Chapter 3 The Man Behind The Fire

• The next morning, the air smelled of gun oil and roses.
• Valentina stood on the balcony of her room, a white silk robe tied loosely around her waist, watching the sunrise creep across the villa’s stone courtyard. The place was deceptively calm, birds perched on the ledges, guards pacing like statues come to life. She heard faint voices, orders, arguments, reports. A world always on edge.
• She hadn’t slept much. How could she?
• Rafael Cordero had asked her to stay. Not as a threat. Not as a lover. But as a challenge.
• And she’d said yes because she wanted to know what kind of man looked death in the face every day and still dared to let someone get close.
• She didn’t trust him. But a part of her, one she didn’t want to name, was beginning to want to understand him.
• And that was dangerous.
• A knock came at the door. Three sharp raps.
• She turned quickly, slipping on her jeans and black blouse. “Come in.”
• Mateo entered without waiting.
• He wore black, as always, and carried tension like a second skin. His eyes flicked around the room before settling on her.
• “You’ll eat with us this morning,” he said flatly.
• Valentina raised a brow. “Breakfast with the cartel. Sounds charming.”
• Mateo didn’t smile. “Rafael is trying to play human. That doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”
• She followed him through the hallway, alert. She could feel his distrust the way he walked a step behind her, like a shadow waiting for her to slip.
• They entered a grand dining room, long mahogany table, golden chandelier above. There were only two people seated at the table.
• Rafael. And an old woman Valentina didn’t recognize.
• Rafael glanced up as she entered. He was wearing a grey shirt today, sleeves rolled again, black watch on his wrist. Casual. But his eyes were sharp, unreadable.
• “This is Doña Marisol,” he said as Valentina sat across from him.
• Valentina nodded politely. “Your grandmother?”
• Marisol chuckled softly. Her eyes were pale and sharp, her hair pinned back in a silver twist.
• “Not by blood. I raised him,” she said, voice crackling like dry leaves. “After his mother died and his father turned into a monster.”
• Rafael didn’t flinch. He cut into his eggs with a slow precision.
• “You’re curious about him, aren’t you?” Marisol asked, eyes pinned on Valentina. “That’s why you’re here.”
• Valentina kept her tone neutral. “I’m here for the story.”
• Marisol leaned closer, her old fingers gripping a porcelain cup. “Then don’t just look at his crown. Look at the scars beneath it.”
• Rafael stood abruptly. “That’s enough.”
• Marisol only smiled.
• As he walked out, Valentina hesitated then followed him, leaving Mateo behind. She caught up in the hallway, his long strides echoing.
• “You don’t like to talk about your past,” she said softly.
• “Because it’s mine,” he replied.
• “But your story matters.”
• He turned, suddenly too close, his voice low. “You think you want to know. But once you do, you can’t unknow it. I don’t need your sympathy, Eva. I need your honesty.”
• “I am being honest.”
• He stared at her. Then, to her surprise, he offered his hand.
• “Come with me.”
• They drove in a matte black SUV, tinted windows, quiet radio hum. Rafael drove himself no driver, no entourage. Valentina watched the way he gripped the wheel, loose but ready. Even in silence, he seemed dangerous. Like a storm waiting to happen.
• They drove an hour outside the city. Through narrow dirt roads, hills wrapped in fog. Finally, he parked near an abandoned chapel, its bell tower cracked, its stone walls sun-washed and forgotten.
• Rafael stepped out.
• “This was my mother’s,” he said simply.
• Valentina followed him inside. The chapel was empty except for dust, broken benches, and a faded mural of a woman holding a flame.
• “She died when I was ten,” he said. “My father didn’t cry. He poured himself a drink and told me to forget her.”
• Valentina felt her throat tighten. She said nothing.
• “I used to come here after… after the first kill.”
• He looked at her now, expression unreadable. “Do you know what it does to a boy? Killing someone before your voice has finished changing?”
• She wanted to say no. But she knew loss. She knew pain.
• “I’m not clean,” he said. “But I wasn’t born dirty, either.”
• “And your father?” she asked softly.
• Rafael’s jaw clenched. “He was the devil wearing my face. Every mistake you think I made, he taught me first. Including the one you’re really here about.”
• Her heart pounded. He knew.
• He looked at her then, not cold but tired. “You want to know if I killed your family, don’t you?”
• Valentina froze.
• He stepped closer. “I don’t know who you really are yet. But I can see it in your eyes. You’re not here to write about me. You’re here to bury something.”
• “I’m here for answers,” she whispered.
• Rafael nodded. “Then you’ll get them.”
• He turned and walked out of the chapel, leaving her stunned in the hollow silence.
• That night, Valentina sat on her bed, notebook open, but her pen unmoving.
• He didn’t deny it.
• But he didn’t admit it, either.
• More confusing than that, Rafael Cordero, the man who ruled with bullets and fear had taken her to the one place that made him vulnerable. Why?
• Because he trusted her?
• Or because he wanted her to?
• Her phone buzzed.
• Unknown number.
• Come to the wine cellar. Now. Come alone.
• Her blood ran cold. She grabbed her recorder and tucked it in her pocket.
• The hallway was silent. The guards didn’t stop her.
• She reached the heavy door to the wine cellar and stepped down the stone steps. It smelled like oak and secrets.
• A figure stepped from the shadows.
• Not Rafael.
• Mateo.
• His face was grim.
• “You’re not who you say you are,” he said. “And I don’t care what story you’re feeding Rafael.”
• Valentina’s pulse skipped.
• “Stay out of his head,” Mateo warned. “Or I’ll blow yours open.”
• Then he stepped back into the shadows and vanished.