Camila's Pov

The city felt different now. Bigger. Colder. Like it had grown overnight and swallowed me whole. I walked through the streets with my CV clutched to my chest like a shield, moving from restaurant to restaurant, kitchen to kitchen, wearing a smile I didn’t feel.

"I'm looking for a line cook position," I would say, over and over again. "I have five years of experience, graduated top of my class, and—"

"Sorry," they would interrupt. Sometimes kindly. Sometimes not. "We're not hiring."

Sometimes they didn't even bother to pretend.

One manager squinted at my name on the paper and said, "Wait... Camila Torres? From Casa Estrella?"

I nodded slowly. Hopeful.

He handed the paper back without a word and turned away.

Another place, a quaint little bistro near the university, let me into the kitchen for a trial.

I was halfway through prepping a plate of pescado con crema when the head chef came in, phone in hand, and said, "You didn’t tell me about the viral video."

"What video?"

He turned the screen to me. There I was. Grainy security footage of Leonel Castillo spitting out my dish. The headline read: "Mafia Boss Publicly Humiliates Chef at Casa Estrella."

"It wasn’t my fault," I said, breath catching. "Someone tampered with my dish."

"He said it tasted like sewage," the chef said flatly. "Sorry, Camila. We can't take a risk."

I walked out with my pride bleeding, my heart cracking wider with every rejection.

Even the little diners that had once welcomed me with warm smiles now closed their doors before I could knock.

People used to praise my hands for their magic. Now, they only see the curse that clings to my name.

I spent my days wandering with sore feet and an empty stomach, crashing at the hostel each night, often skipping meals just to make the little money I had last a bit longer."

The phone never stopped buzzing.

> Mami: Please come home. I can't sleep. I know I hurt you. I'm sorry.

> Emilio: Just one chance, mi amor. Please. Let's talk.

I didn’t respond. Not even when Mami called late at night and left voicemails with a choked voice. Not when Emilio texted me pictures of us together, saying, "Remember this day? We were happy. We can be again."

I deleted the photos. But the memories wouldn’t go.

One rainy afternoon, I sat in a small café tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, sipping lukewarm coffee and nursing a half-eaten concha. The storm outside had turned the streets into rivers, and the light from the window cast a gray gloom over everything.

I stared at the list of restaurant names. Only three remained unchecked. I was running out of options—out of hope

The bell above the café door jingled. I didn’t look up.

"Camila."

My head snapped up.

Emilio.

He was soaked, rain plastering his shirt to his chest. His eyes were wide and desperate, like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair, once neatly combed back, was a mess.

He looked like a man unraveling.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice cold.

"I’ve been looking everywhere for you," he said, stepping closer.

I stood up, ready to leave, but he blocked my way.

"Please, just five minutes. That’s all I ask."

I looked around. The café was nearly empty. Just an old couple in the corner and the barista, who was pretending not to eavesdrop.

I crossed my arms. "Five minutes."

He exhaled in relief. "Camila, I don’t even know how to explain what happened. I made a mistake. A horrible, stupid mistake. I wasn’t thinking."

“You weren't thinking? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. You were using everything but not your brain. Tell me, did your brilliant mind forget to notice that the woman in your bed was my mother?! Do you take me for a fool?”

"I didn’t plan it. It just... happened. And after it did, I felt sick. I still do. I don’t love her. I love you."

"Stop," I said, holding up a hand. "Don’t you dare say you love me."

"I do! I never stopped. Every moment since that night, I’ve been dying inside. I can't eat, can't sleep. I need you back, Camila. I want to fix this. I’ll do anything."

My throat tightened, but I held my ground. "The only thing you need to do is walk out that door and never come near me again, because the next time you cross my path— I won't hesitate to give you a hot slap on that your disgusting cheek”

His eyes shimmered. "You don't mean that."

"I do. I meant it the moment I saw you in my mother’s bed, oh wait I meant Teresa's bed"

He stepped closer again, reaching for my arm. "Please. Camila, por favor."

I yanked my arm back, but he held tighter. "Let me go, get your filthy hands off me now."

"Not until you hear me out. Just give me a—"

Smack!

The sound echoed in the small café.

His head jerked to the side, hand dropping from my arm.

My hand stung, but I didn’t flinch.

The barista gasped.

Emilio slowly turned back to face me, one hand on his cheek. Shock written all over his face.

"Well,I guess the slap won't be for later again. Don’t ever touch me again," I said, my voice steady. "We are done. Forever. You and her deserve each other."

I stepped around him and walked out into the rain, letting it soak through my clothes, through my skin. I didn't care.

It felt cleansing.

Freeing.

I felt satisfied.

I walked until my legs gave out, sitting under an awning, hugging my bag. Rainwater dripped from my hair, but I felt lighter than I had in weeks.

No more running.

No more pretending.

They had broken me.

But I wasn’t going to let them keep me broken.

That night, back at the hostel, I stared at the ceiling again.

One rejection after another.

A reputation ruined.

A heart shattered.

But deep inside, something hardened. Not in a cruel way. In a determined one.

