Disclaimer: The author's imagination and passion are the only sources of inspiration for this novel, which is a work of dedication. Parallels between these pages and the past or present may be apparent to some readers, but they are completely coincidental. You are free to interpret this art anyway you see fit, and it is meant for your enjoyment.
The Ramirez ancestral home in Forbes Park was less of a house and more of a fortress disguised as a mansion. Since the night of the shootout at Spencer Tower, the atmosphere had shifted from protective to suffocating. For Ysabella, the silence of the high ceilings was louder than the gunfire she had witnessed.
Mateo was no longer the "lowkey businessman" she saw once a month for dinner. He was a general in the Cold War. He had doubled the security detail at the gates, installed military-grade jamming devices, and—most frustratingly—hadn't let Ysabella step past the driveway in four days.
"Kuya, I am going insane," Ysabella groaned, leaning against the mahogany desk in Mateo's home office. "I feel like a prisoner. You even made me take a leave of absence from work. My boss thinks I have a contagious fever!"
Mateo didn't look up from his three-monitor setup. His fingers danced across the keyboard, managing the fallout of the breached Spencer perimeter. "You do have a fever, Ysa. A fever of poor judgment. You spilled coffee on a man who treats human lives like line items in a ledger. Zayden Spencer is not someone you run into and then go back to your cubicle."
"He said he wouldn't hurt me! He promised you!"
"And you believe a Mafia Boss?" Mateo finally looked up, his hazel eyes—so like hers, but hardened by a decade of secrets—narrowing. "A promise from a Spencer is only as good as the leverage you hold over his head. Right now, the only thing keeping you safe is that he finds you... interesting. And interest fades, Ysa. But blood stays."
Ysabella bit her lip, the habit drawing a sharp, warning look from her brother. "I need air, Mateo. I need to feel like a normal twenty-three-year-old again. Just let me go to the mall. I'll go to SM Aura or Greenbelt. I'll stay in the crowded areas."
Mateo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He saw the desperation in her eyes. He knew his sister; if he kept her locked in too long, she would find a way to climb out of a window, and that was far more dangerous.
"Fine," Mateo said, reaching into his leather wallet. He pulled out a sleek, matte-black card with no visible numbers—the legendary Amex Centurion. He slid it across the desk. "Take this. Shop. Buy whatever makes you feel less like a captive. But there are conditions."
Ysabella's eyes brightened as she snatched the black card. "Anything."
You report your location every thirty minutes. You take two of my plainclothes security—they will stay twenty paces behind you. And you do not, under any circumstances, talk to strangers. Especially golden-haired ones."
"Deal," Ysabella chirped, already turning to head for the door.
"Ysa," Mateo's voice stopped her at the threshold. "If I find out he's been near you, I'm putting you on a private jet to Spain to stay with Tita Sofia. Permanent vacation. Clear?"
"Crystal," she whispered, a chill running down her spine.
The air in Greenbelt 5 was cool and scented with expensive perfumes, a far cry from the smoky, metallic air of the penthouse. Ysabella felt a temporary sense of freedom as she wandered through the high-end boutiques. Behind her, two men in unremarkable polo shirts—Mateo's best trackers—blended into the crowd, their eyes scanning every face that lingered too long on her.
What Ysabella didn't realize was that the mall was already occupied.
High up on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually against the railing with a cup of black coffee in his hand, stood Zayden Spencer. He wasn't wearing his suit today. He wore a fitted black V-neck that emphasized his 6'2" frame and a pair of dark designer jeans. His golden hair was slightly windswept, and despite the casual attire, he radiated an aura of absolute authority.
He watched Ysabella through the glass storefront of a designer shoe boutique.
"She looks pale," Zayden murmured, his American accent low.
Beside him, Marcus checked a tablet. "Our tech team has intercepted her brother's pings, Boss. She's reporting every thirty minutes. Mateo's men are at six o'clock and nine o'clock relative to her position."
"And our men?"
"Scattered in the crowd. We have a four-man perimeter around her, plus two snipers on the adjacent rooftops in case a Triad hit-squad decides to get ambitious. She's the most protected woman in Southeast Asia right now."
Zayden's blue eyes didn't leave her. He watched her pick up a pair of strappy heels, look at the price tag, and then hesitantly put them back.
"She's using the black card Mateo gave her," Zayden noted, a small, predatory smile tugging at his lips. "But she's still shopping like an accountant. She's afraid to spend his money."
"Should we move in, Boss? Your presence might trigger a response from the Ramirez guards."
"Let them respond," Zayden said, setting his coffee cup down. "I didn't come here to watch her shop. I came here to remind her that my 'courtship' doesn't follow her brother's rules."
Ysabella was looking at a display of silk scarves when she felt that familiar prickle on the back of her neck. It was the same sensation she'd had in the café—the feeling of being hunted by something beautiful.
She turned around, expecting to see her guards, but instead, she saw a mall employee holding a large, ornate box tied with a gold ribbon.
"Ms. Ramirez?" the employee asked with a polite bow.
"Yes?"
"A gentleman asked me to deliver this to you. He mentioned it was a down payment for the coffee."
Ysabella's heart did a violent somersault. She took the box, her fingers trembling as she untied the ribbon. Inside was the exact pair of heels she had just put back on the shelf—only these were custom-made in a shimmering emerald green that matched the dress from her cousin's wedding photos.
