Chapter 3 The Devil Who Knew Her Name

Morning crept in through velvet curtains, soft light bleeding over the polished marble floor and spilling across the expensive rug beneath Elena's bare feet.

She hadn't slept.

Not really.

She'd sat curled in a corner of the room, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the door like it might fly open again. Her muscles ached. Her eyes burned. But her body refused to shut down. Every time she blinked, she saw Marissa's blood again. Every time the wind brushed the glass, it felt like a gunshot.

A knock-soft, but firm.

She flinched.

The door didn't open. Just a voice.

"Breakfast is on the table, Señorita Rivera. You may walk the west garden today, if you wish."

Footsteps faded.

She didn't respond.

She didn't move.

But a sliver of something stirred inside her-curiosity maybe. Or survival.

The hallway beyond the room was silent, unnaturally so. Every surface gleamed. Every painting hung just so. It was a palace-but a cold one. The kind of place that screamed beauty while hiding blades behind its walls.

She wandered past a grand staircase, past men in black posted like statues. None spoke. None looked at her longer than they had to. Elena's bare soles brushed against cool stone until the scent of smoke pulled her.

Cigarette. Rich tobacco. Burnt clove.

She followed it.

Out into the west garden.

Sunlight glistened across a stone fountain, its waters trickling lazily over carved marble angels-faces frozen mid-prayer. The scent of citrus trees hovered in the breeze, but the air was sharp, thick with something unspoken.

And there he was.

Sitting at the edge of the fountain, dark suit flawless even in morning light, cigarette between his fingers like it belonged there. His hair was tousled like he hadn't slept either. But the rest of him... controlled. Calculated.

He didn't turn when he spoke.

"Elena Rivera."

Her breath caught in her throat.

He knew her name.

She stepped back, instantly guarded. "How do you know who I am?"

That was the first thing she managed to say. Not "Who are you?" Not "Where am I?" Just that-because fear had turned her into something simple. A woman stitched together by instinct.

He exhaled slowly, a stream of smoke spiraling past his lips before he finally looked at her. His eyes weren't cruel. But they weren't kind either. They were... piercing. Deep. Like he could see straight through every thought she'd ever had.

"This is my city," he said simply. "My streets. My buildings. Even the rats know better than to run where I don't allow them to."

She swallowed hard.

He stood, flicking the cigarette into the grass, then walked toward her.

"And you?" he continued, voice smooth, accented but sharp. "You ran right into the mouth of the lion."

"I didn't mean-"

He raised a hand, silencing her.

"I know."

She stopped speaking. The words died in her throat. She wanted to explain-to scream that she had no idea what was happening, that she was just a nurse, that her best friend had been slaughtered in their apartment-but something about his presence made speech feel like a fragile thing.

He looked at her again, longer this time.

"You witnessed the execution of Marissa Cruz," he said, voice low but certain. "Carried out by a freelance enforcer named El Toro, who was hired by someone high in the Ortiz cartel. Likely a message. Likely a warning. And now-"

He stepped closer.

"They want to tie off loose ends. Namely, you."

Her knees wobbled beneath her.

"You... how do you know all that?"

"I have eyes," he said. "And people who owe me favors. I knew who you were before you spilled blood on my concrete."

She took a shaky breath, hugging herself.

"I didn't ask to be hunted."

"No," he replied, "but you are."

He turned, facing the garden again, hands clasped behind his back. "They won't stop. You know that, don't you? The second you step out of this place, they'll find you. And if they don't-someone else will."

She felt small again. Like that night. Like the moment she knelt in blood, too broken to scream.

"I don't know anything," she said quietly. "I didn't see anything that could-"

"You saw a face. That's all it takes."

Silence fell between them.

Birds chirped somewhere in the trees, but even they sounded like whispers in the presence of this man.

He turned back to her slowly.

"I can offer you protection," he said, tone shifting. "But it comes at a price."

She flinched. "What kind of price?"

He arched a brow. "Nothing... degrading, if that's what you're imagining."

She didn't relax.

"You'll stay hidden. Here. Under my roof. Under my rules," he said. "No contact with the outside world. No walking out that gate unless I say so. You'll be under surveillance-for your safety and mine."

"So I become your prisoner."

"You become alive."

She looked away.

It was hard to breathe.

This was all too much. Too fast. Her entire life had shattered in seconds, and now she was standing in some mafia king's garden being told she could either live in a cage-or die on the street.

"I need to think about it," she said, voice raw.

He studied her.

"That's fair," he said at last. "But not forever. Time isn't your friend, Elena. Neither is hope. You've already seen what they do to people who 'talk too much.'"

Her breath hitched.

Marissa's face flashed in her mind-laughing, teasing, alive.

Then gone.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly.

He offered a faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Damian Serrano."

The name landed heavy in her stomach.

Even she'd heard it whispered in hospital halls, in late-night news, in the rumors about who really ran the docks, the clubs, the shadows of the city. People spoke his name the way they spoke of storms.

And now he knew hers.

"I'll think about it," she whispered again, more to herself than to him.

"Do it quickly."

He walked past her then, his cologne drifting behind-warm, woodsy, and oddly comforting in the worst possible way.

She stood there long after he left, heart beating against the walls of her ribs.

A storm had taken her life.

And the devil had offered her shelter.