As the sun descended behind the roofline, casting elongated shadows across the garden, I sat on the low stone wall by the roses. A book lay open in my hands, its pages untouched for half an hour. My eyes darted across the same paragraph, yet nothing captured my attention. All I could focus on was the number, the slip of paper, and the conversation I had with Daniel.
This was the biggest risk I had ever taken. And the worst part wasn't the fear of being caught, it was knowing I had made the decision myself. No one had dragged me into this. No one had promised me anything. I could've stayed quiet, kept pretending, waited for another door to open. But I didn't. I'd cracked it open myself. And now I had to live with that.
Acero didn't believe I would go through with it. I could tell from the way he acted around me, more relaxed, less suspicious. It was as if I was settled, as if I wasn't going anywhere. Maybe that was why I was still alive. He truly believed I wouldn't move, that I was too scared, that he had me.
And he wasn't entirely wrong.
Every time I stepped into the hallway, I couldn't help but imagine hands rummaging through my bag and room, searching for that scrap of paper. I kept running scenarios in my head, imagining how fast I could run and how far I'd get before someone stopped me. Even though I didn't have the note anymore, my paranoia was as present as ever.
The wind picked up slightly, brushing against my legs. Somewhere behind the trees, I heard a clipped, low voice laughing. I didn't turn around; I stayed still. I couldn't risk showing how fucked up my thoughts were.
People always said a mother would do anything to protect her child, as if it were a biological, automatic, and innate trait. But I never believed that. Not for me. I never wanted to be a mother, not when I was a teenager, not after I got my first real job, not even when I was in love. And definitely not now, not after this.
It wasn't about fear or sacrifice; it was about truth. I wasn't built for it.
I remembered a night from years ago. I was thirteen, still in that shoebox foster home uptown with Selene. One of the kids, Ruben, he couldn't have been older than five, had woken up screaming, sweating, completely out of it. Everyone started moving, panicking. I froze. I couldn't help; I couldn't. Not because I didn't care, but because my brain shut down. I backed into the wall, useless, hoping someone else would take over.
Someone did. The woman running the place came in quickly and calmed him down. She gave him medicine and held him until he stopped shaking. I stood there, watching, feeling like a stranger in my own body.
Later that week, I told my mom what had happened. We still had weekly phone calls back then, when she was in Bedford. I didn't tell her everything, just enough.
She didn't scold me. Didn't say I should've done better. She just listened.
"That's not a flaw, Aitana," she told me. "That's a fact. Some people aren't wired for that shit."
She wasn't the kind of mother people wrote cards about, but she had never lied to me. She admitted she hadn't had that instinct either, but when I first came along, something had changed within her. Even when she was high or in prison, she said there had always been a desire within her to keep us alive and well.
"You don't always need to be soft," she'd said. "But you better know how to protect yourself."
Now I understood exactly what she meant.
I didn't want to raise anything. I didn't want to be someone's protector, someone's shelter, someone's goddamn emotional anchor. I didn't want to sing lullabies or learn how to hold a thermometer or be needed in that way. Not now. Not ever.
That part of me had never changed. I hadn't spent years debating it or weighing pros and cons. It had always been clear. I never pictured myself pushing a stroller, packing a diaper bag, or waking up at 3 a.m. to warm a bottle. I wasn't curious about motherhood, nor did I fantasise about baby clothes, the first steps, or the smell of newborn skin. It wasn't in me.
I'd never felt ashamed of that. I wasn't against abortion; I fought for the right to choose. I marched on Fifth Avenue, shouted until I lost my voice, donated whenever I could, voted for people who cared, and stood outside courthouses with signs in my hands, even when it was cold. In law school, I wrote papers about it, defended it in class, online, and at dinners. I had friends who needed the option, and I was there for them without hesitation. It wasn't just something I supported; it was something I believed in completely.
Now, it was my body, my choice, and my consequence. That made it different, not because it changed my stance, but because it made it heavier. Real. It wasn't just theory anymore; it wasn't a political stance, a sign, or a chant. It was my life and my responsibility to fix it. Even though I knew exactly what I had to do, the guilt lingered.
It wasn't guilt because I thought it was wrong; it was guilt because it hurt. It made everything feel more broken than it already was. It confirmed things I didn't want to admit about myself, like the fact that I wasn't built for that kind of love or role. I wasn't meant to raise someone, and I wouldn't lie to myself just to feel better.
