Chapter 8 Betrayal in the Club

Marisol POV

"What the hell is going on?" I muttered to myself, stepping back into the shadows.

The answer came in the form of a sharp voice over my shoulder. "You don't belong here, Marisol."

I spun around to see Santiago, Rafael's right-hand man, his face dark with anger. My stomach churned. Santiago had always been cold, but tonight there was something menacing in his tone. Before I could respond, he grabbed my arm, his grip bruising.

"Let go of me, you motherfucker!" I hissed, yanking free.

"You're meddling in things you don't understand," he growled. "If you care about Rafael, you'll leave this alone."

Leave what alone? My heart pounded as I watched him disappear into the crowd. But as I turned back to the balcony, I saw Rafael looking up at me, his expression unreadable.

Had he heard? Did he know? And if he did, why wasn't he stopping Santiago?

I slammed the door to Rafael's office behind me, the sound echoing through the empty space. He didn't even flinch, leaning back in his chair like he'd been waiting for this confrontation.

"Why is Santiago acting like I'm the enemy?" I demanded, my voice trembling with anger.

Rafael sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Because you're asking questions that could get you killed."

"Then give me answers!" I snapped, stepping closer. "Why does everyone act like my father's name is a death sentence? What did you do, Rafael?"

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. But then he stood, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat of his body.

"I was the one who brought him down," he said, his voice low but lethal. "Your father was a traitor, Marisol. He sold secrets that almost destroyed me."

The air left my lungs. "You... you ruined my family."

"I saved yours," he shot back. "If I hadn't stopped him, you'd be dead too."

I couldn't decide if I wanted to scream or kiss him and that terrified me more than his confession.

I couldn't sleep. Rafael's words echoed in my mind, twisting into a storm of rage and confusion. I sat in my car outside the club, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.

"I'll find the truth myself," I whispered, starting the engine.

I didn't know where I was going until I arrived. The abandoned warehouse where my father's empire had crumbled years ago still smelled of smoke and betrayal. I walked through the shadows, searching for any clue that could explain why he'd done what he did.

"Looking for ghosts, Marisol?"

I spun around, heart racing. A man stepped out of the darkness, his face half-hidden by a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw.

"You should've stayed out of this," he said, pulling a gun from his jacket.

The Scarred Man's name was Victor, and he claimed to have been my father's closest ally. We met in secret, his paranoia thick in the air.

"Your father wasn't a traitor," he said, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "He was set up."

"By who?" I demanded.

Victor's eyes darted around the room like the walls had ears. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," I said, leaning forward. But before he could answer, the door burst open, and three men stormed in, guns drawn.

Victor shoved me behind him, but it was too late. The first shot rang out, and I screamed as blood splattered across my face.

Victor's body hit the floor with a sickening thud, and the men turned their attention to me. My hands shook as I reached for the gun Victor had dropped, my fingers curling around the cold metal.

"Stay back!" I shouted, aiming at the closest man.

He smirked. "You don't have the guts."

But he was wrong. The gunshot echoed in the room, and the man fell, clutching his chest. The others hesitated, and I took my chance, running past them into the night.

In my hand, I held a bloodstained notebook, the final clue Victor had died protecting.

I didn't even make it to my apartment before Rafael's car pulled up beside me. He got out, his face a mask of fury.

"Get in," he ordered.

"No," I snapped. "Not until you tell me what the hell is going on."

He grabbed my arm, pulling me close. "You're playing a dangerous game, Marisol. That notebook won't bring your father back, it'll only get you killed."

"Then why are you so afraid of it?" I challenged myself, yanking free. "What are you hiding?"

His eyes darkened, and for the first time, I saw fear behind his anger. "If you keep digging, I won't be able to protect you."

I shoved him away, my voice shaking with resolve. "Then don't. I'll protect myself."

The key burned in my pocket as I paced my tiny apartment. My mind raced with possibilities. What door did it open? What secrets lay behind it? And why had the scarred man been carrying it?

I pulled it out, running my fingers over its worn edges. It was old, the kind of key that didn't belong in a modern world of digital locks and security systems.

