Page 12

Diego

Fuck this. Nothing. We found nothing to help us and we are back to square one again.

Camille’s footsteps fall softly behind me, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. I know the shooting must have rattled her but there is more. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re carrying the weight of a man’s life between us, or maybe it’s just my instinct screaming at me to stay alert.

I glance at her as we walk toward the car. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s a stiffness in her shoulders I didn’t notice before. She hasn’t said much since we left the apartment, and for the first time, I wonder if she knows something I don’t.

“Camille,” I murmur, my voice low, “Are you alright?”

She doesn’t look at me, her gaze fixed ahead as if the world is moving at a pace she can’t keep up with. “I’m fine,” she says, but there’s a slight edge to her voice—something sharp, like she’s holding back.

I want to press her, to dig deeper, but I know now’s not the time. I’ve learned that the hard way. Instead, I reach the truck first, and I hold the door open for her. She hesitates, and for a moment, I think she might say something else, but then she slides in without a word.

I close the door and move to the driver’s side, my mind already racing. We need to get to the new safe house, but every turn, every alley I pass, feels like it’s leading us straight into a trap. It’s a gut feeling—one I trust even when I can’t explain it.

I push the truck faster, weaving through traffic, the city lights flashing by in a blur of orange and yellow. But the unease gnaws at me, growing with every mile. Something’s wrong.

I glance at Camille. Her hands are clenched in her lap, and I can see the pulse beating in her neck, rapid, irregular. It’s subtle—too subtle for most people to notice—but I’ve seen it before. That look. The one that says she’s trying to outrun something. A thought. A memory. A truth.

I’m about to ask her again what’s going on when I catch sight of the rearview mirror. A car. Just a couple of blocks behind, moving fast. I blink, not sure if I’m imagining things, but then it shifts, following us closer.

I press my foot harder on the gas, the truck lurching forward. I turn right, then left, trying to lose it, but the car stays on our tail. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. We’re being followed.

“Hold on,” I snap.

I turn sharply onto another street, cutting through the heart of the city. The car behind us follows, matching every turn, every stop. It’s not just a coincidence anymore. Whoever is behind us knows exactly what they’re doing.

“Camille,” I say, my voice steady, though I can feel the pressure in my chest. “We’ve got company.”

She doesn’t respond, and when I glance at her again, her eyes are wide, fixed on the side mirror. I can see the fear creeping in, but it’s masked by something else—something darker. A resolve, maybe? It doesn’t matter right now. We need to focus.

I swerve the truck around another corner, nearly hitting a fire hydrant, but I don’t care. The car behind us is still there. Closer now.

“Get ready,” I warn her, adrenaline pumping. We’re heading for a dead-end alley I know well, the kind of place where I can make a quick escape.

The sound of screeching tires fills the night, and I know they’re speeding up. I’m about to make my move when gunfire cracks through the night.

The first shot hits the rear window, shattering it into a thousand pieces. I slam my foot down on the gas, but before I can react, another shot rings out.

This time, it hits me. The bullet tears into my arm, searing through flesh and muscle, and I grunt as pain shoots through me. The force of the hit pulls the wheel from my hand, and the truck veers dangerously to the right.

“Diego!” Camille yells, her voice breaking through the haze of pain in my head. She’s reaching for me, her hand hovering over my injured arm.

I grit my teeth, trying to focus, trying to push past the pain. But the blood is already soaking through my sleeve, and the truck is spinning out of control.

“We’re not stopping,” I growl, fighting to regain control of the wheel. “Stay down. Keep your head down.”

But as I right the truck and push it forward, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right. It’s not just the bullet that grazed my arm. It’s Camille. There’s a shift in her—something subtle, something I can’t quite place.

Her breathing is quick, shallow. Her hands are shaking, but her eyes are... something else. Too still. Too calculating.

I glance at her, my gut churning. There’s something she’s not telling me.

We make it to the safe house after about an hour's drive. It’s a small cabin in the middle of nowhere just like the other one but this one belonged to an uncle of mine who introduced me into this world. I never thought that I would ever need to use this place but here we are. It’s the kind of place I’d never show anyone, much less Camille. But right now, it’s the only option. I know it, and she knows it, but neither of us says a word.

I put the truck into park and we hop out. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, the pain from the graze is becoming harder to ignore. My feet crunch the gravel underneath as we make our way to the small wooden structure. Camille is oddly non-combative and I don’t know whether to be proud or worried.

I find the hidden key in the groove of the frame and open the front door, I stumble through the threshold, my head swimming from the slight blood loss, and it’s only then that I realize just how much I’m bleeding. The pain in my arm is a dull throb that pulses with every step. But what hurts more than the wound is the feeling that I’ve already been made—marked as an enemy.

The cartel is too close. They’re not going to stop until they get what they want–the flash drive. I have no idea where étienne could have hid it. He didn’t trust his sister enough to tell her of this world, so she knew nothing. I look over my shoulder and watch her walk in tentatively, as if she is scared to set something off.

Camille’s the only thing they’ll use to get to me. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already become a pawn in this twisted game. I think she has been one from the very beginning.

"Diego, you need to clean that up," Camille says softly. “Let me help you clean up the blood. Where is the bathroom with the first aid kit?” She walks over to me with a gentle smile on her lips.