Knowing something is right doesn't mean it feels good. The pressure in my chest and nausea, which probably had something to do with hormones, didn't ease. I hated the situation, and most importantly Acero. I hated the whole thing. But not as much as I knew I'd hate myself if I didn't act.
The guilt of doing it would pass, but the guilt of not doing it, of bringing a child into this world, into him, would stay forever.
I'd already pictured it: not the baby, but him. Acero. The way he'd twist it, use it, own it. The way he'd turn my body into a trophy, my pregnancy into proof that I belonged to him. He'd say it meant we were a family, call me "mami," and act like it tied us together forever, like it was fate.
But it wasn't fate. It was biology, and biology could be undone.
Of course, I considered the possibility that it was all a trap, that he had planned it. The timing, his calm demeanour, and the way he touched my stomach at night all pointed to it. Maybe he had tampered with the pills or watched my cycle. I thought about it more than once.
But in the end, I didn't think it was that. Acero didn't need to set traps. He didn't need tricks. He got what he wanted by standing still and letting people fold around him. That's what happened to me. I'd stopped fighting, and somewhere in that collapse, this happened.
It wasn't a plan.
It was a consequence.
So yeah, I felt guilty. But I knew which guilt I could live with.
As I turned and walked straight to his office, my pulse quickened the moment I reached the hallway. The door was closed, but I could hear voices, his, low and controlled, with that edge that made people listen.
"Nos vamos en tres días. Sólo dos con nosotros. El resto se queda," he said. (We're leaving in three days. Just two with me. The rest stays.)
I leaned in a little, careful not to make noise. It wasn't the first time I tried to pick up pieces of his operations. Every sentence mattered. He spoke again, something about timing, about "la entrega" and "el contacto americano." Delivery. American contact. I held my breath.
Then silence fell. Chairs shifted, and I stepped back just in time to make it look casual. I knocked twice.
"Come in," he said, already knowing it was me.
I opened the door to find three men seated around his desk. Acero sat behind it, legs spread and one arm draped over the back of his chair. His expression shifted the moment he saw me, less formal, almost amused.
"Sit," he said.
I detested the fact that they were all watching, as it made me feel like a mere decoration. Despite this, I did it. I crossed the room and sat down on his lap, my body stiff. His arm instinctively wrapped around my waist.
"Did you eat today?" he asked, keeping his voice loud.
I nodded.
"Lunch?" he insisted.
I shook my head.
He clicked his tongue. "You were outside a while. You should've eaten something."
I turned my head slightly. "Are you going on a trip?" I asked.
He smiled like he knew exactly what I'd heard. "Were you eavesdropping, mi amor?"
I tensed for a moment, realising that lying wouldn't help me, and telling the truth wouldn't either. His tone was light and teasing, but I had learned to be cautious.
He laughed under his breath and kissed my temple. "Relax. You think I'm hiding things from you?"
Yes. Always. As you should.
But I didn't answer. I just looked at him. He tilted his head.
"Yes, I'm going away for a few days. Business."
"Where?" I asked, trying to keep it casual.
"Italy," he said, then glanced at the men across the desk.
The conversation quickly turned back to logistics. The other men were extra careful not to meet my gaze. He kept one arm wrapped around my waist, the other tapping rhythmically on the table. I stayed quiet, trying to remain invisible while I listened.
"La ruta por tierra está fuera de discusión," he said. "Volamos hasta Napoli y desde ahí, Marcello se encarga." (The land route is off the table. Too risky. We fly to Napoli and from there, Marcello takes over.)
They nodded. One of them made a note on his phone.
"¿Y el contacto en Reggio Calabria?" the older man asked. (And the contact in Reggio Calabria?)
"Lo vi hace tres días. Está alineado. Pero si pienso en echarse para atrás, lo reemplazaré." (I saw him three days ago. He's on board. If he thinks of backing out, I'll replace him.)
I kept my breathing steady. Marcello. Napoli. Friday. A contact in Reggio Calabria. That was something. Not much, but enough to report.
Eventually, one of them stood. The others followed.
"Eso es todo." (That's it. Let me know if anything changes.)
They nodded and left. As the door closed, I shifted slightly, about to stand.
"You bored already?" he asked.
"I just didn't want to interrupt. You're working."
He looked at me, eyes narrowed in a way that wasn't quite threatening, but close. "You're not interrupting. You belong here."