Pinned to the silk lining was a small, cream-colored card.
The color suits you better than caramel. Stop biting your lip. People are staring. — Z.
Ysabella gasped, her eyes darting around the mall. She felt a sudden, electric heat flush through her body. He was here. Somewhere in this sea of people, the Mafia Boss was watching her.
She looked toward the balcony and caught a flash of gold. Zayden was standing there, looking down at her. He didn't wave; he didn't smile. He simply raised his coffee cup in a mock toast and then disappeared back into the shadows of the corridor.
"Ma'am? Is everything okay?" one of Mateo's guards asked, stepping closer, his hand hovering near his concealed holster.
"I... yes. It's just a gift from an old friend," Ysabella lied, her heart pounding. She quickly tucked the card into her bra, the secret paper scratching against her skin like a brand.
She spent the next hour trying to maintain her composure, but she felt Zayden's presence everywhere. When she sat down at a small outdoor café for a bottle of water, a waiter brought her an iced caramel macchiato—the expensive kind.
"Compliments of the gentleman in the black SUV, Ma'am," the waiter said.
Ysabella looked toward the street. A black Rolls-Royce Ghost was idling at the curb, its tinted windows impenetrable. She knew Zayden was behind that glass, watching her drink the coffee she had once used to ruin his life.
The "courtship" was a psychological siege. He wasn't just giving her gifts; he was showing her—and her brother—that Mateo's walls were made of paper. He was showing her that he could reach out and touch her whenever he pleased.
She took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect. Sweet, bitter, and dangerously addictive.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed. It was a message from Zayden.
ZAYDEN: Your brother's men are looking at the car. In thirty seconds, they're going to try to move you. Walk to the fountain. I want to see you up close.
Ysabella looked at her guards. They were indeed talking into their lapel mics, looking agitated. They had spotted the Rolls-Royce.
"Ma'am, we need to leave. Now," the lead guard said, grabbing her elbow.
"Wait! I dropped my earring near the fountain!" Ysabella lied, pulling away.
Before they could stop her, she darted into the crowd toward the large, splashing fountain in the center of the plaza. The mist from the water cooled her face. She looked around, panicked and exhilarated.
A hand clamped around her wrist—not the rough grip of a guard, but the large, firm, and warm hand of Zayden Spencer.
He pulled her behind a large stone pillar, shielded from the view of her guards by a thicket of ornamental palms. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. His muscular body seemed to swallow her whole, boxing her in against the cool stone.
"You're late for our second date, Ysabella," Zayden whispered, his American accent vibrating in her ear.
"This isn't a date! You're stalking me!" she hissed, though she didn't try to pull her hand away.
Zayden leaned in, his blue eyes searching hers. "Stalking is for amateurs. I'm protecting my investment. You ruined my documents, remember? You're in my debt."
"My brother is going to kill you," she whispered, her breath hitching as Zayden's other hand came up to rest on the pillar beside her head, effectively trapping her.
"Let him try," Zayden said, his gaze dropping to her lips. "I've survived three assassinations and two coups. Your brother is a genius with a computer, but I am the king of the streets. He can't keep you from me, Ysabella. Not even with all the black cards in the world."
He reached out, his thumb grazing her lower lip, pulling it down just as she was about to bite it.
"I told you to stop doing that," he growled.
"I told you I'm nervous!"
"Good," Zayden murmured, leaning even closer until his lips were a hair's breadth from hers. "Be nervous. It means you feel the gravity. You and I, Ysabella... we're an accident that hasn't finished happening yet."
The sound of her guards shouting her name echoed nearby.
"They're coming," she gasped.
Zayden didn't look worried. He took a small, silver object from his pocket—a GPS tracker disguised as a delicate, diamond-encrusted butterfly charm. He pinned it to the lapel of her blazer with a smirk.
"If you're ever in trouble—real trouble—press the center," Zayden said, his voice turning deadly serious. "I don't care where you are or who is holding you. I will come for you. And God help anyone who stands in my way."
He leaned down and pressed a lingering, burning kiss to her cheek, just below her eye. It wasn't a sexual kiss, but it was a promise of possession that made Ysabella's knees weak.
"Go back to your brother, little ghost," he whispered. "Tell him the truce is still holding. For now."
By the time her guards burst through the palms, Zayden was gone. He had vanished into the crowd like he was made of smoke.
"Ma'am! Are you hurt?" the guard cried, scanning her for injuries.
"I'm fine," Ysabella said, her voice shaking. She clutched the box of emerald shoes to her chest.
That night, back in the fortress of Forbes Park, Ysabella sat on her bed, staring at the black card Mateo had given her and the diamond butterfly Zayden had pinned to her heart.
She was caught between two titans. One wanted to hide her from the world, and the other wanted to own the world she lived in.
She looked at the butterfly. She knew she should tell Mateo. She knew she should throw it away. But as she pressed her finger against the small diamond in the center, she felt a strange sense of safety she hadn't felt in her brother's house.
Little did she know, five miles away, Zayden was watching a red dot on a screen.
"She's home," Marcus reported.
"Good," Zayden said, staring at the skyline. "Keep the snipers on the Ramirez perimeter. The Triad moved their best hitman to Manila tonight. They think she's the key to breaking me."
Zayden's blue eyes turned to ice. "They're going to find out that she's not the key. She's the trigger."