Rafael didn't let go of me that night. His arm was heavy across my waist, his chest pressed against my back as if even in his sleep he needed to remind me that I belonged to him. I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, my mind refusing to rest.
The image of the photo burned into me—my father beside Emilio Vargas. Rafael's enemy. My father alive. Or had that picture been old? I didn't know. But the way Rafael had tried to distract me, the way his temper had spiked the moment I asked too many questions… it told me enough.
He was hiding something.
If I wanted the truth, I couldn't wait for Rafael to feed it to me in small pieces. I would have to take it myself.
But as I lay there, feeling his breath against my neck, I also knew one thing with absolute clarity—if Rafael even sensed what I was planning, if he caught a whisper of betrayal in me, I wouldn't live to see the truth.
