Chapter 3: Coffee and a Bullet
Morning carved through the windows like a blade.
Val woke to light she didn't recognize—harsh and gold and indifferent, spilling across black sheets and her own bare shoulder. The taste of Rafael still clung to her tongue, salt and musk and something darker. Her thighs ached. Her hips bore the faint purple imprint of his fingers. And somewhere beneath her ribs, twelve years of pressure sat like a stone on her chest.
She didn't move.
Just lay there, listening to the house breathe. The hum of distant appliances. The whisper of wind through trees beyond the glass. The absence of another body beside her.
The sheets where Rafael had slept were cold.
She sat up slowly. The room swam into focus—dark wood, sharp angles, the fireplace still unlit. Her dress was gone. Her underwear was gone. She found one of his shirts draped over a chair and pulled it on without thinking. It smelled like him. Cedar and smoke and something metallic she couldn't name.
The hallway was empty.
The stairs groaned beneath her bare feet.
She followed the smell of coffee.
The kitchen gleamed like a showroom. Marble countertops veined with gray, stainless steel appliances polished to a mirror shine, floor-to-ceiling windows that turned the morning into something almost violent. Rafael stood at the island, back to her, shirtless and barefoot, pouring black coffee into two cups.
He didn't turn around.
"Sleep okay?"
"No."
"Good."
He slid a cup across the marble. She caught it, wrapped both hands around its heat, and stared at the dark liquid like it might offer answers.
"You snore," he said.
"I do not."
"Little bit. It's cute."
Val took a sip. The coffee was bitter and perfect. She hated how much she liked it.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
Rafael turned. His eyes found hers—blue and sharp and patient—and he leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, waiting.
"I want to kill him."
The words hung in the air between them. Heavy. Unavoidable.
"I've wanted to for twelve years," she continued. "Every day. Every night. Every time I close my eyes and see his face." She set the cup down. Her hands were steady. That surprised her. "I've imagined it a thousand different ways. A knife. A gun. My bare hands around his throat while he begs."
Rafael didn't blink.
"You're not shocked."
"I'm not easily shocked."
She laughed. It came out hollow.
"Right. Cartel boss. Dead bodies in the Ozarks. Same old story."
"Different story," he corrected. "Same ending."
Val looked away. Out the window. The trees were thick and green and indifferent.
"There were girls," she said.
The words came slow. Heavy. Like pulling teeth.
"At the farm. Young girls. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. He'd—" She stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "He'd keep them in the cellar. Feed them just enough to keep them alive. And when they got pregnant, he'd..."
The sentence didn't finish.
It didn't need to.
Rafael's expression didn't change. But something in his posture shifted. A tightening. A coiled stillness.
"When they got pregnant," Val continued, "he'd wait until the baby came. And then he'd take it. Wrap it in a blanket. Hand it to me."
She could still feel the weight. Small and warm and fragile. The way their tiny fingers curled around nothing.
"He'd say, 'Good little gravedigger.'" The words tasted like ash. "That's what he called me. His good little gravedigger. Because I was the one who dug the holes. Behind the barn. Under the oak tree. I was fifteen the first time. I dug seven graves before I turned eighteen."
The kitchen was silent.
The coffee had gone cold in her cup.
"I buried babies," Val said. "And their mothers. And I never told a soul. Not until now."
Rafael uncrossed his arms.
He moved slowly. Deliberately. Reached into his pocket, pulled out a phone, and set it on the counter. The screen glowed to life. He tapped once. Twice. Lifted it to his ear.
"Find Gerald Vance. Ozarks. Bring him to the warehouse."
A pause.
"No. Alive. But make sure he knows he's a dead man."
He hung up. Set the phone down. Looked at Val with those ice-blue eyes.
"You're going to pull the trigger," he said.
Not a question.
Val's heart hammered against her ribs.
"I—"
"When we find him. When he's on his knees in front of you. You're going to pull the trigger. Not me. Not one of my men. You."
"Why?"
"Because you need to."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I don't know if I can."
"You can. You've done it before."
"That was different."
"No. It wasn't." He stepped closer. "You've been killing for years, Val. You just stopped counting."
The truth of it hit her like a fist.
She wanted to argue. Wanted to deny it. But the words wouldn't come. Because he was right. She'd killed before. Men. Boys. People who'd begged and people who'd fought. She'd pulled the trigger and shoved the bodies into shallow graves and walked away without looking back.
What was one more?
Rafael's hand found her chin. Tilted her face up.
"But first," he said, "I'm going to fuck you on this counter until you forget every name he ever called you."
Val's breath caught.
"Rafael—"
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"Good."