If the kitchens of Mexico City wouldn’t take me, I’d find another way. I still had my knives. My skill. My passion.

Maybe I’d start something small. Street food. Delivery meals. Pop-up dinners. Anything to remind people who I was. What I could do.

Leonel’s POV

I didn’t flinch when the screams bounced off the warehouse walls. The single light above us flickered, throwing sharp shadows over blood-stained concrete. A man knelt in front of me, his lips split and bleeding, hands bound so tight his wrists were raw. One of my men stood to the side, crowbar in hand, its metal slick with fresh blood.

“He stole from me,” I said, my tone calm, my eyes colder than a grave. “So he pays.”

He coughed, voice trembling, begging in slurred Spanish that he never touched the shipment.

I raised my hand. Silence hit the room like a blade.

“Finish him.”

I turned before the crowbar could swing again, stepping into the humid Mexico City night. The city roared around me—traffic, street vendors shouting, music blasting from some bar down the block—but none of it touched me. Not since the day I watched my brother bleed out on a cracked sidewalk, his blood soaking into the dust. That was the day I stopped feeling. That was the day I built a kingdom with ice in my veins and fire in my fists.

I’m six-foot-three, broad shoulders, built like I was carved from stone. Tattoos coil like serpents down my arms and neck, black ink wrapping around scars earned in too many fights to count. There’s a deep cut above my right brow—my first knife fight, age sixteen. My eyes? Cold. It's always cold. People say they make your blood stop moving.

I climbed into my matte-black Aston Martin, the click of the door shutting sounding like a coffin sealing.

“Damian,” I said without looking at my right-hand man in the passenger seat. “Talk.”

He cleared his throat. He’s one of the few who can stand this close to me and still breathe. “There’s something you should see, jefe.”

He pulled out his phone and tapped a video.

Grainy security footage. Casa Estrella’s dining room.

I watched myself spit out the shrimp dish. I watched myself call out the chef. I watched her—Camila—step forward.

That fire in her eyes.

Yeah, I remembered it now. The taste of the meal. The sharpness of her voice. The way she didn’t flinch.

“That video has over three million views,” Damian muttered. “Trending in four countries.”

“How did it get out?” I asked, still watching her face freeze on the screen.

The pause stretched, his answer caught somewhere between thought and voice.

“Damian.”

“It was me,” he admitted. “Thought it’d help the restaurant. People fear you… figured it’d blow up online.”

My jaw locked.

“I’m a paying client here.”

“Yes, sir. I just thought—”

“You don’t get paid to think. You follow orders.”

I pocketed his phone.

“Take me to Casa Estrella. Now.”

The kitchen went silent when I walked in. Cooks froze mid-step. The sous-chef dropped a spoon. I could smell the tension—burnt oil, fear, and something overcooked.

Mateo Marquez, the head chef, came rushing over, wiping his palms on his apron. “Señor Castillo, we weren’t expecting you.”

“I want to speak to the chef who prepared that dish.”

“Dish? Which dish?”

Damian spoke

“The chef in the video posted online “

His expression shifted. “She’s no longer with us.”

“Why?”

“After the… incident, she caused a scene. Disrespected you in front of everyone. I was scared you might shut the restaurant down because of the complaint you made. I had no choice. I fired her.”

“I… I made a complaint?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, my voice tight with shock.

Damian’s face went pale, his voice low and trembling.

“I’m the one who complained to the head chef. I’m sorry, Jefe.”

“What’s her name?”

“Camila Torres.”

The name sat heavy on my tongue. I remembered her standing there, back straight, chin high, eyes lit with something most people lose before adulthood—pride.

“Where is she now?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t seen her since.”

I nodded once and turned to leave.

That’s when I heard the voice.

“Leonel,” she purred.

Isabella.

She stepped out from the shadows in a silk red dress that clung to her curves like it was sewn onto her skin. Blood-red lipstick, long black hair spilling over her shoulders.

“I didn’t know you were visiting,” she said, walking toward me with that practiced sway women use when they want something.

“Why are you still here?” I asked flatly.

“I work here. Dessert station. You liked my churros, remember?”

“I don’t remember desserts.”

She stepped closer and dragged her hand along my arm. “Maybe I can remind you. Maybe we could talk… in private.”

I looked down at her hand. Slowly peeled her fingers off me, one by one.

“You must have a death wish,” I said, voice low and even. “Next time you lay a finger on me, I won’t be this calm.”

Her smile cracked, but I wasn’t done.

“You think I don’t see it? You saw the video. You want to be near the man everyone’s talking about. You want power. But I don’t do attention seekers. And I don’t give second chances.”

She flushed and turned on her heel, heels clicking angrily against the tile.

I barely noticed. My mind was on Camila.

Back at my penthouse, I stood shirtless by the glass wall, the city lights glittering like lies below me. My skin told my story—bullet grazes, knife scars, inked marks of battles I’ve won and some I barely survived.

I poured whiskey into a glass and sat on the leather couch.

Camila Torres.

I typed her name into my phone. Nothing.

“Damian!” I called.

He appeared almost instantly. “Yes, jefe?”

