Chapter 8 Camilo De La Cruz - Part Two

CAMILO My sister and Lorenzo were engaged, or had been; I wasn’t exactly sure anymore. She had also been pregnant, but the baby was stillborn. After she lost the baby, he suddenly asked for space. He claimed he was not breaking the engagement, but it felt like it because the wedding was also postponed. It was like he had only been marrying her for the baby, and I didn’t understand it. This was when she needed him the most, but he chose not to be available. She said it was his way of dealing with things and that she understood him, but I didn’t know how she could. I despised him for what he had put her through. I had never liked him before, but now I despised him. There was always something about him that I couldn't shake, but she loved him, so I had to let it go. Plus, I was tired of fighting with her. I saw how badly it hurt her. Camila and I lost our mother at birth. Our grandparents raised us, and our grandmother passed away when we were eight. From there, our grandfather raised us all on his own, and I had always tried to look out for my sister, even if she despised me for it. "We are here," Pedro, my right-hand man, said, snapping me out of my reverie, just as the car came to a stop. The driver exited the vehicle and opened the door. Stepping out, I extended my hand to assist my sister, and we made our way to the casino's entrance, with Pedro close behind us and the rest of our men following him. When we stepped inside the casino, the floor was already buzzing with cards flipping, chips clinking, and dice hitting felt. But the second we stepped onto the black marble, a man in a crimson velvet blazer broke away from the bar and came straight toward us. That man was Leo Moretti, the owner of Éclipse. “Señor De La Cruz,” he said, bowing his head slightly with a sharp grin. “We’ve been expecting you. Everything is prepared exactly as requested. Right this way.” The security team parted like waves at his signal, and we were led down a private corridor off the main floor, Camila's arm curled in mine as if she was born to be here. And she was. We came for La Sombra, the annual high-stakes game of Ruleta de Sangre, a twisted version of roulette that was old-school and brutal; no cameras, no civilians. Just the who’s who of the underworld, watching one another over cigars and fortunes, where losing meant more than money, and winning bought you weeks of silence in the right circles. The event drew everyone: cartel capos, arms dealers, offshore royalty, and those ghosts who didn’t officially exist but made the world move. And tonight, Camila wanted to be in the thick of it. She had always enjoyed the game, said it was poetic, like life playing dice with the universe. Leo led us into the VIP suite above the floor, La Cúpula. The room exuded luxury and danger, and the velvet walls absorbed the sound. Pole dancers moved like smoke through the light, tall and toned, trained to read the room. They didn’t dance for attention. They danced for power. And right now, all of it fed the suite like fuel to the fire. Every figure in the room turned when we entered; not because they didn’t know us. But because they did. Leo motioned to our section, where a custom bottle of the finest tequila, adorned with over 4,000 diamonds, and a 60-year scotch sat surrounded by chilled glasses. There were three seats at the center booth. One for me, one for Camila, and one for Pedro. I took mine, and Camila sat next to me, legs crossed, eyes scanning the room like a panther lounging in the sun: calm, beautiful, but always ready to pounce. But her moment of relaxation was brief because she needed to use the ladies. She got up and left, and the music changed again, this time slower. The room began to fill quickly, with each arrival marked by nods, subtle handshakes, and the low murmur of guarded conversation. Most of them I knew. A few I didn’t need to know. A pair of Moroccan twins, mercenaries turned private arms dealers, stopped by first. They both shook my hand, spoke in code, and grinned before moving on to their table without delay. Right after them came Hassan el-Nouri, diamond trade king and quiet assassin. He greeted me with a brief embrace, one of his guards watching us like a hawk. He took his seat, and another round of introductions began: an Albanian fixer who once reconciled two blood feuds, a Brazilian playboy who made his fortune by smuggling rare artifacts, and Arturo, an old rival I had not seen in nearly five years. He clutched my hand tightly, smiled for too long, and then left without saying anything, and I watched his back as he walked away, still alive for the time being. But then something else took my peace, Camila. She should have been back. I looked at Pedro, who was already concerned, and asked him to check on her. He left, but returned shortly and said she had gone outside, which alarmed me. Why would she go out without telling me? "F*ck!" I cursed in frustration and dashed outside after Pedro. Scanning the outside area, there was no sign of her, but her phone rang and went through and she answered. "Where are you?" I asked, but she appeared around the corner, south of us. When she saw me, she ended the call, and I approached her. What the hell was she thinking? What was she even doing over there? I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped abruptly and turned back in the direction she had come from, as if she was listening to something. “What are you doing?!” I asked, advancing towards her, but she ignored me. "Shhh!" She shushed me and placed her index finger on my lips. "Did you hear that?" she asked, frowning and looking back. "What?" I asked, lowering my voice, seeing how serious she looked. “Crying. Like… a baby.”