The rattling Renault van careened through Granada's backstreets like a panicked animal. Ramón wrestled the wheel, his face a mask of grim concentration, taking corners on two wheels, ignoring red lights, plunging down narrow alleys barely wider than the vehicle itself. Sirens wailed in the distance, converging on the prison, but the immediate streets were a chaotic blur of startled pedestrians and honking cars.
In the back, amidst sacks of laundry, Dante and Kara were thrown against the metal sides with every lurch. Dante was a wreck. He'd collapsed onto the floor, curled around his broken ribs, his breathing shallow and ragged, blood trickling from his split lip and nose, mingling with the grime on his face. His one visible eye was squeezed shut against the pain. Kara crouched beside him, bracing herself against a laundry sack, her left arm a burning column of agony where Lorenzo's bullet had grazed her. Blood soaked through the grey fabric of her poncho sleeve. The acrid smell of gunpowder, sweat, and fear filled the cramped space.
Ramón glanced back through the rearview mirror, his eyes hard. "Hold on! They might have put out a description!"
"They *did* put out a description!" Kara gasped as the van swerved violently, avoiding a delivery truck. "We shot Lorenzo in a prison chapel!"
"*You* shot Lorenzo," Dante ground out through clenched teeth, opening his eye to fix her with a look of pure, exhausted fury. "Stupid. Reckless. Walking into his trap like a lamb." He winced, a fresh wave of pain contorting his features. "Should have left me."
The words stung, sharp as the bullet wound. Kara met his gaze, the cold fury she'd channeled in the chapel still simmering beneath the pain and shock. "You'd be dead. Or wishing you were."
"Maybe," Dante spat, closing his eye again. "Better than dragging you into hell with me."
"Too late," Kara retorted, her voice flat. "Lorenzo dragged me in months ago. I'm just returning the favor."
The van screeched to a halt behind a nondescript warehouse in an industrial zone near the river. Ramón killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening after the frantic chase, broken only by their harsh breathing and the distant, fading sirens.
"Out," Ramón ordered, already shoving his door open. "Quickly. Before patrols sweep this area."
He hauled Dante upright with surprising strength, ignoring the man's grunt of pain. Kara scrambled out after them, cradling her injured arm. Ramón led them to a rusted metal door set into the warehouse wall. He punched a code into a keypad beside it. The door buzzed open, revealing a steep, dark staircase leading down.
"Down," Ramón commanded, half-dragging, half-supporting Dante. Kara followed, the cold, damp air of the cellar washing over her, smelling of damp concrete and engine oil. Ramón flicked a switch. Bare bulbs flickered on, illuminating a large, cluttered basement space. It wasn't a home; it was a bolt-hole. Stacks of crates, old machinery parts, a workbench littered with tools, and in the far corner, a cot, a sink, and a small camping stove. A single, high, grimy window near the ceiling offered a sliver of grey light.
Ramón dumped Dante unceremoniously onto the cot. Dante groaned, curling onto his uninjured side, his face grey with pain. Ramón turned to Kara. "Show me the arm."
Kara hesitated, then peeled back the blood-soaked sleeve of her poncho and the shirt beneath. The bullet had carved a deep, angry furrow along her triceps, about four inches long. It bled steadily, the flesh around it already red and swollen.
"Clean through," Ramón grunted. "Lucky. Sit." He gestured to a stool by the workbench. He rummaged in a metal cabinet, pulling out a large first-aid kit, far more comprehensive than the one Dante had carried in the mountains. He filled a basin with water from the sink, added antiseptic, and brought it over with clean cloths.
"This will hurt," he stated, soaking a cloth. He didn't wait for permission. He pressed the cloth firmly against the wound.
Kara gasped, biting down hard on her lip as the antiseptic bit into the raw flesh. Pain radiated up her arm, white-hot and nauseating. She focused on breathing, on the cold concrete beneath her feet, on Dante's labored breathing from the cot. Ramón worked with brutal efficiency, cleaning the wound, probing to ensure no fragments remained. The sting was agonizing, but Kara refused to cry out. She wouldn't give Dante the satisfaction. She wouldn't show weakness, not now.
Ramón applied pressure to stop the bleeding, then smeared thick, yellow antiseptic cream over the gash. He took out a suture kit. "Need stitches. Deep. Hold still."