A memory surfaced my father's study. He had a small locked cabinet he never let anyone touch. Could this be the key?

But the study had been destroyed in the fire. Had the cabinet survived?

I couldn't wait. Grabbing my coat, I headed out into the night, my heart pounding with anticipation and fear.

The house was a skeleton of its former self, charred and crumbling. Memories hit me like a wave as I stepped through the broken doorway laughter, warmth, safety all now ghosts of a life I'd never get back.

I made my way to the study, the floorboards creaking under my weight. The cabinet was still there, blackened but intact.

My hands trembled as I slid the key into the lock. It turned smoothly, and the door creaked open. Inside was a single envelope, yellowed with age.

I opened it carefully, my breath catching as I pulled out the papers inside.

A ledger. Names, dates, amounts. Transactions that tied my father to men like Rafael.

But one name stood out, circled in red ink.

Santiago Vargas.

Who the hell was he?

"You went back there?" Rafael's voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife.

I had barely stepped into the club when he confronted me, his eyes blazing with fury.

"You have no right to question me," I shot back, clutching the ledger tightly. "You're not my keeper, Rafael."

His jaw tightened. "That house is dangerous. You don't know who's watching."

"Maybe you're the one watching," I snapped, shoving the ledger into his chest. "Explain this."

He looked down at the papers, his expression darkening. "Where did you find this?"

"In the ruins of my life," I said bitterly. "Who is Santiago Vargas?"

Rafael's silence spoke volumes.

"You know him, don't you?" I pressed, stepping closer. "What aren't you telling me?"

He grabbed my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Drop this, Marisol. For your own good."

"Fuck you," I hissed, pulling away. "You don't get to decide what's good for me."

I found Elena in the back room of the club, nursing a drink. Her face lit up when she saw me, but her smile faded when she noticed the storm brewing in my eyes.

"I need your help," I said, sliding into the seat across from her.

She raised an eyebrow. "What kind of trouble are you in now?"

"Santiago Vargas," I said, laying the ledger on the table. "Does this name mean anything to you?"

Her eyes widened, and she leaned in, lowering her voice. "He's bad news, Mari. Worse than Rafael."

"Tell me everything."

Elena hesitated, then nodded. "Santiago was your father's partner. They were working on something big, something that could've changed everything. But when it all went south, Santiago disappeared. Some say he's dead, but others..."

"Others what?" I demanded.

"They say he's pulling strings from the shadows," she whispered. "If you're digging into his past, you're playing with fire."

The ledger led me to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. I knew it was a trap, but I couldn't ignore the possibility of finding answers.

The scarred man was waiting for me, his presence as menacing as ever.

"You're persistent," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "I'll give you that."

"Tell me about Santiago Vargas," I demanded, gripping the knife hidden in my pocket.

He smirked. "You think you're ready for the truth?"

"Stop playing games," I snapped. "Tell me, or I'll"

"You'll what?" he interrupted, stepping closer. "Kill

me? Go ahead. But you won't like what you find."

I didn't wait. The fight was brutal, every move fueled by rage and desperation. When it was over, the scarred man lay at my feet, blood pooling beneath him.

In his dying breath, he whispered, "Santiago... is closer than you think."

When I returned to the club, Rafael was waiting for me in his office.

"You killed him," he said, his tone eerily calm.

"He left me no choice," I said, my voice trembling.

Rafael stood, his towering presence making the room feel smaller. "This ends now, Marisol. No more digging, no more questions."

"You can't control me," I shot back.

He closed the distance between us, his gaze piercing. "You're walking a dangerous line. If you keep this up, you'll get yourself killed."

"Maybe I'm willing to take that risk," I said, my chin lifting defiantly.

Rafael's hand cupped my jaw, his touch both tender and firm. "You don't understand what you're dealing with."

"Then make me understand," I whispered, my voice breaking.

He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes filled with something I couldn't quite name. Then, he let go and turned away.

"Stay out of it, Marisol," he said, his voice heavy with finality. "That's the only way you'll survive."

But survival wasn't enough anymore. I wanted the truth. No matter the cost.