Chapter 3

• As always, Alejandro tried to push away the swirling, haunting thoughts of that girl—the veiled bride—and her fierce, desperate mother. He threw himself into his usual routine, stepping into his private gym, the metallic scent of sweat and iron filling his lungs. This was his escape, his sanctuary from the ghosts of the past.
• Most nights, he barely slept. His dreams were plagued by memories of that forest, of his father’s sharp, barking orders, of the girl hidden behind silken veils, and of the mother’s wild, determined eyes. No matter how much time had passed—eighteen years—it was as though it had all happened yesterday.
• He hadn’t wanted to agree to his father’s demands back then, but as a twelve-year-old boy who’d already lost too much, he felt powerless. His father’s word was law. His family—if you could still call it that—was bound together not by love, but by fear and superstition.
• Yes, he was a mafia boss now, hardened by years of blood and betrayal. But deep down, beneath the layers of control and power, Alejandro wasn’t a man who delighted in spilling innocent blood. Especially not the blood of a child. His father, however, had been consumed by a darkness Alejandro couldn’t comprehend—a man whose life was shredded by loss. After burying two sons, a daughter, and his own wife, the old man had spiraled into superstition. He believed his family was cursed, hunted by evil forces. In his desperation, he chose the unthinkable—a child sacrifice, the blood of a girl meant to shield his surviving heir, Alejandro, from a fate he couldn’t bear.
• Alejandro's fists hammered into the punching bag, the rhythmic thump echoing through the gym, each strike a futile attempt to expel the weight pressing on his chest.
• And then, as if conjured by the very tension in the air, his right-hand man and closest friend, Matias, strolled in, leaning casually against the doorframe with a crooked smirk.
• “Again your veiled wife came to haunt you?” Matias teased, his voice laced with mischief but softened by the years of loyalty between them.
• Alejandro’s eyes, dark as storm clouds, snapped to him, his fists still driving into the bag. His jaw clenched, but he managed a humorless growl. “I think you’ve really lost the will to live, Matias.”
• Matias’s grin widened, undeterred by Alejandro’s cold tone. “Maybe I have,” he shrugged, his voice half-mocking, half-affectionate. “Because living with you is like living in a tomb. You don’t chase women, you bury yourself in work and workouts, you keep your soul locked away like a damn secret. You don’t live, amigo. And me?” He spread his arms in mock surrender. “I don’t want to live like you, Alejandro. So go ahead. Kill me now and put me out of my misery.”
• Alejandro paused, his breath coming hard and fast, sweat slick on his skin. His hands dropped from the bag, and he let out a slow, bitter laugh—a sound as sharp as broken glass. “You talk too much, Matias,” he murmured, the bitterness in his voice edged with a kind of weary affection.
• Matias, always the irreverent one, flopped onto the bench nearby and grinned lazily. “Bro, seriously, you need to leave this monk life behind. Let’s hit a strip club tonight. Get some action, live a little.”
• Alejandro barely glanced at him, his fists pounding into the punching bag with controlled fury. He let out a soft, dark chuckle that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Have you left any top model, actress, or random woman untouched?” he asked, his voice low and edged with mockery, but it carried an undertone of exhaustion.
• Matias shot back without missing a beat. “So what if I haven’t? You want me to die like you? You’re thirty, man. Thirty! And you haven’t touched a single woman. You’re the heir to one of the most feared mafia empires, and yet, you act like a damn priest. Who’d believe it if they didn’t see it with their own eyes?”
• Alejandro gave him a slow, sharp glance, the corner of his mouth curling up into a cold smirk. But his voice, when he spoke, was dismissive, as though Matias’s words had rolled off his shoulders like water off stone. “Don’t forget we have a meeting with the arms dealers today,” he said, his tone final, as if that was the only thing that mattered.
• Matias’s face twisted in irritation, his grin fading into a scowl. He huffed dramatically, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “Always business with you,” he muttered under his breath. With a grumble of frustration, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the gym, muttering about how boring life was under Alejandro’s rule.
• Alejandro didn’t watch him go. He just stood there, staring at the worn leather of the punching bag, his muscles tense and his mind clouded with thoughts he could never speak aloud.
• Somewhere deep inside, he knew why he kept himself so distant from women, why he hadn’t allowed himself even a taste of that reckless pleasure. It wasn’t about being a monk or a saint—it was about guilt, shadows, and a face he couldn’t remember but could never forget.
• And as much as he hated to admit it, Matias’s words, loud and crude as they were, dug under his skin just a little more than usual tonight.
• Alejandro stepped into his luxurious bedroom, a sanctuary of polished wood, silk sheets, and shadows.
• He headed straight to the bathroom, where he turned on the shower and let the water run hot—so hot that steam filled the space like a thick, foggy blanket. Alejandro leaned against the cool tiles, letting the scorching water cascade over his back, over his tense muscles, down to the floor.
• He loved hot showers. They were his one small indulgence, his private ritual of escape. In the heat, he felt a strange calm seep into his bones, a rare moment of peace when his mind could go blank, and for just a while, he didn’t have to think about power, family, betrayal—or her.