WHISPERS BEFORE THE STORM

The days in Cartagena blurred into a quiet rhythm of sunlit mornings and warm, sea-salted evenings.

For the first time in a long while, Mariana allowed herself to breathe.

The air was softer here, far from Mexico’s gunfire and blood-drenched streets.

The villa Juan rented stood on a hill overlooking the ocean, its white walls glowing gold in the dawn.

She would wake early just to watch him, the man who had stolen her guarded heart.

Juan slept soundly beside her, his arm slung across her waist, the faint scent of tobacco and sea breeze lingering on his skin.

For a brief moment, she could imagine this was forever. No Mafia, no vendettas, just the hum of waves and the heartbeat of the man she loved.

Downstairs, the villa buzzed with activity. Juan’s most trusted men, Pedro Sanz, Arturo, and Miguelito, had turned from smugglers to makeshift decorators.

They hauled in crates of flowers and bottles of wine, trying to turn the place into something resembling a wedding venue.

Mariana leaned on the balcony rail, watching them, a small smile on her lips.

The sound of laughter drifted upward. Even the men seemed lighter here, as if Cartagena’s sunlight could wash away their sins.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This is what peace feels like, she thought. But peace, she had learned, was always fleeting.

By late afternoon, she found Juan in his study, hunched over a stack of papers.

A map of South America spread across the table, lines and red markings tracing routes she didn’t recognize.

Mariana leaned on the doorframe. “You promised me no business until after the wedding.”

Juan looked up, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Old habits, mi amor. Just making sure everything’s quiet back home.”

She crossed the room, took the papers from his hands, and tossed them aside. “You left that life behind the moment you brought me here.”

He rose, looping an arm around her waist. “And yet that life doesn’t seem to want to leave me.”

Mariana studied his eyes. There was something unspoken there, a flicker of tension he was trying to hide.

“You’re worried about Nicolas Vega, aren’t you?”

Juan hesitated, then nodded. “He won’t stop looking for me. Men like Vega don’t forgive.

He lost millions in that deal, and pride runs deeper than money.”

Mariana touched his cheek. “Then let him look. He’ll never find you here.”

Juan kissed her forehead softly. “I hope you’re right.”

That night, the villa transformed into something out of a dream.

The ocean breeze carried the scent of jasmine through open windows.

Candles burned low, their flickering light casting shadows on the walls.

Mariana sat before her vanity, brushing her hair, lost in thought. In the mirror, she caught Juan’s reflection standing in the doorway, watching her as if he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“You keep staring,” she teased, her lips curving into a smile.

Juan walked toward her slowly. “I can’t help it. You look like a dream I don’t deserve.”

She turned, meeting his gaze. “Then stop standing there and claim it before it fades.”

He reached her, fingers brushing her shoulder, tracing the curve of her neck.

She rose from the chair, and for a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other, two souls who had lived too much death and finally found a moment of life.

Juan cupped her face in his hands. “Tomorrow, I’ll make you my wife,” he murmured. “And for once, I’ll have something worth protecting.”

“You already do,” she whispered.

He drew her close, his lips finding hers.

The world outside disappeared: the sea, the wind, the distant hum of the city—all of it melted away.

There was only warmth, only the quiet rhythm of two hearts finally at peace.

Later, when the moon hung high and the waves lapped gently against the shore, Juan slipped out onto the balcony.

The city lights blinked in the distance, reflected in the dark water.

Pedro Sanz joined him a moment later, cigarette in hand. “Are you sure about this, boss?”

Juan didn’t look away from the horizon. “About what?”

“About staying here. The Esposito Clan’s got long arms. Word travels fast. Someone’s going to talk.”

Juan’s jaw tightened. “No one knows where we are. I made sure of that.”

Pedro exhaled smoke into the air. “Do you trust everyone that much?”

Juan turned, his eyes narrowing. “You think I shouldn’t?”

Pedro shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “I’m just saying, sometimes loyalty’s a luxury.”

There was a moment of silence. The sound of the waves filled the space between them.

Juan clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, “hermano. ”After tomorrow, we disappear for good.”

Pedro nodded, forcing a grin, but his hand trembled slightly as he brought the cigarette to his lips.

Inside, Mariana lay awake, listening to the ocean.

The sheets smelled of him: warm, familiar, safe. She thought about the life they could build, far from the blood and betrayal that had haunted her since childhood.

For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine a future that didn’t end in tragedy.

But somewhere, deep inside, a quiet unease stirred. She couldn’t name it, but it was there, a whisper that peace never lasts.

She closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the waves lull her back into dreams.

Outside, on the balcony, Pedro’s phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. He glanced around before answering.

A low voice came through the line, cold and deliberate.

“Is he there?”

Pedro hesitated, glancing back toward the door where Juan had gone inside.

“Yes,” he whispered. “They’re both here. Just like you said.”

“Good,” the voice replied. “Then it begins.”

The line went dead.

Pedro crushed his cigarette underfoot, staring into the darkness as the wind off the sea howled softly around him.

The ember faded, leaving only the restless glint of the ocean stretching endlessly ahead.

He stood there for a long time, the night pressing heavy on his shoulders.

Every instinct in him screamed to turn back, to walk inside, confess everything, and beg for forgiveness — but he couldn’t.

There were debts that went deeper than loyalty, and Nicolas Vega had made sure he remembered every one of them.

Behind him, the faint sound of laughter drifted from the villa, Mariana’s voice light and warm, followed by Juan’s deeper tone.

It cut through him like a blade, they sounded happy, hopeful and unaware.

Pedro swallowed hard, his chest tightening. “Lo siento, jefe,” (I'm sorry boss) he muttered under his breath, eyes wet with something that wasn’t just the ocean breeze. “I never wanted it to be like this.”

The wind carried his words away.

From the cliffs below, a small motorboat glided silently toward the private dock, its engine dimmed to a low hum.

Three shadows moved aboard it, men with quiet, practiced hands, their faces hidden under black scarves. One of them lifted a phone, the screen’s faint glow reflecting in his eyes.

“Target confirmed,” he said quietly in Spanish. “Proceeding to phase one.”

The call ended. The boat pressed forward through the dark, cutting across the waves like a serpent in still water.