Isabella barely felt the ride home.
The city lights blurred past the window as Angel drove.
"Hurry up, I need to get home quickly."
"I know but you have to calm down. What could Ricardo be talking about?" Angel asked.
Her phone rested in her palm, Ricardo's message burned into her mind.
Come home now. Only you can stop him.
She clenched her jaw. She repeated the message quietly to herself.
When the gates of the mansion slid open, Isabella was already unbuckling her seatbelt. She stepped out before Angel could open the door, her heels clicking sharply against the marble driveway.
Ricardo was waiting inside.
The moment she entered the study, she knew something was wrong. Papers were spread across the desk. A half-packed travel bag sat near the couch. Ricardo stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, his expression rigid.
He ended the call the second he saw her.
"He's doing it," Ricardo said without preamble.
Isabella's heart dropped. "Doing what?"
Ricardo exhaled slowly. "Your father pushed the trip forward. He's leaving tonight."
"What?" Isabella stepped closer. "That wasn't the plan. Normally it is meant to be tomorrow. He said—"
"He changed his mind," Ricardo cut in. "The U.S. clients requested a face-to-face signing.
"Yes I know that."
"Your father thinks it's an opportunity."
"It's a trap," Isabella snapped. "Or at least a test. You know that."
"I told him that."
"And?" she demanded.
Ricardo's lips pressed into a thin line. "You know your father."
Isabella turned away, dragging a hand through her hair. "He's walking straight into uncertainty. Demelo's disappearance already has everyone on edge."
"He believes arriving early gives him the advantage," Ricardo said carefully. "He wants to observe them, measure their reactions, and place our men quietly."
Isabella stopped pacing. "So he's not going alone."
"No," Ricardo said. "He's smart enough not to. He is going with our men and my assistant.
She looked at him sharply. "How many?"
"Enough," Ricardo replied. "They'll arrive separately. Different flights, different hotels. Quietly."
Isabella swallowed. Her voice softened, but the fear beneath it was unmistakable.
"And you, why didn't you go? You can't leave him alone at this time."
He decided I would stay back and supervise things here.
"If they decide to play dirty—"
"They won't get far," Ricardo said. "Mateo already has eyes on their compound."
Isabella nodded slowly, forcing herself to breathe. "Call him."
"I tried," Ricardo said. "He's already en route to the airport."
She cursed under her breath and pulled out her phone, dialing again. No answer.
"Damn it, Dad," she whispered.
Ricardo, this is an order join my dad in the U.S now.
But…. But I—
But nothing, you are responsible to keep him safe, cousin.
Ricardo followed to catch a different flight without informing Mateo.
Mateo landed in the U.S. just before dawn.
He landed in a very low key way.
He moved like a man who had done this his entire life—quiet, deliberate, unassuming. Dressed in a tailored suit, no visible weapons, no entourage at his side. To anyone watching, he was just another businessman arriving early for a deal.
But he wasn't alone.
One by one, his men filtered into the city around the mansion of his clients. Some checked into nearby hotels. Others rented cars. A few blended into the background—bartenders, drivers, construction workers for the day.
By noon,
Mateo had mapped the area around the client's base.
He sat in a private lounge, sipping coffee, listening as one of his men murmured updates through a secure line.
"No unusual movement," the man said. "But they noticed your early arrival."
Mateo smiled faintly. "Good."
He wanted them unsettled.
He wanted them wondering why he wasn't afraid.
Isabella didn't sleep.
She sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, refreshing messages that didn't come. When the sun rose, she finally received a single text.
Landed. All good.
Her chest loosened slightly. She smiled, finally.
She immediately called Ricardo. He was already in the U.S. too.
"He's there," she said.
"I know," Ricardo replied. "I checked in an hour ago and I got information on where your Dad was lourged."
"Stay on him," she ordered. "If anything feels off—anything—call me."
"You'll be the first to know," Ricardo assured her.
Still, unease clung to her like a second skin.
The next morning, Mateo arrived at the client's base with one of his men, exactly when requested. His other men were on stand by just at the corner.
He was escorted into a large conference room—steel walls, tinted windows, armed men lining the edges. The man who accompanied him stayed outside. They all were communicating through a wireless line.
The air was heavy with tension, the kind that preceded violence.
The clients sat across from him, faces unreadable.
One of them leaned forward. "You arrived earlier than expected."
"I value punctuality," Mateo replied smoothly. "And preparation."
Another man spoke, his tone sharp. "We've had… disruptions lately. Demelo and his organization."
Mateo's expression didn't change. "I heard rumors."
"Rumors?" the man scoffed. "An entire operation doesn't vanish overnight."
Mateo folded his hands on the table. "I'm here to propose business. Not to gossip."
Silence stretched.
Then the first threat came—subtle, but deliberate.
"People who get too ambitious," one of them said, "tend to disappear."
Mateo met his gaze calmly. "I'm not ambitious. I'm practical."
The room grew colder.
They pressed harder. Questions sharpened. Accusations came through cunningly without direct blame.
Mateo denied everything with steady confidence. He spoke of logistics, profits, contracts—-Of routes and safety, mutual benefit.
Finally, one of the clients leaned back. "Search him."
Mateo's men heard everything.
Before Mateo could respond, the door opened.
Men entered.
Not the clients' men.
Mateo's.
They appeared from every angle—quiet, armed, and composed. Everywhere was calm. The balance of power shifted instantly.
Mateo stood slowly.
"I came in peace," he said evenly. "But I came prepared."
The clients exchanged glances.
After a long, tense moment, one of them laughed. "Seems we underestimated you."
Mateo smiled. "Many do."
The contract was signed before sunset.
By nightfall, Mateo was already preparing his return to Mexico the next day—alive, untouched, and victorious.
Isabella exhaled for the first time all day when Ricardo confirmed it.
"He's safe," Ricardo said. "On his way back tomorrow."
She closed her eyes. "Thank God."
"Get some rest," he added. "You've earned it."
But rest didn't come easily.
The following day, Isabella met Diego. They decided to take a walk.
They walked slowly through the city, closer than before. Their shoulders brushed. Their hands almost touched.
She caught herself smiling too much.
Blushing too easily.
"So," Diego said, teasing, "do powerful women always pay people's hospital bills and disappear?"
She laughed softly. "Only for people worth it."
He looked at her then—and something warm settled between them.
They passed murals of saints and revolutionaries, food carts steaming with fresh tacos, children kicking a worn soccer ball.
Isabella stopped at a street stand selling churros.
"You like sweet things?" she asked.
"My mom says I was born craving sugar."
She ordered two — and the sugary cinnamon scent made Diego's mouth water. She took a bite and smiled with cheeks puffed like a squirrel.
"Don't laugh," she warned.
He laughed anyway.
They nearly choked laughing when powdered sugar exploded everywhere from a mis-timed bite.
They continued walking until they stopped at a restaurant, sharing stories, laughter lighter than anything either had known in days.
For once, Isabella wasn't thinking about contracts or guns or cartel.
She was just… Isabella.
Then Diego's phone rang.
He frowned, answering it.
"Hello?"
His face was drained of color.
"Yes… yes, I'm coming."
He ended the call, hands shaking.
"What is it?" Isabella asked.
He swallowed hard.
"The doctor."
He said my attention is needed urgently at the hospital.