I step closer, my stubbornness bubbling up, hot and sharp. "I’ve been dead for six months, Mateo. I’m living in a one-bedroom shack that smells like damp wood and rubbing oil on strangers until my wrists ache. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve earned this. You’ve got to help me find them."
"I will try," he mutters, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. "But don’t count on it, it’s like this person doesn’t exist at all.”
He slips out the back door without another word. I stay there for a moment, my forehead pressed against the cool glass of a soda machine. Six months. I’ve spent every spare peso, every waking hour of my "freedom," looking for any trace of what I lost.
I will find what I am looking for. I must.
The grief is a dull ache in my stomach, competing with the physical reminder of the scar hidden beneath my white tunic. My father’s gift to me.
A sharp rap on the doorframe makes me jump. Sofia is standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, a look on her face I don't like.
"Elena? I thought I sent you in here for lavender oil five minutes ago."
I scramble, my face heating up as I reach for a blue bottle on the shelf. "I know, I was just... I was checking the inventory on the eucalyptus too. We're running low."
"Forget the inventory," she says, her expression shifting from annoyance to something greedier. "Your shift was over, but a client just walked in. He didn't want anyone else. He asked specifically for you."
I freeze, the air in my lungs suddenly feeling thin. "Specifically? I don't have regulars on Thursdays, Sofia. You know I like to leave on time."
"He said he heard you have the 'firmest hands' in Cancun," Sofia says, sliding a thick roll of bills onto the counter. It’s more than I make in a month, easily. My eyes widen at the sheer volume of cash. "He’s in Room 4. He paid for the premium package, and he told me I could keep the change if I made sure you were the one to handle him. He didn't seem like the type of man you say no to."
My stomach does a slow, nauseating roll. "I don't do 'special' requests, Sofia. I’ve been very clear about that since the day you hired me."
"He didn't ask for that," she says, though she looks a little worried now, her gaze flickering to the hallway. "He just... he looked like a man who gets what he wants. He’s big, Elena.And he’s rich. He’s in Room 4. Go. I’ll pay you double for the overtime. Think of it as a bonus for being so popular."
I stare at the money. I think of Mateo’s face, of the Jersey records, of the one I can’t find because I don't have enough leverage to make people talk. I need the cash. I need every cent if I'm going to find him.
"Fine," I say, my voice a bit too sharp, my stubbornness winning over my instinct. "But if he so much as breathes on my neck, I’m walking out. I don't care how much he paid."
"Just give him the massage, Elena. He looks like he could use the relaxation. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in a week."
I grab a bottle of neutral oil and head toward Room 4. The hallway feels different now—longer, narrower, as if the walls are leaning in to watch me pass. The scent of hibiscus is suddenly cloyingly sweet, like the perfume at a funeral for someone you didn't particularly like. I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair under my cap and adjusting the collar of my tunic.
I push the door open. The room is bathed in a low, amber light from a few flickering candles. It smells of sea salt and something else—something cold, metallic, and strangely familiar that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
A man is lying face down on the table. He’s massive. Even under the white sheet draped over his waist, his shoulders are a broad expanse of hard, defined muscle. He’s a landscape of power, hisskin tanned and stretched tight over a frame that looks like it was built for war.
I stop. My breath hitches in my throat.
Tattoos snake up his arms, peeking out from beneath the headrest. I can see them in the dim light—intricate, dark designs. I see serpents. I see stars. I see the brutal, geometric language of the criminal underworld.
What in the world is a man like this doing… here?
Is he Bratva? Probably. Cancun is crawling with Russian pigs looking for a place to wash their money and bury their sins. I’ve seen dozens of them in the last six months. They usually smell like cheap vodka and expensive cigars. But they don’t come into the massage parlor. This one... this one is different.
Nobody found you. You’re just Elena. A girl from nowhere with nothing to hide.
I stand there, the door handle still warm in my hand. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around, to walk out, to run until my lungs burn. But then he moves. It’s a slow, languid stretch of his neck, and that’s when I see them.
Scars.
Long, jagged white lines across his lats. They aren't from an accident. They’re the kind of marks left by a knife held by someone who knew exactly where to cut to cause the most pain.
Oh my goodness, what is going on??T6I start before I immediately stop myself.Stop it, Irina. Stop overthinking.
I tell myself it's just business. Just a Russian thug who tracked down a rumor of a girl with "firm hands."
"Are you going to stand there all night,señorita? Or are we going to begin?"
