Vengeance From The Past

Leonel’s POV

I didn’t flinch when the screams bounced off the warehouse walls. The single light above us flickered, throwing sharp shadows over blood-stained concrete. A man knelt in front of me, his lips split and bleeding, hands bound so tight his wrists were raw. One of my men stood to the side, crowbar in hand, its metal slick with fresh blood.

“He stole from me,” I said, my tone calm, my eyes colder than a grave. “So he pays.”

He coughed, voice trembling, begging in slurred Spanish that he never touched the shipment.

I raised my hand. Silence hit the room like a blade.

“Finish him.”

I turned before the crowbar could swing again, stepping into the humid Mexico City night. The city roared around me—traffic, street vendors shouting, music blasting from some bar down the block—but none of it touched me. Not since the day I watched my brother bleed out on a cracked sidewalk, his blood soaking into the dust. That was the day I stopped feeling. That was the day I built a kingdom with ice in my veins and fire in my fists.

I’m six-foot-three, broad shoulders, built like I was carved from stone. Tattoos coil like serpents down my arms and neck, black ink wrapping around scars earned in too many fights to count. There’s a deep cut above my right brow—my first knife fight, age sixteen. My eyes? Cold. It's always cold. People say they make your blood stop moving.

I climbed into my matte-black Aston Martin, the click of the door shutting sounding like a coffin sealing.

“Damian,” I said without looking at my right-hand man in the passenger seat. “Talk.”

He cleared his throat. He’s one of the few who can stand this close to me and still breathe. “There’s something you should see, jefe.”

He pulled out his phone and tapped a video.

Grainy security footage. Casa Estrella’s dining room.

I watched myself spit out the shrimp dish. I watched myself call out the chef. I watched her—Camila—step forward.

That fire in her eyes.

Yeah, I remembered it now. The taste of the meal. The sharpness of her voice. The way she didn’t flinch.

“That video has over three million views,” Damian muttered. “Trending in four countries.”

“How did it get out?” I asked, still watching her face freeze on the screen.

The pause stretched, his answer caught somewhere between thought and voice.

“Damian.”

“It was me,” he admitted. “Thought it’d help the restaurant. People fear you… figured it’d blow up online.”

My jaw locked.

“I’m a paying client here.”

“Yes, sir. I just thought—”

“You don’t get paid to think. You follow orders.”

I pocketed his phone.

“Take me to Casa Estrella. Now.”

The kitchen went silent when I walked in. Cooks froze mid-step. The sous-chef dropped a spoon. I could smell the tension—burnt oil, fear, and something overcooked.

Mateo Marquez, the head chef, came rushing over, wiping his palms on his apron. “Señor Castillo, we weren’t expecting you.”

“I want to speak to the chef who prepared that dish.”

“Dish? Which dish?”

Damian spoke

“The chef in the video posted online “

His expression shifted. “She’s no longer with us.”

“Why?”

“After the… incident, she caused a scene. Disrespected you in front of everyone. I was scared you might shut the restaurant down because of the complaint you made. I had no choice. I fired her.”

“I… I made a complaint?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, my voice tight with shock.

Damian’s face went pale, his voice low and trembling.

“I’m the one who complained to the head chef. I’m sorry, Jefe.”

“What’s her name?”

“Camila Torres.”

The name sat heavy on my tongue. I remembered her standing there, back straight, chin high, eyes lit with something most people lose before adulthood—pride.

“Where is she now?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t seen her since.”

I nodded once and turned to leave.

That’s when I heard the voice.

“Leonel,” she purred.

Isabella.

She stepped out from the shadows in a silk red dress that clung to her curves like it was sewn onto her skin. Blood-red lipstick, long black hair spilling over her shoulders.

“I didn’t know you were visiting,” she said, walking toward me with that practiced sway women use when they want something.

“Why are you still here?” I asked flatly.

“I work here. Dessert station. You liked my churros, remember?”

“I don’t remember desserts.”

She stepped closer and dragged her hand along my arm. “Maybe I can remind you. Maybe we could talk… in private.”

I looked down at her hand. Slowly peeled her fingers off me, one by one.

“You must have a death wish,” I said, voice low and even. “Next time you lay a finger on me, I won’t be this calm.”

Her smile cracked, but I wasn’t done.

“You think I don’t see it? You saw the video. You want to be near the man everyone’s talking about. You want power. But I don’t do attention seekers. And I don’t give second chances.”

She flushed and turned on her heel, heels clicking angrily against the tile.

I barely noticed. My mind was on Camila.

Back at my penthouse, I stood shirtless by the glass wall, the city lights glittering like lies below me. My skin told my story—bullet grazes, knife scars, inked marks of battles I’ve won and some I barely survived.

I poured whiskey into a glass and sat on the leather couch.

Camila Torres.

I typed her name into my phone. Nothing.

“Damian!” I called.

He appeared almost instantly. “Yes, jefe?”

“Find her. I want to know where she is, where she eats, who she talks to. I want it all in twenty-four hours. You created this mess so you fix it”

“Yes, señor.”

When he left, I played the video again. Paused it. Her face, mid-sentence, eyes locked on mine.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t break.

I hate most people. They’re predictable. Greedy. Weak.

But Camila? She made me feel something. And I don’t like the feeling.

A woman with nothing left to lose had stood up to me. That makes her dangerous.

And I never let dangerous things walk away.

I took a slow sip of whiskey, my eyes still on her frozen face.

“Let’s see what you’re really made of, Camila Torres.”