Chapter 2 BENEATH THE SILENCE, THE STORM

CHAPTER 2

The days passed with the rhythm of an old song-slow, wistful, edged with something unspoken.

Rodrigo kept returning to the bookstore.

At first, it was just to see her. He told himself it was coincidence. That he liked the quiet. That the air in Savannah felt less suffocating between those shelves.

But it wasn't the air. It was her.

Nattie Smith, with her guarded eyes and thorn-laced words. The girl who didn't care about his surname. The girl who looked at him like he was a scar and not a saviour.

He didn't know what he was chasing. Maybe redemption. Maybe something he'd never had.

But Nattie wasn't chasing anything. Especially not him.

She kept her distance-polite, curt, unreadable. She rang up his books with a clipped tone, eyes avoiding his. He tried asking questions once: about Savannah, about the books she liked. She gave answers that closed doors rather than opened them.

But still, he came.

And still, she noticed.

No matter how hard she tried to ignore him, Nattie couldn't unsee the way he moved-calm, almost unsure, like someone trying to learn a language he should've known by now.

She hated that he was handsome. Hated that he was kind in a way that felt real. Hated that he didn't match the monster in her memories. And most of all, she hated that her heart reacted before her brain could remind her who he was.

Because hearts are reckless.

And revenge is slow.

One evening, rain swept across Savannah like silk. The bookstore was empty. Nattie stood by the window, watching people rush by with umbrellas like open wings.

The door chimed.

Rodrigo stepped in, his coat soaked at the shoulders.

"I didn't think you'd be open," he said, brushing rain from his sleeves.

She didn't look at him. "We are."

He walked in slowly, picked up a book without reading the title. "Do you ever get tired of it?"

"Tired of what?"

"The silence."

She turned then, really looked at him. For a moment, her face softened. Then her eyes hardened again.

"I don't mind silence. It tells the truth."

Rodrigo's voice dropped. "And what truth does mine tell?"

"That you're running," she said simply. "But I don't know from what."

He didn't answer. Because she was right.

And somewhere deep inside, she already knew what he was running from. Because people like him didn't end up in places like this unless they were hiding. She just didn't know yet if he was hiding from the world-or from himself.

Back in Barcelona, Bernado scrolled through photos. His team had pulled Nattie's social media, her family records, every scrap of history. He stared at an old image-a newspaper clipping of Diego Smith shaking hands with Salvador Sanchez. The caption: "New Titans of the West Coast."

He zoomed in, narrowed his eyes.

There was more to Nattie Smith than her bookstore and her bitterness.

He tapped his fingers on the desk.

"What if she finds out the truth?" his tech partner asked.

Bernado smiled darkly. "She won't. Not until I want her to. And by then, the damage will be done."

He sent a single message to a contact in Savannah:

"Plant the rumor. Make it believable. Make it ugly."

Meanwhile, Nattie sat on the floor of her apartment, an old journal open on her lap. Her father's handwriting curled across the page in ink that had faded like memory:

"He promised it was business. But business doesn't destroy men like that."

She traced the words with her finger.

And for the first time in years, she questioned the story she'd always believed. Not because she forgave the Sanchez name. But because one of them was staring at her like she wasn't just part of a war.

Like she was the peace he'd never known.

And that was dangerous.

Because peace made you forget your armour.