Chapter 8 THE GHOST AND THE POLAROID

The car exploded just outside the border checkpoint at Santa Marta. A black sedan with false plates, one guard inside, and enough accelerant beneath the backseat to make it look like an assassination.

There were body parts left behind. All which were burned beyond recognition. A bracelet melted into the seat. A strand of dark hair lay near the shattered window. And tucked into the dashboard, a cracked phone with Catalina Marín's signal last pinged. It took less than an hour for the news to reach Lucien. She was dead, or so they claimed, but he didn't believe any of it. Not for a second. The guards assigned to her that morning were inevitably dragged to the back courtyard. Two of them were shot on sight. One begged for his life, but Lucien didn't blink when he gave the order. With Lucien, when it comes to Catalina, rage does not leave room for mercy.

Catalina was gone. But she wasn't dead. Not to him. No corpse, no confirmation, no closure. Just silence. And Lucien knew silence better than anyone. He knew what it meant when someone vanished cleanly, too cleanly. She hadn't been killed. She had been taken, or she had run. And whichever b*st*rd thought they could put their filthy hands on her without consequence would bleed for it. He tore through rival houses. Had a dozen, tortured for information. Some screamed names, others gave lies, but none gave the one answer to the question that ravaged his mind: Where was Catalina Marin?

Catalina stood beneath a sky so gray that it made her forget what heat ever felt like. Eastern Europe, somewhere cold and wet, where people didn't ask questions and everything felt foreign enough to disappear into. She wore a scarf that covered most of her hair, her coat heavy, and her hands buried deep in the pockets. There were no guards here. No cartel wives. No cameras. No Lucien. No Isa. She was alone. Really alone.

The extraction had been fast. Isa arranged a smuggler route through the Baltic corridor. She'd ridden with refugees, moved through truck containers and crumbling train stations, changed names five times. From Catalina Marín to Maria Lopez. From Maria to Elena Morales. And now-now she didn't even bother introducing herself. Her mission was clear. He was somewhere in this country. Hidden beneath layers of diplomatic lies and blacksite protections, a man the world thought long dead kept breathing because he was too valuable to kill and too dangerous to free. She hadn't told Lucien. He didn't even know she was Valentina. He didn't know she had once planned to sl*t his throat. Didn't know she was carrying his child. Now, she wasn't fighting to avenge her past. Rather, she was fighting to salvage what was left of her future.

One life at a time. One piece at a time. The silence wasn't easy. It hurt more than she expected. No messages. No word from Isa or Lucien. No way to know if Lucien was looking for her. But in her bones, she felt him. Of course he was. He was the kind of man who never let go-not of power, not of enemies, not of the woman he took to bed the night his father died. He would be searching. And maybe one day, he would find her.

It was the fourth night in the safehouse. A broken apartment above a shuttered bakery in an old Soviet block. The water heater groaned. The window leaked. But it was warm enough and dark enough to keep her hidden. Catalina sat by the bed, her back to the wall, her knees drawn up. She hadn't cried in days. Hadn't allowed herself to. Crying wasted time. But tonight-tonight she completely let her guard down. She reached into the lining of her coat and pulled out a photo. It was small, worn, and grainy. A Polaroid. It portrayed Lucien. Sitting on the edge of the estate's fountain. Shirt open. Eyes half-closed. The image had been taken by accident, snapped the morning after one of their first nights together. She didn't even know why she'd kept it. But now, the Polaroid felt like the only thing anchoring her to something real. She stared at it for a long time, her thumb brushing over his face.

She remembered the way he used to touch her-not like a man owning a woman, but like a man terrified she'd disappear if he blinked. She pressed her lips together. Her eyes stung. And then, soft and slow, a single tear slipped down her cheek. "I'm coming back for you," she whispered, voice cracking. "Be safe, Lucien." She folded the Polaroid and slipped it back into her coat.

Tomorrow, she will begin moving again. But tonight, she let herself feel it.