora, stops beside her and in a gentle bow he whispers in her ear.
"Catarina, I could never forget our night and yes, it is for you that I entered in this café, but it's also for you that I'm leaving alone, let's say that, I am not welcome in this part of town and I'm afraid that if we're to be seen together, you would get into trouble."
Gives a little kiss on the cheek, stands up straight composing his tie, puts his fedora and before exiting the café he says:
"Arrivederci signorina Vasquez."
She stays perfectly still as his words brush against her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down her spine that she tries and fails to hide. The faint scent of whiskey and smoke clings to the air he leaves behind, heavy, intoxicating.
His lips graze her cheek, gentle, fleeting and then he's gone. The bell above the café door chimes softly as he steps into the sunlight, his silhouette swallowed by the glare and the dark suits waiting outside.
For a long moment, Catarina doesn't move. Her fingers hover where his kiss had been, the echo of his voice replaying in her mind. The café returns to life around her, cups clinking, voices murmuring, but she hears none of it. Only the fading sound of engines starting, tires rolling away.
"Arrivederci, Lorenzo."
she murmurs, almost to herself, her voice trembling with equal parts anger and longing
Then, quieter still.
"Next time, you don't get to leave first."
She bolts from the café, heels clacking against the pavement, heart hammering like a drum. The black luxury sedan peels out, tires screeching slightly, and for a moment, hope flares in her chest, until the car abruptly stops a few meters ahead. Her breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts as she skids to a halt, eyes locked on the still figure in the driver's seat.
The two black SUVs remain motionless behind it, men rigid and watchful. The world seems suspended, the hum of the city fading into the background, leaving only the pulse of adrenaline and the sight of him framed in the windshield.
Her hands clench into fists at her sides, mind racing, every instinct screaming at her to act, to call out, to run toward him. And yet, she stops, frozen, torn between the danger that radiates from him and the impossible need to reach him.
The rear right side door of the sedan opens, Lorenzo steps out, the traffic, the people walking, the commotion around that scenario, stop, they gaze each other.
"You know, they will came after us because of this."
He stands in the middle of the road beside the car, waiting for an answer.
She swallows hard, the roar of the city returning in jagged bursts around them, but all she sees is him. Her legs feel like lead, yet she forces herself to step forward, heels scraping the asphalt. Her pulse rattles in her ears, throat tight, but she meets his gaze, unflinching despite the chaos surrounding them.
"I don't care."
her voice is low, steady, carrying a defiance she barely feels inside.
Her hands ball into fists at her sides, tension coiling through her like a spring ready to snap. Every rational thought screams to run, to stay safe, to let him go, but none of it matters. She's already made her choice, and now she stands in the middle of the road, facing the storm that is Lorenzo di Sousa.
In a simple movement, he steps aside from the sedan door leaving it open
Quickly, come, we have places to be and people to anger.
He looks at her with the fedora almost covering his eyes, he smiles, he knows what's coming but at the same time, his is concerned that this act of jealousy from him, reaching out to her, bringing her, could go sideways, he knows what they will be facing, but she doesn't.
She hesitates for barely a heartbeat, then moves, letting adrenaline and determination override caution. Her hand brushes the car door as she slips inside, the scent of leather and faint whiskey filling her senses. Her eyes meet his, catching the half-hidden concern beneath the fedora, and for the first time, she sees the weight of the world he carries, the danger, the calculation, the unspoken rules of the life she's about to step into.
She slides the door closed behind her, the engine humming beneath her, and turns her full attention to him, a mix of challenge and trust in her gaze.
"I'm ready."
her voice is quiet, firm, unwavering, even if she has no idea what's coming.
He tilts his head slightly, a brief, sharp smile tugging at the corner of his lips, knowing the gamble he's taken, letting her in but also feeling the thrill of having her by his side, even for the storm that is awaiting them.