Your brother.
Alive.
His hands were tied. His face bruised. His left eye swollen. But when he saw you, he struggled to sit up straighter.
“Isa,” he rasped.
Your heart split open.
You started forward, but a man stepped out from behind a pillar.
Esteban Lobo.
He was smaller than you remembered.
Not physically.
In your nightmares, he had become enormous.
In real life, he was just a man in an expensive jacket with dead eyes and a smile that made your skin crawl.
“Touching,” he said.
You stopped.
“Let him go.”
“After you give me what you stole.”
You held up the folded page with your good hand.
“This?”
His eyes sharpened.
“That belongs to me.”
“No,” you said. “It belongs to every person you hurt.”
Lobo laughed.
“Working for Montenegro made you brave?”
“No. Losing everything did.”
His smile faded slightly.
Two armed men moved behind Mateo.
Your stomach clenched.
“Give it to me,” Lobo said.
“Untie him first.”
“Do you think you’re negotiating?”
You looked at Mateo.
He gave the smallest shake of his head.
Not fear.
Warning.
He knew something.
You noticed his right hand, tied behind the chair, tapping against the wood.
Once.
Twice.
Pause.
Three times.
A code from childhood.
When your mother was sick and you had to communicate quietly in hospitals, you and Mateo made little tap signals.
One meant yes.
Two meant no.
Three meant danger.
He tapped again.
Two.
Two.
Three.
No. No. Danger.
The brother you came to save was trying to save you.
Lobo stepped closer.
“Last chance.”
You unfolded the page slowly.
His eyes followed it.
He did not see your thumb press the silver panic button once.
Then again.
“You want the ledger?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you should have asked Mateo what he did with the rest.”
Lobo’s face changed.
Mateo smiled through a split lip.
That was when the lights went out.
Gunfire exploded from the far side of the cannery.
You dropped to the floor like Damián had told you.
Men shouted.
Glass shattered.
Mateo’s chair crashed sideways.
You crawled toward him, your broken wrist screaming.
“Mateo!”
“I’m okay,” he gasped.
A hand grabbed your ankle.
You kicked hard.
Lobo cursed and yanked you backward.
Pain shot up your leg.
He dragged you behind a metal table, knife flashing in his hand.
“You stupid girl,” he hissed. “You should have stayed hidden.”
You spat in his face.
He froze in shock.
Then rage twisted him.
Before he could move, a gun clicked behind his head.
Damián’s voice came from the dark.
“Let her go.”
Lobo went still.
Slowly, the emergency lights flickered red.
Damián stood ten feet away, pistol steady, eyes colder than the ocean outside.
Lobo pressed the knife closer to your throat.
“She’s not worth a war.”
Damián stepped forward.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Lobo laughed nervously.
“You’d burn the coast for a maid?”
Damián’s gaze moved to you.
Not possessive.
