Page 5 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

four

Vanessa

T he wall of noise hits me before I even step inside. Cousins arguing over basketball scores, aunties gossiping in rapid Tagalog, my dad's booming laugh cutting through it all. I smooth down my sensible navy blue dress for the fifth time, standing frozen on my parents' front porch.

Steady green light. Still functioning perfectly.

You got this. Just be Vanessa Reyes, dutiful daughter. Not Echo, the hacker who's helping trafficking victims.

My thumb hovers over the notification panel before I reluctantly tuck the phone into my purse. I've polished all my responses about working at the coffee shop.

Yes, creating fancy lattes brings me joy. No, stepping away from my computer science program doesn't mean my skills go unused. Yes, I'm building a nest egg for future education.

All lies carefully constructed to mask the truth about what I really do with my technical skills.

I tug at my dress collar, suddenly feeling like it's choking me despite being perfectly loose. The version of myself I present here feels like an ill-fitting costume: the Perfect Filipino Daughter who definitely isn't breaking federal laws on a weekly basis.

Dark eyes flash across my memory. Asher. His military posture. The way he scanned the room before settling into his seat. The danger radiating from him that should repel me, not make my skin prickle with awareness.

"Stop it," I whisper, putting my arms down at my sides. "Focus."

The warm scent of my mom's kare-kare—rich oxtail stew in peanut sauce—drifts through the screen door, making my stomach grumble. At least the food will be worth the interrogation that awaits me inside.

I lift my hand to knock, but freeze when the dark intensity of Asher's gaze intrudes into my thoughts again. There was something both terrifying and thrilling about the way he looked at me, like he was assessing a potential threat while also seeing something more.

My heart rate picks up, beating faster in a way that reminds me of those intense moments when I'm cracking a particularly difficult computer security system.

My fingers twitch with the urge to pull my phone back out, to check if his location has changed, to see if the programs I have running have discovered anything new. But my family is waiting, and—

The front door swings open before my knuckles can make contact.

"Anak! Why are you standing out here? Everyone is waiting!" My mother's voice slices through my thoughts, her petite frame blocking the doorway, eyebrows raised in a way that simultaneously communicates love and judgment. Her bright coral blouse catches the porch light as she reaches for me.

Mom yanks me into the dining room, her tiny hand clamping my arm with surprising strength. I'm immediately engulfed by the rich kitchen aromas—the sharp tang of garlic, vinegar's bite, and the sweet creaminess of coconut milk floating through the air.

Before I can take another breath, my relatives swarm around me in a chaotic wave of embraces, fingers pinching my cheeks, and an avalanche of questions fired at me all at once.

"Vanessa! Kumusta na—how are you? You're so skinny—are you eating?"

"Still at that coffee shop? Your Professor Wells from MIT still asks about you!"

"No boyfriend yet? Your cousin Teresa is already engaged!"

I paste on my practiced smile while my brain struggles to track the bombardment. I stare at our dinner table, practically sagging from all the hot food spread across the burgundy tablecloth. Mom's gone all out tonight with plates of everything steaming and ready to eat.

Crispy lumpia, fragrant chicken adobo, bright pancit canton noodles, and my mom's famous kare-kare. My belly rumbles with hunger while my brain automatically maps every possible way out of this place, a reflex I picked up after my first narrow escape from the feds.

"Sit, sit!" My mom steers me toward the empty chair between my older brother Miguel—Kuya Migs to me—and my sister Ate Kaela. "Everyone's been waiting."

I squeeze into my seat, immediately reaching for my water glass to have something to do with my hands. The table is set with the formal white china and gleaming silver serving spoons that only emerge for special occasions.

Family photos smile down from cream-colored walls: graduations, weddings, birthdays; a timeline of Reyes family achievements. I've upgraded their home security system twice without telling them, installing monitors that would make government agencies jealous.

"So, Vanessa." My mother's voice carries that special tone reserved for public disappointment. "Your Tita Gloria was just asking about your work."

I crumple my napkin under the table, my fingers automatically folding it into smaller and smaller triangles.

"The coffee shop is good. I'm getting promoted to shift supervisor next month."

My mother's sigh could power a small wind turbine. "Such potential. The youngest ever accepted to MIT's advanced computing program... and now making coffee."

"It's just temporary, Mom." The lie slides out easily after so much practice.

