Rafael didn't sleep. Not after that.
Aurora lay beside him in the dark, her breathing soft but uneven, like her mind refused to shut off no matter how exhausted her body was. She kept her back to him, wrapped in nothing but the silk sheet and silence. But he knew she was awake. Just like him.
He lit a cigarette. The flame briefly lit the scar across his chest—an old wound from a bullet meant for someone else. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
"I need to know his name," Aurora finally whispered.
He didn't answer at first.
Then: "Emilio Vargas."
She turned slowly, the name clearly unfamiliar. "I don't know who that is."
"You wouldn't. He disappeared before you were old enough to remember him." Rafael flicked ash into the tray. "But he's the reason your father bled out on marble steps with your mother screaming over him."
Aurora's voice dropped to a trembling whisper. "Why?"
