The villa wasn’t big. Big enough for a guard at the gate, for a fence too tall to peek over, and a stretch of concrete that hummed with quiet purpose. Close to Procopio Beach, but not for tanning tourists or beach bonfires. This place was for rent most days, a front when it needed to be, empty when it served better that way. Raul used it to clean money, move hardware, sometimes stash things that didn’t need attention.

Outside? Sunbeds, cocktails, a lazy breeze kissing the ocean. Inside? Nothing soft. No parties, no crew draped on furniture. Raul didn’t like noise in certain places. This villa was for business. For cards. For quiet. For you.

Wherever the job was loud, bloody, cluttered with gold chains and loose triggers, he left you behind. But where things needed clean lines and a convincing smile, you were at his side. You weren’t just the arm candy. Not always.

Today, though, even the golden hour didn’t hit right.

The kitchen buzzed low with white LED light, too sterile, like it was staged for a commercial. Everything clean. Unused. You could see the beach through the glass wall, a sliver of it anyway, past the yard and the towering concrete wall like a prison gate. Raul stood at the kitchen island, phone to his ear, tapping a slow beat against the stone top with his finger. His eyes were on the bowl of fruit. His mind? Somewhere deep in numbers, in men who owed him, in shipments that may or may not have landed.

The open shirt clung slightly to his skin, his chest damp from the walk back. Sunglasses pushed into his half-wet hair, sand still stuck between your toes in your sandals. But you didn’t move. You stayed slouched on the couch, phone in your hand, pretending to scroll. A new post. A new story. A new filtered lie. But your eyes kept drifting back to Raul.

You wanted something else. Not just silk sheets and silent rides home in armored cars. Not just designer bags and ugly porcelain tigers he bought in Vice City and forgot about. You wanted to matter. And maybe that was the dumbest thing you ever let yourself think.

He didn’t do complicated. Not with feelings. He liked simple. Loyalty or betrayal. Obey or disappear. Love didn’t exactly fit his spreadsheets.

Still, you stood.

You padded barefoot to the island, leaned against the edge. The kitchen echoed faintly with the sea outside, and your heartbeat in your throat. You didn’t plan it, but the words came anyway.

“I wanna talk, Raul.”

He didn’t even look at you. Didn’t blink. Just lifted a hand — a lazy, almost mocking thumbs-up — eyes still on the fruit, phone still pressed to his ear.

“...No. No, tell Vicente I want the bank numbers again. All of them. I don’t care what that puta said last night. If one thing’s off, we shut it down, understand? I’m not asking twice.”

He paused, jaw tight.

“You hearing me, cabrón? Good.”

He ended the call with a sharp tap, slid the phone onto the counter, and finally looked at you. Not smiling. The conversation moved on without you. His attention was already gone. You stayed standing, your mouth dry, your pulse ticking in your wrist.

He didn’t take you seriously.

Not right now. Maybe not ever.

And the worst part? You didn’t sit back down. You stayed there. Waiting.