Dad drops his fork with a clatter. "Your cousin Jinky just made partner at her law firm—"

The napkin in my hands becomes a crane, then a frog, my fingers moving faster as conversations swirl around me.

On my left ate Mikaela—my older sister—is describing her latest corporate case. On my right, Kuya Migs mentions his hospital rounds. My younger brother Gabe is usually my ally, but he's trapped in a conversation with Uncle Ramon about his nursing program.

"...twenty-eight already..."

"...perfect job waiting at your uncle's firm..."

"...nice Filipino doctor we could introduce you to..."

The voices blend into a buzzing hum. I count ceiling tiles to ground myself as my leg bounces uncontrollably under the table. Sixteen tiles from the crystal chandelier to the wall. Twenty-three lumpia left on the serving plate. Five different conversations happening simultaneously.

I reach for my water glass, knocking over the saltshaker. Before I can clean it up, three relatives rush to help, creating even more chaos.

Next to me, Kuya Migs elbows me before clearing his throat.

"So, Dad, did you hear about that new cardiac procedure they're testing at my hospital?"

I send a silent prayer of thanks to my brother for his perfectly timed distraction. Dad immediately launches into a detailed discussion about healthcare protocols, giving me a brief reprieve from being the family disappointment.

Ate Kaela slides more pancit onto my plate, my sister's perfectly manicured red nails catching the light. "Eat more. You're too skinny."

I obediently take a bite, the familiar tangy-sweet noodles momentarily grounding me. The family chatter continues around us—Tito Freddie's new silver Honda, Tita Elena's gallbladder surgery, cousin Jinky's baby shower next month.

"You know," Ate Kaela's voice is low enough that only I can hear, "Santos & Rivera is hiring paralegals right now." She cuts her chicken adobo into even pieces. "You could start there with your analytical skills, then maybe law school—"

"That's a wonderful idea!" Mom interjects, her radar for career conversations apparently turned to maximum sensitivity. "You'd make an excellent lawyer, anak."

Dad nods enthusiastically, putting down his fork. "Reyes and Reyes would look good on a law office door!"

My hand tightens around my fork as I carefully arrange my face into a neutral expression. "My work is more important than you realize."

"Yes, customer service is very important!" Mom beams. "Learning to deal with difficult people is a skill for any career."

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing hysterically. If only they knew that while they think I'm pouring lattes, I'm actually tracking human trafficking networks and hacking into secure databases.

The disconnect is almost comical—their Perfect Filipino Daughter is actually a digital vigilante who's broken more federal laws in a day than most people do in a lifetime.

My mind drifts to Asher Cross. Heat pools low in my belly as I imagine those large hands wrapped around his coffee cup, wondering how they would feel against my skin. The calluses I noticed on his trigger finger would create a delicious friction against—

Stop it. He's a potential threat, not a fantasy.

But my body doesn't seem to care about that distinction. My breathing quickens into the same pattern I experience during high-stakes system infiltrations—shallow, rapid, charged with adrenaline.

"Vanessa?" Ate Kaela's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Did you hear what Dad said about the Torres firm?"

I blink, guilt washing over me for fantasizing about a dangerous man. "Sorry, what?"

"Torres needs tech-savvy staff," Dad repeats, eyes bright with hope. "Your cousin can put in a good word."

"The scholarship your Lola sacrificed to help pay for sits unused," Mom adds, invoking utang na loob—the debt of gratitude that should make me feel guilty for my family's sacrifice.

The irony stings. They see me as an underachiever wasting my potential on minimum wage jobs, while my actual work has already helped identify three trafficking networks and saved at least eleven women. The life I've chosen matters, even if I can never tell them about it.

"I'll think about it," I lie, taking another bite of food.

The vibration against my side startles me into awareness. My head buzzes with recognition before I even glance at BB-8's screen, knowing my code's alert pattern by heart.

My hand darts toward my pocket without thought, bumping my water glass. The glass wobbles before I get a grip on it, but not before I spill some water onto the burgundy tablecloth.

"Ay nako, Vanessa!" Mom jumps up for napkins.

"Sorry, sorry." My skin tingles with expectation, recognizing that if the program signals me, Asher has shifted to a marked location or accessed something important online.

"Everything okay?" Kuya Migs asks, his doctor's eyes assessing me sharply.