Page 48

Ice snorts, but there’s a glint of something in his eye. “Just digging for clues, Bella. That’s all.”

I study him, the hard lines of his face that soften just for me, and I realize I’m not just forgiving him. I’m trusting him, too. “Just make sure you get it back. That watch is the only thing I have from her.” My fingertips play with the edges of the paper napkin, twisting it as Ice’s gaze holds mine.

“I’ll get it back to you, promise,” he assures me, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Tell me more about your life. When did you leave Mexico for the States?”

I draw in a deep breath, feeling the weight of memories press against my chest. “I was sixteen. It happened because I started seeing a guy, Gael. His dad was with the Policía Federal.”

“That had to be a huge problem for a cartel family.” Ice leans forward, his interest piqued.

“Biggest one you could have.” My laugh is humorless. “MyabueloDiego ran things back then. Having any connection to cops was inviting trouble. My grandfather wouldn’t stand for it.”

“What was he like? Diego.”

“Charming and ruthless in equal measure,” I say, thinking back. “People either loved him or feared him. Often both.When he found out about my secret relationship with Gael, he promoted my father to lead the NOLA branch of the cartel. We moved to the U.S. within days.”

“Your father jumped at the chance.”

“Exactly. Antonio didn’t care about anything but money and power. That seems to run in the family. He expanded operations in New Orleans. But five years ago…” My voice trails off. Even though I hated moving away from Gael and my grandmother, Antonio was still my father. The pain never really dulls.

“Shot by a rival cartel,” Ice finishes for me, his tone solemn.

“Juan stepped up to take his place.” I can’t hide the bitterness that creeps into my voice. “He’s been running the show ever since.”

“I was thinking… did Antonio set up shell companies here?” Ice’s question is sharp, cutting through my moment of grief.

“Maybe.” I shrug, not wanting to think about the business side of my father’s life. “I never paid much attention to any of it. I was too busy being angry about leaving Gael behind.”

“Did you ever try to reach out to Gael after you moved?”

“Once.” My heart aches with the memory. “Found out he’d married someone else. They were expecting a kid. That’s when I knew it was over.”

“Have you had any other serious relationships since then?”

I shake my head, the answer clear and simple. “No. Never found anyone worth the time.” I pause, my gaze locked with his. “Until now.”

The words hang in the air, charged with something new, something electric. Ice leans across the table, and without another word, his lips meet mine. In this moment, with his taste on my lips, the past doesn’t seem quite so bad, and the future doesn’t look so bleak.

Our breakfast plates sit forgotten, the last remnants of grits and eggs growing cold as the morning air shifts around us.

“I’m gonna have Fang look into your father’s real estate holdings.” Ice leans back in his chair, arms folded, the picture of calm calculation.

My stomach knots. I can’t imagine there being anything left behind, any clue that would lead us to the kids. “My father was meticulous. He wouldn’t have left a trail. He had to be perfect, you know? To make my grandfather proud.”

Ice nods, his expression unreadable. There’s a flicker in his eyes, though—a look that tells me he won’t let this go, not until every stone is turned.

“Would you ever go back?” he asks. “To Mexico?”

“No.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. “After myabuelapassed, I went home for her funeral. It felt like walking through a ghost town.” My hands fold into tight fists on the table. “New Orleans is my home now. But if Juan finds out about us…” I glance at Ice, watching his jaw set with resolve.

“Whatever happens, Bella,” he says, his voice firm but soothing, “I’ll make sure you have a safe place. You’re not facing this alone.”

I nod, holding back tears. His promise wraps around me like a lifeline—solid, unwavering, the one thing keeping me from sinking.

My phone vibrates against the wrought iron table, a sharp buzz that slices through the murmur of the café and the distant hum of New Orleans waking up. My hand trembles as I pick it up, the screen lighting up with Juan’s name like a beacon of dread.

“Sigues siendo una puta. Ahora estás muerta para mí,” the message reads, each word a stab to my chest. I can’t help but glance at the door, half-expecting Juan’s shadow to loom there, his wrath made flesh.

“What is it?” Ice asks.