Page 14 of Born of Vengeance

Rafael moved through them like smoke.

No one noticed the ghost in the room.

He passed arms dealers from Eastern Europe, tech moguls from Asia, a sheikh with bodyguards in designer suits. But his eyes were searching for only one man.

And then he saw him.

________________________________________

Héctor Valderrama.

Standing beneath a stone arch, drink in hand, smile practiced. He wore a navy suit, no tie, with the ease of a man who'd never had to run from anything in his life. Guests moved around him like planets in orbit, nodding, laughing, hanging on his every word.

Rafael slowed.

There he was. The man behind Ana’s death. The one who ordered lives shipped like cargo and children treated like inventory.

And he looked like a goddamn statesman.

For a moment, Rafael’s hand twitched near his sidearm.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Too many eyes. Too many ears. He needed to know who else was in the room before he turned it into a graveyard.

He stepped away, blending into the flow of bodies, circling.

________________________________________

At the far end of the courtyard, a voice found him before he saw her.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” she said.

Rafael turned.

She was in a deep emerald dress that shimmered like rain on jungle leaves. Hair tied up, a single silver pin holding it in place. Her eyes were sharp. Curious. Amused. She held a glass of wine in one hand, the other resting on her hip—not flirtatious, not defensive. Balanced.

“Neither do you,” Rafael replied.

She smirked. “Touché. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m private security. Contractor.”

“For?”

He let the silence stretch just long enough to be evasive, then added, “Whoever pays.”

She took a slow sip. “You’re Brazilian.”

He didn’t answer.

“You try very hard not to say much,” she said. “That’s interesting. Most men at these things never shut up.”

“Most men here don’t kill for a living.”

That made her pause.

---