That was a lie. But I nodded anyway.
"I should go," I said, standing up. "Let you finish your calls."
He didn't stop me. Just let his hand slide from my waist and watched me cross the room.
"Aitana," he said just before I reached the door.
I paused. Oh my god.
"Don't forget to eat."
I gave a quick nod and walked out without looking back. I tried to keep my pace normal as I crossed the hall, not too fast, not too slow. I wasn't sure if he'd said that because he meant it, or because he'd noticed something in my face. Either way, my hands were clammy, and my mouth was dry. I had to force myself not to turn around and check if he was watching me from the doorway.
It wasn't until I made my way back towards the kitchen that I realised I was holding my breath. Maricruz was at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing a pot as if her life depended on it. The sound of water rushing over metal filled the room, almost drowning out the hum of her music. Her phone sat on the counter behind her, screen off, plugged in, untouched. She didn't notice me.
That was when the idea hit me.
The thought was immediate, brutal, like a punch to the chest. My stomach clenched, and my pulse spiked. I stopped walking, just for a second. I hated the thought before I even had time to finish it, but it was already there.
She was the only one whose phone I knew the code to.
I'd noticed her entering the same four digits repeatedly a few times. It wasn't particularly noteworthy, but it stuck in my mind. Perhaps it was because it was a date, or maybe it was one of the only things in this house that felt like a routine. Now, it was the only thing that could work.
I glanced at her back. She was still focussed on the dishes, muttering a song under her breath in Spanish. I took a step forward, then another, slowly, as if I were walking into a crime scene. I hated every second of it. My fingers shook before I even touched the phone.
I grabbed it fast, typed the code, and turned away so she wouldn't see the screen light up. The guilt hit me immediately. It sat on my chest like weight, thick and hot. I hated theft. I hated doing it to her, of all people. Maricruz hadn't done anything wrong. But I couldn't think about that now.
I quickly typed the number into the phone app:
+1-646-41...
Then I hit call and held the phone to my ear, facing the hallway. It rang once, twice, and three times, but then it went silent.
I bit my lip and nearly hung up. My heart was hammering, and suddenly I wasn't sure of anything. What if he didn't answer? What if he didn't remember me? What if I was dragging someone innocent into something that was never going to work?
Then the call connected.
"Hello?" Reese's voice came through, clear and low, slightly out of breath.
I froze for half a second before whispering, "It's me."
There was only silence, then a sharp inhale.
"Aitana?"
My throat closed. I glanced over my shoulder, Maricruz still hadn't turned. I took another step towards the hall, lowering my voice.
"Yes, I don't have much time."
"Where are you?"
"Still with him. I have a name. A place. He's leaving soon. I need to move."
Reese didn't answer immediately. I could hear the sound of movement on his end, papers shifting, a drawer opening, or him grabbing something to write. Then, his voice returned, lower this time, more focussed.
"Tell me everything."
I kept it concise. I provided him with the name I had heard, the location they had mentioned during the meeting, the date, and the tone Acero had used. I relayed everything I could remember, without any justification. I simply delivered the information directly. I informed him that I couldn't confirm much, but I was certain that Acero was flying out. The men were supposed to remain, and the operation would continue while he was away.
Reese listened attentively without interrupting. When I finally stopped, exhausted and with nothing more to say, he made a single statement:
"Forty-eight hours. If you can make it to Catalina's like you did last time, we'll intercept the car on the road. We have a team ready."
My breath caught.
"Two days," he repeated. "We'll handle it. But you have to be in that car. You understand?"
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "Yes."
He paused, "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes," my voice barely came out. "Just be there. Please."
"I will."
The line went dead.
I stood there for a moment, holding the phone as if it had burned me. My hand trembled. I placed it back exactly where I had found it, turned the screen off, and stepped away. Maricruz was still rinsing dishes, oblivious to my presence. She didn't look back.
I walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway, my steps becoming slower and more deliberate. Everything around me felt the same, the same walls, the same polished floor, the same dull hum of silence, but something had changed. Not within the house; within me.
I was leaving.
Not maybe. Not if. Not someday. It was real. I had a number. A location, kinda. A plan. And a deadline.
In forty-eight hours, I'd be gone.
The thought didn't feel like victory. It felt like static. Loud, overwhelming, numbing.
I was really going to do it. Leave this house. Leave him. Leave the woman I am today behind.
For real.