Kara braced herself. The needle pierced her skin, a sharp, precise pain. Ramón's hands, large and calloused, were surprisingly steady. He worked silently, quickly, pulling the suture thread through the edges of the wound with methodical tugs. Each stitch was a fresh jolt of agony. Kara watched his face, etched with concentration. This man, who laundered clothes by day and threw flashbangs in prison chapels by night, who had just risked everything for Dante. Why?
"You knew," Kara said through gritted teeth as he tied off another stitch. "You knew Lorenzo would be there."
Ramón didn't look up. "Suspected. Paco is Lorenzo's creature. Always was. The meeting was a trap. Figured it was fifty-fifty Lorenzo showed personally to gloat." He snipped the thread. "Took the gamble. Brought the flashbang." He began another suture.
"So you used me. As bait."
Ramón paused, his needle hovering. He met her gaze. His eyes were hard, but not without a flicker of… something. Regret? "Bait walks into the trap willingly, *niña*. You wanted Dante out. I gave you a chance. A slim one." He resumed stitching. "Worked, didn't it? Mostly."
"Mostly?" Kara gestured weakly towards Dante with her good arm. "He's half-dead! Lorenzo might be!"
"Lorenzo is alive," Ramón stated flatly. "You winged him. Dante finished the job… for now. But men like Lorenzo don't die easy. He'll be back. Angrier. And Dante…" He glanced at the cot. "...he's survived worse. He'll survive this. If infection doesn't kill him first." He finished the last suture, tied it off, and covered the wound with a thick gauze pad, securing it tightly with bandages. "Keep it clean. Change dressing daily. No lifting."
He stood up, cleaning his hands in the basin. "Your turn," he said to Dante.
Dante hadn't moved, hadn't spoken during Kara's ordeal. His breathing was still shallow and painful. Ramón approached the cot, pulling a bottle of cheap whiskey and a folding knife from the first-aid kit. "Ribs. Need to bind them. Might be broken. Might just cracked. Either way, it's gonna hurt." He poured whiskey liberally over the knife blade, then over his hands. "Drink," he ordered Dante, offering the bottle.
Dante opened his eye, took the bottle, and swallowed several large gulps, coughing violently. He handed it back, his jaw clenched. Ramón didn't offer pleasantries. He pulled Dante's torn and bloodied shirt open. Kara looked away, but not before seeing the horrific bruising blossoming across Dante's left side – deep purple, black, and angry red, spreading from his ribs down towards his hip. It looked like he'd been hit by a truck.
Ramón palpated the area roughly. Dante hissed, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the cot. "Definitely broken," Ramón muttered. "Two, maybe three. Lucky the lung isn't punctured." He took a long strip of heavy cloth and began the brutal process of binding Dante's ribs tightly, pulling the fabric with all his strength. Dante's body arched off the cot, a strangled groan escaping his clenched teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He didn't scream, but the agony radiating from him was palpable.
Kara watched, a strange mix of pity and residual anger churning inside her. This broken, suffering man was the same lethal force who had dragged her through mountains, taught her to shoot, shielded her with his body. The protector forged by her father, now broken by her father's enemy. The debt felt like a physical chain around her neck.
Ramón finished the binding, securing it tightly. Dante lay back, panting, his face drained of color, drenched in sweat. Ramón poured more whiskey into a tin cup and handed it to him. "Drink. All of it. Sleep if you can." He turned to Kara. "You too. Rest. You're no good to anyone bleeding and exhausted. The cot's taken. Floor's concrete. Get used to it."
He moved towards the stairs. "I need to see about the van. Dispose of it. See if the heat is on us yet. Lock the door behind me. Don't open it." He paused at the bottom step, looking back at them. "And don't kill each other while I'm gone." He disappeared up the stairs. The heavy door clanged shut. The bolt slid home.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by Dante's ragged breathing and the dripping of a pipe somewhere in the cellar. Kara sank down onto the cold concrete floor, leaning back against a stack of crates. The pain in her arm was a deep, insistent throb, competing with the bone-deep weariness. She pulled the bloodstained poncho tighter around her with her good arm. The cellar was cold.
Minutes crawled by. Dante lay still on the cot, his eyes closed, but Kara could tell he wasn't asleep. The tension between them was a living thing, vibrating in the damp air. The accusations, the shared violence, the unspoken debt hung heavy.
