WESLEY HUGHES

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It was midnight when I got off work and finally arrived home. I expected to find Manolo in his usual spots: in the living room, scrolling through the TV mindlessly; cooking something in the small kitchen he constantly complained about; or tucked away into what was once a small office space he'd transformed into his bedroom.

Instead, I found him sitting in the kitchen with his head resting on the laminate counter and papers sprawled out around him while he slept.

He didn't stir when I shut and locked the door, or when I carefully approached. It was a strange sight, considering I was used to him already being awake and always on the go whenever I saw him. Somehow, it made him feel more human.

My eyes drifted down to the papers which I guess had to come from his meeting with Tia today. Each one had a different name and what seemed to be like a background check and other information written on them. This was probably the list he'd been after from the beginning—people who working for Lionel. People who more than likely had played a role in his attempted murder. I frowned to myself.

I carefully picked up one of the papers, scanning the details under the dim kitchen light. A name I didn't recognize. A face I'd never seen. But the more I flipped through them, the more I noticed a pattern—these weren't just low-level enforcers or hired muscle. Some of them had government affiliations, others had long-standing business ties, and a few had criminal records wiped clean in ways that suggested high-level interference.

Manolo let out a soft sigh in his sleep, his fingers twitching against the countertop. I should wake him—he'd hate knowing he let himself fall asleep like this. But I hesitated. His curls were a mess, falling over his forehead, and I resisted the urge to push them back. Instead, I settled for shifting some of the papers aside to get a better look at what he'd been working on before exhaustion took him under.

There were four documents. The first three didn't take me by surprise. The first one was much more broad. Notes were scrawled in the margins—connections between names, addresses circled, some crossed out. I noticed a few locations I recognized. Safe houses, drop points, and a club Lionel used to frequent. The second one was about his younger brother, Teodoro, and the third was about Boreal. It was the last one that made me raise an eyebrow.

It was about me.

My breath caught for a moment as I took in the sight of my name, printed in bold at the top of the page. Underneath it, personal details—my address, work history, known associates. I swallowed hard as my eyes moved to the handwritten notes in the margins, scrawled in a familiar sharp script.

"Significant debt—connection to Lionel? Possible dependency?"

"No record of criminal activity, but debt suggests potential leverage."

"Financial struggles—desperate enough to make a deal?"

"What are you doing?" I glanced away from the papers and looked at Manolo. He hadn't moved, but his chocolate-brown eyes were now open. They flickered from my face to the paper in my hand, and back to my face again. "Why do you have that?"

He sat up and if it were my first or second time talking to him, I might've stammered out some lie but the fear and distrust I'd once felt whenever talking to him had dulled. So, instead, I asked, "Should I not be reading it? It is about me after all."

Manolo frowned. Not in an angry way, but more like a kid who got caught doing something they shouldn't have.

"That's old," he admitted. "From before I knew you. Back when I was still trying to figure out where to hide out."

I believed him. It wasn't like he had any reason to lie to me and besides, I doubted he'd even go to the trouble of doing so for something as small as a background check, considering everything we'd already went through.

"Why are you looking at it now?" I asked curiously.

He hesitated for a split second before saying, "I wanted to double-check how much you owe."

"Why?" No response. Bad sign. I narrowed my eyes, setting the paper down but keeping my gaze locked on him. He wasn't avoiding eye contact, but he also wasn't answering me, which was worse. Manolo never hesitated. "Manolo?"

He sighed as if he held the weight of the world on his shoulders and stood up to stretch. "I'm leaving soon."

I stared at him while mulling over the words in my head. The way he spoke told me he wasn't just considering it but he'd already made up his mind.

"When?"

"Soon," he responded. "I don't know yet. But you and I had an agreement when I first came here and I intended to keep it. I'll give you the money so you can pay off your debt. You'll need to lay low for a bit—keep working, making small payments here and there—but the money will be yours. You won't have to worry about missing any payments and I'll be out of your hair.

I should've been happy to hear that. It was what I'd wanted from the very beginning after all, so why wasn't I?

"And what will you be doing?" I pressed.

He shrugged. "I can't stay in hiding forever."

"What happened to me helping you find information?"

His brows furrowed slightly and he tilted his head in that signature way that told me he was confused. "You did help me, Wesley. More than you know, but you never wanted to be involved in any of this from the beginning. This isn't your world and from here on it'll only get more complicated and dangerous."

"So this is your way of trying to protect me," I blurted before I could reconsider.

