Chapter 7 A Smile Made Of Knives

• The morning after the gala, Valentina stared at her reflection in the mirror.
• Her lipstick was gone. Her hair was a tangled mess. But her eyes, that was what caught her. They weren’t the same eyes that had arrived in Miami weeks ago. They held too many secrets now. Too many ghosts.
• She hadn’t slept much. Rafael’s words from the night before echoed in her head like a curse.
• “She’s mine.
• He hadn’t looked at her when he said it. Hadn’t touched her. But the room heard it. And she knew what it meant.
• Ownership.
• Protection.
• Possession.
• She’d wanted access to his world. But now she was branded by it.
• A knock on the hotel door snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned, heart suddenly racing.
• When she opened it, Rafael stood there in a black shirt, no jacket, his sunglasses tucked into his collar.
• “Coffee?” he asked casually, holding a tray with two cups and a small paper bag.
• She blinked. “You brought me coffee?
• “I figured you’d be hungover from the poison they served last night.
• She stepped aside without a word, letting him in. He moved through the room like he’d done it a hundred times before, setting the coffee down and sitting on the edge of the bed like he owned it.
• She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t usually do…room service.
• He glanced at her. “I do when I need answers.
• Valentina sat slowly, a cup in her hand but untouched.
• “What kind of answers?”
• Rafael leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “The man who questioned you last night, his name is Emilio Vargas. He doesn’t talk to just anyone.
• “I noticed."
• “He asked around about you. Said your name didn’t show up in any journalist records. Not the ones that matter."
• Her blood ran cold, but she kept her voice level. “Freelancers don’t always make headlines."
• “You’re not just a freelancer.
• A long silence stretched between them.
• Then Rafael stood. “Tell me something, Valentina. Who do you work for?"
• Her heart slammed against her ribs.
• No lies. Not now.
• “I work for myself,” she said. “And right now, I’m writing a story that could get me killed."
• He studied her like a predator does prey. But instead of anger, a curious smile played on his lips.
• “You’re playing with fire."
• “You are the fire."
• Rafael moved toward her slowly, stopping just inches from where she sat. He reached out not to touch her, but to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
• “I should be angry,” he murmured. “But all I can think about is how beautifully you lie."
• Then he dropped his hand and walked to the door.
• “Finish your coffee,” he said without turning back. “We’re going for a drive."
• The next day
• The morning sun barely touched the Cordero estate, still cloaked in shadows from the previous night’s gala. But Valentina was already awake, dressed in black slacks and a silk blouse, sitting in Rafael’s private study with files spread before her.
• It wasn’t just a room, it was a vault of secrets.
• Ledgers, shipping routes, coded communications. He’d given her access to “observe, as if daring her to understand what real power looked like. She wasn’t just looking she was hunting. For leverage. For proof. For the crack in Rafael’s armor.
• The deeper she dug, the more the truth shifted.
• The operations were massive, yes, there was drug movement, but it was layered with legal fronts, offshore accounts, and names she recognized from the political elite. And Rafael? He didn’t run the cartel like a savage. He ran it like a CEO. No chaos. Just blood efficient control.
• “You’re early,” Rafael’s voice came from behind.
• She flinched slightly but didn’t show it.
• “You gave me homework, she said, forcing a smile. “I figured I’d get ahead.