“Find her. I want to know where she is, where she eats, who she talks to. I want it all in twenty-four hours. You created this mess so you fix it”

“Yes, señor.”

When he left, I played the video again. Paused it. Her face, mid-sentence, eyes locked on mine.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t break.

I hate most people. They’re predictable. Greedy. Weak.

But Camila? She made me feel something. And I don’t like the feeling.

A woman with nothing left to lose had stood up to me. That makes her dangerous.

And I never let dangerous things walk away.

I took a slow sip of whiskey, my eyes still on her frozen face.

“Let’s see what you’re really made of, Camila Torres.”

Leonel's pov

The office was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner. I sat back in my chair, eyes fixed on the paused video on my laptop screen. My own voice filled the room, mocking the food she made.

“Dry. Tasteless. Like eating cardboard,” I’d said.

It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever said about someone, but I could see how it had ruined her. The clip had been posted online, shared around, laughed at. I didn’t think much of it at the time. People talk. People move on. But not her.

Camila.

Her name wasn’t important before. She was just a face in the kitchen, one of the many. Now, I couldn’t get her out of my head—not because of attraction, but because the look on her face when I disgraced her and spitted out her dish had stuck with me. The way her shoulders had dropped, like all the air had been punched out of her. I didn’t need Damian to tell me she’d lost her job because of me. I already knew.

I shut the laptop and leaned back, rubbing my temple.

Damian stepped into the office, closing the door behind him.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Find her,” I said simply.

His brow lifted. “You already told me that yesterday.”

“Then why don’t I have an update?” My voice was calm, but the warning was there.

“She’s not easy to track. She’s moved, changed her number—”

“Damian,” I cut him off, “I didn’t ask for excuses.”

He sighed and gave a short nod. “Alright. I’ll keep looking.”

When he left, I stared at the empty doorway for a moment. The truth was, I didn’t know exactly why I wanted to find her. I told myself it was about making things right—or as close to right as a man like me could. The video wasn’t the kind of thing you could take back. People remember humiliation.

My phone buzzed.

It was Marco, one of my men. “Boss, we found that shipment. No sign of your parents yet.”

I swallowed down the frustration. My parents being gone was a different kind of headache. One I didn’t want to mix with this. “Handle the shipment. I’ll deal with the rest.”

When the call ended, I opened the laptop again and hit play. Her voice wasn’t in the clip. She hadn’t defended herself. She’d just stood there, listening, while I tore her work apart. I didn’t even remember saying half those words. That’s what bothered me most—it had meant nothing to me at the time. But to her, it had probably meant everything.

I closed the video and stood, pacing the length of my office. The city lights glowed through the windows, distant and cold. Somewhere out there, she was starting over, probably hating me. She had every right to.

But hate didn’t matter. I needed to see her.

The next morning, Damian came in earlier than usual. “Boss. I might have something.”

I turned away from the window. “Go on.”

“She’s been working small jobs, nothing permanent. Waitressing in a rundown café on the east side. I can have a car ready in ten.”

I grabbed my jacket. “Make it five.”

The drive was quiet. My men knew better than to fill silence with useless talk. When we pulled up to the café, I stayed in the car, watching through the window.

She was there, moving between tables with a tray in her hands. Her hair was tied back, no makeup, no smile. She looked smaller somehow.

I remembered her in the kitchen that day—focused, quick, confident in her work. But this time,it was very different.This was someone trying not to be seen, trying to survive.

Damian glanced at me. “Want me to bring her out?”

“No.” I kept watching. “Not yet.”

I didn’t want to walk in there like some savior. She’d see through it. She’d think I was trying to buy her forgiveness, and maybe she’d be right. No, this needs to be on my terms,I didn't want her thinking I'm feeling guilty or anything.I’d get her to work again but not for anyone, and definitely not in any restaurant again. Something better. Something that would force her to look me in the eye every day.

As the minutes passed, I noticed the way she avoided people’s gaze, the way her hands trembled slightly when she poured coffee. She was broken in a way I recognized.

I’d seen it before—in myself, in men who had lost everything. It made me remember the pain of losing both parents,not knowing where they are.

I left before she could notice me.

Back at the office, Damian asked the question he’d been holding in. “Why her? You don’t usually care about this kind of thing, besides you hate being touched or close to women so why?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Finally, I said, “Because I caused it.”

He raised a brow but didn’t push. Damian knew me well enough to know when not to talk.

The rest of the day was business as usual—meetings, deals, threats that had to be made. But every so often, my mind went back to her in that café, the way she seemed to have folded in on herself.

I’d seen the damage I could do with a gun, with money, with power. I’d never really thought about the damage I could do with words.

Now I have.

And I wasn’t about to let it end there.

That night, I made a decision not for her but for myself.

“Damian,” I said as he came in to give me the last report of the day.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Tell her I have a job for her.”

He frowned. “What kind of job?”

“One that’ll pay her enough to make her forget what happened.I will make her my personal chef.”

He hesitated. “And if she says no?”

“She won’t.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Everyone has a price. Find hers.”