"This is my way of making sure you won't be a target," he admitted. "Taking you to Faulkner's or Davina's party was already more than I should've done, but I could guarantee your safety to a certain extent there. I can't do that with Lionel."

"So you're leaving," I repeated, sounding far more bitter than I intended, but I couldn't help it.

His eyebrows raised. "You didn't want me here in the first place."

I smiled dryly. "I know."

"So, why are you upset?"

"Forget it," I shook my head. "Just...give me a heads up before you go."

I turned to leave. To disappear into my room and mull over this conversation until the sun rose, but Manolo wrapped his hand around my wrist, preventing me from taking another step.

His grip wasn't tight, but it was firm enough that I felt the warmth of his skin against mine.

"You're upset," he stated.

I shook my head, trying to pull away. "I said forget it."

"Yeah, no," he muttered, tugging me just enough that I turned back to face him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp in his gaze. "Say what you actually want to say, Wesley."

"I don't have anything to say."

Manolo scoffed, stepping closer. Too close. "You always have something to say."

His voice was quiet, but it still managed to make my pulse kick up, and I hated that he could probably tell.

"Manolo." I tried again, but my voice came out steadier than I expected. "Let go."

His fingers flexed against my wrist, but he didn't move away. If anything, he seemed to be studying me, watching the way my breath hitched, the way my throat bobbed as I swallowed down something I didn't want to name.

"Why do you care if I leave?" His voice dipped lower, and I swore I felt it more than I heard it. "You never wanted me here. You didn't even like me."

I opened my mouth, then shut it again, jaw tensing.

I should've said something. I should've pulled away, should've ended this conversation before it became something else, something I wasn't ready for.

But then Manolo shifted, his grip sliding from my wrist to my forearm, then my elbow, pulling me just a fraction closer.

I thought back to Davina's party; to the kiss. To the feeling of his fingers brushing against my jaw and his lips on mine. It was an act. Purely for show, and yet...

"Wesley," he said, softer now. It was almost a question.

I exhaled sharply, tilting my head back just enough to meet his gaze. Manolo's fingers curled slightly against my skin, his grip firm but not forceful. His eyes flickered over my face, searching for something—an answer, a reaction, anything.

I hated that I didn't have one for him. Or maybe I did, but I refused to acknowledge it.

"This isn't about me," I said, forcing my voice to stay even. "You made your decision. What does it matter if I—"

"It matters," he cut in, sharp and immediate. "You keep acting like it doesn't, but it does."

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "You don't get to decide that."

"Neither do you," he shot back. "You're standing here, looking at me like I just betrayed you, and you want me to believe you don't care?"

My pulse hammered, and my hands curled into fists at my sides. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

His voice was lower now, rough with something I didn't want to name. The remaining space between us had all but disappeared, and I wasn't sure which one of us had closed it.

I should've stepped back.

I didn't.

Instead, I stayed locked in place, heat rising in my chest and coiling at the base of my spine. Manolo was still watching me, his expression unreadable.

He exhaled sharply, his breath warm against my skin. "Say it, Wesley."

I swallowed hard. "Say what?"

"Whatever's got you so pissed off." His fingers tightened. "Just say it."

I wanted to.

I wanted to throw every goddamn emotion choking me out straight at him. I wanted to shove him away and pull him closer at the same time. I wanted him to stop looking at me like that, like he knew exactly what I was thinking before I could say it myself.

And I wanted to make him shut up.

So I did.

I grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward, crashing my mouth against his like I was trying to erase every word he'd just said.

Manolo barely hesitated.

He made a sound—half a grunt, half a curse—and then he was kissing me back, hard and unforgiving. His hand shot up, fingers tangling in my hair as he backed me up against the counter. The sharp edge dug into my spine, but I didn't care.

I should've been thinking—about how bad of an idea this was, about what it meant, about what the hell we were doing—but my mind had gone blank. All I could focus on was the press of his body against mine, the heat of his hands as they slid from my arm to my waist, the way his teeth grazed my bottom lip like he wanted to bite down but was just barely holding himself back.

That hesitation pissed me off.

I bit his lip first.

Manolo groaned against my mouth, his grip tightening like he was daring me to push him further.

So I did.

I fisted the collar of his shirt and deepened the kiss.

This wasn't me. I wasn't normally so rash...bold. I didn't kiss anyone based on a whim and definitely not men involved with the mafia. It wasn't soft and it wasn't romantic by any means of the word. I should've pulled away and left. I should've come to my senses. I should've stopped him and myself.

But neither of us did.