Page 81 of Corrupting Camille
I summon the car, finally, and ride home in heavy silence, drenched, freezing, and utterly spent. When I slip beneath my covers, my damp hair soaking into the pillow, I stare blankly at the ceiling.
I let myself, for one painful, unguarded moment, imagine what it might feel like to let someone see me like this. Vulnerable. Raw. Imperfect.
Even if that someone is the worst possible choice.
Especially if that someone is Kane Rivera.
Kane
Little Havana, Miami
Ana’s apartment door is faded, peeling blue paint. My knuckles rap softly, respectful, knowing exactly what waits behind the wood.
It swings open slowly. Ana’s face brightens, then darkens, confusion bleeding swiftly into dread.
“Mr. Rivera?”
“Ana.” My voice is quiet, controlled. “We need to talk.”
Her eyes widen, sharp with sudden terror, instinct taking over. “Mateo?”
“I’m sorry.”
She stumbles backward, crumbling into herself, fingers clutching a dish towel stained with bleach. Her mouth opens, closes, gasping breaths choking on denial.
“No…no, please…”
“He’s gone,” I say flatly, the words tasting bitter, metallic. “He died on my watch. My fault.”
Ana shakes her head, grief twisting into rage. She hurls the towel down, anger slicing across her tear-streaked face. “You promised! Promised me you’d keep him safe!”
“I lied.” I don’t blink. Don’t look away. “But the men responsible…they’ll pay.”
Her voice is hoarse, broken. “Make them suffer.”
I nod once, promise sealed in blood. “I will.”
Outside, Joaquin waits silently, eyes cold, ready. I climb into the SUV, darkness heavy in my chest, hand steady as I dial Javi.
“Torres. Find him. Alive.”
Javi’s voice is low, ruthless. “He’s already being tracked.”
“Good. I’m coming.”
***
The warehouse reeks of death and diesel. Men shuffle in the shadows, oblivious to their end stalking closer.
Joaquin moves like a ghost beside me, eyes sharp, gun steady. No hesitation. No mercy.
Two guards drop before they even know death has arrived, bullets whisper-quiet, bodies collapsing silently to concrete.
I stride forward, blood pounding a brutal tempo, methodical violence thrumming beneath my skin. More men fall, shots precise. Clean. Each step toward Torres is calm, relentless, inevitable.
He sits behind a table, false arrogance masking raw fear. Panic flickers in his eyes when they find mine.
“Kane…”