He kissed her.
Hard. Brutal. His teeth caught her lower lip and bit down until she tasted copper. His hands found the hem of his shirt—the one she'd stolen—and yanked it over her head. She stood naked in the morning light, gooseflesh rising on her arms, nipples hardening in the cool air.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"Don't—"
"Shut up."
He spun her around.
Her hands found the counter. Cold marble bit into her palms. She heard him unzip his pants. Heard the soft thud of denim hitting the floor. Then his hands were on her hips, pulling her back against him, and his cock was hard and hot against her ass.
"No condom this time," he said.
Val's heart stuttered.
"I—"
"You said you want to kill him. I want to feel you. All of you. No barriers. No lies."
"Rafael—"
"Tell me to stop."
She didn't.
"Tell me you don't want this."
She couldn't.
His hand found her hair. Fisted it. Pulled her head back until her neck arched and her throat was exposed.
"Beg me," he said.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
He shoved inside her.
One brutal thrust. Hips to ass. Cock buried to the root.
Val screamed.
The sound echoed off the marble, off the windows, off the high ceilings. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase. Her legs shook. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, and he didn't wait, didn't give her time to adjust, just pulled back and slammed in again.
"Fuck," he growled.
"Yes—"
"You feel that?"
"Yes—"
"That's me inside you. That's my cock filling you up. No one else. Not your father. Not the men he sold you to. Not anyone."
His hips pistoned against her. The slap of skin on skin filled the kitchen. The counter bit into her belly. She could feel every inch of him—thick and hard and unforgiving—dragging against her walls with every thrust.
His hand left her hair.
Found her throat.
Squeezed.
"Say my name."
"Rafael—"
"Louder."
"RAFAEL—"
He fucked her harder.
The world narrowed to this—the heat, the friction, the obscene wet sounds of their bodies colliding. His fingers dug into her hip hard enough to bruise. His teeth found her shoulder and bit down, and she cried out, and he bit harder.
"You're mine," he said against her skin. "You hear me? Mine. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hurt you. Just me."
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Rafael. I'm yours."
His hand slid from her throat to her clit. Found it. Circled it rough and fast.
"Come for me," he said.
"I can't—"
"You can. Come on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel."
The pressure built.
Fast. Brutal. A white-hot coil in her belly that tightened with every thrust, every stroke of his fingers, every filthy word he whispered against her ear.
"Fucking come," he growled. "Now."
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her like lightning. Her body clenched around him, tight and wet and convulsing. She screamed his name. Screamed it until her throat was raw. And still he fucked her—harder, faster, chasing his own release with single-minded brutality.
"Fuck," he gritted. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He came.
Hot and deep and pulsing. His hips stuttered. His grip on her hip tightened to the point of pain. And for a long moment, neither of them moved.
Just breath.
Just heat.
Just the slow drip of his come sliding down her thigh.
Rafael pulled out.
Val stayed exactly where she was—bent over the counter, shaking, her cheek pressed to the cold marble. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but breathe.
She heard him cross the kitchen.
Heard the faucet run.
Then he was back, pressing a warm cloth between her legs, cleaning her with a gentleness that contradicted everything they'd just done.
"Better?" he asked.
"No."
"Good."
She turned her head. Looked at him over her shoulder.
"I still want to kill him."
"I know."
"I need to."
"I know."
"And you'll—"
"Whatever you need."
Val closed her eyes.
The sun climbed higher. The coffee was cold. And somewhere in Missouri, a dead man was about to start running.
Rafael's hand found her back. Rested there. Warm and steady.
"You should shower," he said. "You smell like me."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Mine." A pause. "Proud of it, too."
She laughed. It surprised her—raw and cracked and almost genuine.
"Shower," he repeated. "Then breakfast. Then we plan."
Val pushed herself upright. Her legs shook. Her thighs were slick. She could feel his come still inside her, hot and foreign and obscenely intimate.
"Plan what?" she asked.
His smile was a blade in the morning light.
"Your father's last day on earth."
He turned. Walked toward the hallway. Then stopped.
"Oh, and Val?"
"What?"
"Nice shirt."
She looked down. She was still wearing it—the button-down she'd pulled on before coming downstairs. It was unbuttoned now, hanging open, her breasts bare beneath the cotton.
"Asshole," she said.
"Absolutely."
He disappeared down the hall. She heard water running.
Val stood alone in the kitchen. The marble was cold beneath her bare feet. The coffee was cold in her cup. The morning was bright and indifferent.
And somewhere in Missouri, a dead man was about to start running.
She smiled.
For the first time in twelve years.
Really, truly smiled.
And it felt like the beginning of something.