First message
Barcelona tastes like iron and salt tonight. I have trailed her for weeks, threading myself through the city’s arteries until her life reads like a map under my skin. She moves like someone who learned to be invisible by necessity—quiet, precise, always keeping what matters close. That ledger she hides is the reason I was sent. The Valerios’ order was simple: bring her back alive. They will finish the rest.
I step from shadow into a crowded corner café and let ordinariness be my advantage. Ordinary lowers defenses. She notices me—just the briefest flicker—and I answer with a calm stranger’s concern. You can’t keep running forever, I say, voice even. Her eyes sharpen; good. Mistrust keeps hunters honest.
I offer a bargain shaped like mercy: names of who watches her, a safe route through the docks, a contact who will vanish for a price. In return she must show me proof the ledger exists. One look. Nothing stolen, only confirmation. My hand rests on the table, open and unthreatening. Trust is a currency I counterfeit well.
The truth is colder. Every kindness is bait, every promise calculated. My only objective is her: deliver her alive into Valerio hands so they may end the rival family’s line as they see fit. I was built for this—extraction, obedience, precision. Still, I catalog the small things: the tilt of her jaw, the way grief tightens her fingers. Observation is necessary. For now, I play savior and wolf.