Chapter 2 The Weight Of Eyes

• Valentina adjusted her posture, careful not to show the slight tremble in her hand as she clicked her pen. Every movement was calculated. Rafael Cordero was the kind of man who noticed everything and trusted nothing.
• She looked around the room, searching for details. The office was minimalist but expensive: glass, marble, matte-black finishes. No personal photos, no sentimental clutter. Just weapons disguised as taste. Even the books on his shelf felt like props old leather-bound volumes that looked unread, positioned to give the illusion of civility.
• He sat behind his desk, elbows resting casually, but his eyes tracked her like a predator assessing a threat.
• “You’re not what I expected,” Rafael said suddenly, voice like gravel underfoot.
• Valentina’s lips curled slightly. “What did you expect?”
• “Someone older. Colder. Less… curious.”
• She shrugged. “I’m just here to tell a story.”
• “No,” he said, leaning forward, “you’re here to survive one.”
• His words struck deeper than she let on. She fought to maintain the mask.
• “Let me guess,” she said lightly, “you don’t believe in journalists.”
• “I don’t believe in anyone.”
• He reached for a crystal decanter behind him and poured a dark amber liquid into two glasses. The sound was soft, deliberate. “Whiskey?” he offered.
• She hesitated. Accepting a drink meant lowering your guard. Declining it might insult him. And Rafael Cordero didn’t look like the kind of man who appreciated being insulted.
• She took the glass.
• He watched her take the first sip. Smooth. Fiery. Like swallowing a secret.
• “I’ve read your articles,” he said, sipping his own. “You specialize in men like me.”
• “Oh? Dangerous, powerful, and emotionally unavailable?”
• He didn’t smile, but something flickered in his eyes. “You paint monsters with a human brush. Why?”
• “Because no one is born a monster.”
• She hadn’t meant to say that. It came out too raw, too honest. Rafael noticed.
• “You speak like someone who’s lost something.”
• She froze.
• That was the thing about revenge, you trained for years, hardened your heart, learned how to lie. But no amount of practice could prepare you for the sharp edge of the truth when it came from the very man you planned to destroy.
• “I’ve lost time,” she replied coolly. “And I don’t want to waste more of it.”
• He studied her. The silence stretched. Heavy. Then he stood up.
• “Walk with me.”
• It wasn’t a request.
• She followed him out of the office, down a narrow corridor lined with old paintings. The villa was silent, except for their footsteps echoing on polished floors. The guards along the walls didn’t glance their way, but she felt their presence like heat.
• They stepped outside onto a private terrace that overlooked the city. The sun was beginning to dip, casting golden fire across the rooftops. Below, life moved on traffic, markets, music, but up here, it felt like another world entirely.
• “You grew up in the States?” Rafael asked, voice quieter now.
• “Yes.”
• “College educated?”
• “Yes. Journalism, with a minor in psychology.”
• He nodded once. “That explains why you ask questions that peel skin.”
• She tilted her head. “And you? What did you study before you became… this?”
• He chuckled darkly. “I studied everything my father forced into me. Survival. Loyalty. Betrayal.”
• “And now?”
• “Now I teach others the same.”
• His honesty startled her. She was beginning to understand something dangerous: Rafael wasn’t playing a role. He wasn’t hiding behind charm or manipulation. He was simply being calm, brutal, real.
• That made him harder to predict. And far more dangerous than she expected.
• “Do you enjoy it?” she asked. “Being feared?”
• Rafael turned his gaze toward the horizon, his profile sharp against the fading sky. “Fear keeps people alive. I’ve lost too many to love.”
• Her fingers tightened around her glass. So had she.
• “I don’t believe you’re as untouchable as you pretend to be,” she said softly.
• He looked at her. “And I don’t believe you’re just a reporter.”
• Her heart stilled.
• “People like you don’t knock on the door of a cartel without a reason.”
• Valentina forced herself to meet his stare. “Maybe I’m just not afraid.”
• “You should be.”
• Another silence. He stepped closer. Not threatening, just close enough for her to feel the weight of his presence.
• “I’ll let you keep your little recorder,” he said quietly. “But know this: I decide what stays in your story.”
• “That’s not how journalism works.”
• “That’s how life works in my world.”
• She was about to reply when a voice interrupted them.
• “Don Rafael,” came a deep voice. Mateo, his cousin, tall and lean, with colder eyes than Rafael. He nodded toward Valentina without a smile. “We have a situation in the south compound.”
• Rafael turned instantly. The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by steel.
• “I’ll handle it,” he said.
• Mateo looked at Valentina again. “Want me to escort our guest out?”
• “No,” Rafael said. “Give her a room. She’ll be staying.”
• Valentina blinked. “I what?”
• Rafael faced her. “You came for a story. Let’s see if you can survive one.”
• Then he walked away, leaving her heart pounding and her glass trembling in her hand.
• She was shown to a room on the second floor luxurious, elegant, cold. A private bath, a balcony, a king-sized bed with blood-red sheets. A surveillance camera in the corner, blinking red.
• Alone, Valentina stood before the mirror. She pulled the recorder from beneath her blouse and set it down, staring at her reflection.
• What the hell was she doing?
• This was supposed to be a clean operation: infiltrate, charm, investigate, destroy. Get justice. Make the Cordero name bleed.
• But Rafael had eyes like wounds that hadn’t closed. He didn’t match the monster she had envisioned. He was brutal, but also burdened. And too human.
• That made everything harder.
• She clenched her jaw and whispered to her reflection, “He killed your parents.”
• Then she looked down at the recorder.
• And pressed save.