Chapter 2 - Shadows of the PastTen years ago, Clara didn't just walk out of Ramiro’s life—she vanished like smoke in a hurricane.
One evening, they had shared a quiet dinner over a map of the coast, dreaming about packing up Ramiro's battered pickup truck and driving south until the road ran out. By morning, her side of the bed was cold. Her clothes were gone, leaving behind only a single note written on the back of a grocery receipt: “Don't look for me. It's the only way you stay alive.”
Ramiro had spent three agonizing years searching for her, draining every penny he earned, chasing dead ends from rundown motels to bus stations three states away. When the trail went completely cold, he built this garage as a fortress, letting his heart turn to concrete just like the floor beneath his feet.
And now, a terrified little girl with Clara’s exact shade of amber eyes was hiding three feet away from him, claiming Clara was her mother.
Think, Ramiro, think, he told himself, keeping his eyes locked on Julian.
If Clara was alive—or if this girl was truly hers—everything he thought he knew was a lie. Why had Clara abandoned him? Who was this man, and what did he have to do with the "estate"?
Julian took another step forward, his boots clicking rhythmically against the concrete. He could smell the fear in the room—not just from the locker, but from the mechanic. He could see the gears turning in Ramiro's head.
“You loved her, didn't you?” Julian sneered, his voice dripping with sadistic amusement. “Poor, pathetic Ramiro. Fixing junk cars while the woman you thought ran out on you was living in a gilded cage half a continent away. Did you really think a girl from the streets could just walk away from the Vance family? People like us don't let our assets walk out the front door.”
Ramiro’s blood ran cold. The Vance family.
Even in this industrial slum, people whispered about the Vances. They were old money, ruthless corporate titans whose wealth was built on blood, hostile takeovers, and political blackmail. If Clara had somehow gotten mixed up with them...
“She wasn't an asset,” Ramiro said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “She was a human being.”
“Was,” Julian corrected, his smile vanishing instantly. “Past tense. Now, step aside, mechanic. Open that locker, hand me the brat, and maybe—just maybe—I won't scatter your brains across your precious engine parts.”
Julian’s hand slid inside his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the grip of his gun.
Inside the locker, the girl let out a tiny, stifled gasp.
May you like
Julian’s head snapped toward the locker. “Hear that? Sounds like mice.”
Before Julian could draw his weapon, Ramiro moved with the speed of a striking viper. He grabbed a heavy pneumatic grease gun off the workbench and hurled it with full force straight at Julian’s face.