"Why?" Kara finally asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. She wasn't sure what she was asking. Why he protected her? Why he was angry she saved him? Why any of this?
Dante didn't open his eyes. "Why what?" His voice was a rasp, stripped bare by pain.
"Why did you do it?" Kara pressed, the dam cracking. "Why swear that oath to my father? Why drag yourself through hell for me? Was it just the debt? Just because he pulled you out of Lorenzo's gutter?" She remembered Ramón's words in the apartment. *Stupid oath. Got him killed before.*
Dante was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, he opened his good eye. He stared at the damp concrete ceiling. "Kecent pulled me out," he acknowledged, the words dragged out. "But it wasn't kindness. It was… assessment. Like picking a tool." His voice held no bitterness, only cold fact. "He saw I could fight. Saw I had nothing to lose. Saw the hate in me. He used it. Shaped it. Made me his weapon." He shifted slightly, wincing. "The oath… it was his way of chaining that weapon. Binding it to his bloodline. To you."
He turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting hers. It was still fierce, but the fury had banked, replaced by a profound, weary bleakness. "Protecting you… it was the job. The last job. The only thing left tying me to that life. To him." He looked away again. "I wanted it done. Over. So I could be free of the ghost. Free of the debt."
Kara digested this. The cold pragmatism of her father. The shackle of obligation. "So why are you angry I saved you? If I hadn't come… if I hadn't shot Lorenzo… the debt would be paid. You'd be free. Dead, but free."
Dante's jaw tightened. He didn't answer immediately. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost inaudible. "Because you walked into the fire, Kara. You picked up the knife. You looked Lorenzo in the eye and you *fought*." He finally looked back at her, his gaze intense, searching. "You were supposed to run. To hide. To survive. To be… something else. Not… not become *this*." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the cellar, the violence, the blood on her sleeve. "Not become another ghost chained to Kecent's war."
The raw honesty in his words, the bleak despair beneath the anger, struck Kara deeper than any accusation. He wasn't just angry she'd risked herself; he was mourning the loss of her innocence, the path she'd chosen. The path his debt had forced her towards.
"I didn't have a choice, Dante," Kara whispered, the numbness cracking, letting the grief and terror seep through. "Lorenzo took everything. He killed my mother. My grandmother. Mateo. He would have killed Rosa. He would have killed me. Hiding… running… it just delayed the inevitable." She touched the bandage on her arm, the pain a constant reminder. "The only choice was to fight. To become the weapon my father tried to make you. To become what Lorenzo fears."
Dante watched her, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, filled with the weight of their shared damnation. Finally, he closed his eye again. "Then you understand the cost," he murmured, his voice fading with exhaustion. "The debt is paid in blood, Kara. Always. And the interest… is your soul."
He drifted into a pained, restless sleep. Kara remained on the cold floor, Dante's words echoing in the silence. *You understand the cost. The interest is your soul.* She looked at her bandaged arm, the evidence of her violence. She thought of Lorenzo's blood on the chapel floor, the shattered saint. She thought of the cold certainty in her aim, the fury that had steadied her hand.
The girl who loved poetry was gone, buried under the weight of blood and vengeance. In her place was something harder, sharper. A weapon forged in fire and loss. Kara Kecent pulled her father's journal from her pocket – the one she'd taken from the ruined villa, filled with his cold, calculating script. She opened it, not to read, but to the last blank page. Using a charred stick from near the camping stove, she began to write, her movements stiff and painful. Not poetry. A ledger. A record of the debt.
*Lorenzo Márquez: For Ana. For my mother. For Abuela Rosa. For Mateo. For Rafael. For every life shattered.*
*Dante Vázquez: For the debt. For the mountain. For the storm.*
*Myself: For the girl I was. For the soul I traded.*
She closed the journal, the charcoal smudging her fingers like ash. The cellar was cold, the concrete unforgiving. Dante's breathing was a ragged counterpoint to the dripping pipe. Outside, the city hunted them. Lorenzo, wounded but alive, would be plotting his revenge. The debt was far from settled. But Kara Kecent, the heir to violence, the bearer of the knife and the truth, was ready. The reckoning had only just begun. She leaned her head back against the crate, the weight of the revolver a cold comfort against her hip, and waited for the dawn.