Page 87 of Brick's Retribution

Imani is quiet beside me, staring out the window at the desert passing by.

I want to take her hand, offer comfort, but I remember Amara's warning about not flaunting our relationship.

"Diego knows our security protocols," Imani says suddenly. "All of them. Every safe house, every contact, every route we use."

"Then we change them," Amara replies simply. "Alejandro's already working on it. By tomorrow, Diego's intel will be as worthless as him."

"He knows more than protocols," Imani continues. "He knows how my father thinks. His weaknesses. What buttons to push."

A man with that much knowledge could destroy the Torres organization from within.

The airstrip appears ahead—cracked tarmac stretching into the desert, a few abandoned buildings that might have been hangars once upon a time.

As we approach, vehicles materialize from concealed positions—black SUVs forming a perimeter.

"Stay calm," Amara advises. "Standard security."

We're directed to park near the largest building, where more armed men wait.

They're professionals—alert but not aggressive, weapons visible but not directly threatening.

As we exit the vehicle, an older man approaches Amara with a warm smile.

"Jefa," he greets her with obvious affection. "Your uncle is inside."

Amara embraces him briefly—clearly someone she's known for years—before we're led into the building.

The interior has been converted into a meeting space.

Expensive rugs cover the concrete floor, leather chairs arranged around a massive wooden table.

It's not something you’d ever expect—being in an abandoned setting, but that's probably the point.

And standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, is Alejandro Ramirez.

Silver hair swept back from a face that's aged well, sharp eyes that miss nothing, wearing a simple but obviously expensive suit.

This is a man who doesn't need to posture or threaten.

His power is absolute, unquestioned.

"Mi ahijada," he says warmly, turning from the window.

Imani crosses to him immediately, and I watch the transformation.

The controlled cartel princess becomes a god-daughter greeting a beloved uncle, falling into his embrace naturally.

"Padrino," she murmurs against his shoulder.

They speak rapidly in Spanish for a moment—too fast for me to follow—before Alejandro pulls back to study her face.

"You look thin," he observes. "And tired."

"It's been a difficult week," she admits.

"So I understand." His eyes shift to me, and I feel the weight of his assessment. "And this is the man who's been protecting you."

It's not a question.

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