I don’t protest or respond, but I also make no move to go to the bathroom or tell her where the kit is. The air in my lungs thins, and my mind is already racing, thinking of the next move, the next place to hide.

But none of that matters when Camille’s voice pulls me back.

“Diego, you’re losing too much blood,” she says, her tone clipped, controlled. There’s no emotion in her voice—at least none I can decipher. She’s shut herself off, and I can feel the distance between us like a physical barrier.

I turn toward her, but she’s already stepping back, moving toward the stairs. “Come on. You need to clean up. Now.”

I lead her through the narrow hallway and into a small bathroom. The room is bare—just a mirror, a sink, and a small shower. I lean against the counter, my legs suddenly feeling like they might give out. The adrenaline is pouring out of me and the superhuman power I felt earlier dwindles.

“Where is the kit?” She asks and I point to the cabinet above the sink.

Camille reaches into the cabinet, pulling out a first aid kit. I don’t look at her as she moves around me, setting things up. The quiet is suffocating, each movement she makes somehow louder than the last.

When she finally speaks, it’s like a whisper of what we both know is unspoken.

“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice distant. She doesn’t meet my eyes as she gently pushes my jacket off my shoulder, revealing the blood-stained sleeve.

“No shit, Sherlock.” I try to make light of the situation, and she responds by dabbing me with antiseptic. I flinch when her fingers brush my skin, but I don’t pull away.

“Hold still,” she murmurs, her hands steady as she works to clean the wound. The sting of alcohol on my skin makes me grit my teeth, but I don’t make a sound. I can’t. Not when her hands are so careful.

The lull of the quiet hangs between us, thicker now, as she tends to my arm. I can feel the heat of her touch, but I also feel the distance. That cold wall that wasn’t there before.

I’ve never been good at pretending. So I don’t.

“Camille,” I say, my voice rough. “About what happened tonight—”

She doesn’t let me finish. “Don’t,” she cuts in, her tone sharp. She looks at me then, her gaze cold and unreadable. “It’s fine.”

This is new. I can’t believe this. Only a few days ago, this woman was ready to raise hellfire for me for not telling her how I knew her brother. And now…she is different.

I bite back the urge to argue. Whatever happened in her brother’s house has shifted something in her. What did she see? Or better yet, what did she find and why isn’t she telling me?

Camille’s hand falters for just a second as she ties off the bandage around my arm. It’s subtle, but I catch it. The way she hesitates. The way she’s no longer touching me with the same ease she did before.

I can’t look at her, can’t look into those eyes that once held something more. Now there’s just a distance mixed in with a lot of confusion.

Before I can stop myself, the question slips out.

“Did you find anything in étienne’s apartment?”

The words hang in the air between us, and I instantly regret them. I don’t want to push her, but something feels wrong.

Her hands pause, the tension in her shoulders tightening. She doesn’t meet my gaze as she steps back, but I catch the brief flicker in her eyes. It’s enough to tell me she’s hiding something. She’s always been good at that—guarding her thoughts, her emotions.

But not this time. Not with me.

“No. Nothing.” The answer comes out low, as if she is afraid to say it.

I want to push further, to demand the truth, but I don’t. Instead, I nod, letting the stillness settle between us again. I know she’s lying, but I can’t bring myself to call her out on it. Not right now. Not when everything else is already falling apart. We were just shot at and she is doing her best to not look phased but her trembling hands tell me otherwise.

Finally, she finishes. Her touch lingers for only a second before she pulls away completely.

I stand there, still reeling from the raw truth that hangs in the air, and I know one thing for sure: we’re both drowning in the consequences of everything that’s happened. But the worst part is that I’m the one who’s sinking her.

She doesn’t look at me as she stands there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor. I don’t move, don’t dare to reach for her. We both know what happens when either of us gets too close and I don’t want to put her in a precarious position again.

The subtle buzz in the air rings in my ear. I feel the little tether that links us tug at my center and I can’t help but to stare at her.

I can’t stand it anymore—the distance, the quiet, the way we’re both avoiding what needs to be said.

I reach out and grab her hand, gently, but firmly. The act is impulsive, the first time I’ve allowed myself to touch her without restraint, without fear.

Her eyes snap up to meet mine, startled, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s going to pull away. But she doesn’t.

“Camille,” I say, my voice softer now, the weight of everything we’ve been through pressing down on me. “We both need rest. You’ve been through enough.”

For the first time, I let myself show her something beyond the hardness of the man I’ve been. Something human, something fragile. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but I know she deserves more than this cold distance between us.

Her fingers tighten around mine, just for a second, and I lead her to the bedroom so that we can rest. I lay down first for her to then settle into my arms and place her head on my chest, just over my heart. I can feel its gentle thumping behind my ribcage as I pull her closer to me.

I close my eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I find myself drifting into sleep without feeling the unease that comes with night. I have suffered from insomnia from the time I made my first kill. I always believed it was the karma that followed me from the ghosts of the blood I spilled.

But she seems to keep the darkness at bay. For once, I sleep like I’m just a man and not a monster running from his past.

But even in my sleep, I know.

I know that this peace is temporary. That I will have to face her sooner or later. I will have to confess what I did to her brother. And when I do, I don’t know if she’ll ever look at me the same way again.

But for now, all I can do is sleep.