The rain had stopped, but the air still hummed with electricity.
The sea, just beyond the bar, breathed like a living thing: slow, heavy, waiting.
Leo had just left, his scent lingering in the night like the memory of something forbidden.
Naiara watched him go until the darkness swallowed his outline.
Across the table, Clara stretched her legs and smiled.
"Tonight was insane! Did you see how many people showed up? Even the mayor came by to congratulate you!"
Naiara nodded, but her smile didn't reach her eyes. Her mind was still tangled in Leo's voice, that calm tone that carried danger and safety at once. Every time she looked at him, part of her wanted to run, and another part wanted to stay.
Her phone vibrated on the table, making the glasses rattle.
Unknown number. But the voice… was his.
Low. Rough. Certain.
"Tigna."
Her heart skipped. "Leo? Where are you?"
"Outside your house," the voice said softly.
"I need to talk to you. It's urgent."
Clara leaned closer. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. It's Leo, he's waiting for me. Maybe something about my father."
"Then let's go," Clara said, grabbing the car keys. "I'm dropping you off and then you go straight to bed, okay?"
They both laughed, and that sound stayed behind them, bright and innocent, as the car rolled into the wet night.
The wipers brushed across the windshield; the smell of rain and salt filled the silence.
At the gate of the Moreno villa, Clara stopped the car.
"Tonight was magic, Nay. Your gallery's gonna make history!"
"Thanks, Clara. For everything."
Naiara opened the door, turned back, and smiled.
"See you tomorrow."
"Count on it," Clara said, waving, before driving away.
Naiara walked toward the entrance, the cobblestones glittering with rain.
Her copper dress clung to her legs; the lights reflected off it like fire.
A white van sat parked near the side gate, engine off, windows dark.
Probably one of her father's guards. She didn't think twice.
Then… "Tigna."
The voice behind her froze her blood.
She turned halfway. "Leo?"
No time to react. A hand covered her mouth. Another gripped her wrist.
The strength was measured, deliberate, just enough to control her, not enough to break her.
"If you want to live, don't look at me."
The same voice. But this time, cold.
The world vanished.
She was shoved into the van; the door slammed shut.
The smell of leather, steel, gasoline.
Tires screeched, and the villa disappeared into the storm.
Leo drove like a ghost.
The city gleamed under the fading storm, every streetlight a mirror of his guilt.
He had left the port only minutes ago, the stink of diesel and metal still in his lungs and nothing that resembled victory in his chest.
The raid had succeeded: the cargo seized, men arrested. But no Miguel. No proof. Just another shadow that slipped through his fingers.
"Mission complete. Return to your post," his commander's voice echoed in his head.
But his post wasn't a location anymore.
It was a person.
It was her.
He accelerated, headlights cutting through the wet dark.
When he reached the bar and saw the empty table, two glasses, one napkin stained with Clara's lipstick, his chest locked tight.
She wasn't there.
He ran to the villa.
The gates were open. The air smelled like copper and rain.
"Naiara!" he shouted, louder than he meant to.
Only the sea answered.
Then he heard it, a faint sound, a moan.
He followed it, sprinting toward the street.
A car was parked awkwardly at the curb, door half-open.
Inside, Clara slumped over the steering wheel, her hair matted with blood.
"Clara!" He yanked the door open, lifting her head gently.
"Hey, hey, look at me. Who did this?"
Her eyelids fluttered. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Why… why did you take her?"
Leo froze. The world tilted.
"What did you say?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp in his arms.
He lifted her and carried her to his car, slamming the door shut, flooring the gas.
Rain streaked across the windshield, merging with the sweat on his temples.
Every breath burned. Every heartbeat hurt.
He could still hear the echo of that phone call, the same voice, the same tone.
No one could copy him like that. No one. Except one man.
A flash of memory, training days, the same jawline, the same eyes, the same storm inside.
A shadow he thought he'd buried long ago.
The name left his lips in a growl, half rage, half despair:
"Damian."