Read Novel Full Chapter 819: Officer Diaz’s Mother
Chapter 819: Officer Diaz’s Mother
Marina slid into the conversation effortlessly, introducing Sarah as "a friend of mine." Her grandmother’s gaze lingered on Sarah for a moment longer than necessary, as if she could sense the electricity still humming between the three of us.
Sarah, ever the picture of composure, simply smiled and reached for a pancake. "You could say that," she replied, her tone light, but the way her fingers brushed against mine under the table told a different story.
Later, when we were alone, I pulled up SERA’s interface to check on Javier, Diaz, and Sergio. The screen flickered to life, and SERA’s voice was cool, detached. "Javier and Sergio did not surrender willingly. They went into hiding, fearing your retribution—especially after witnessing Diaz’s condition."
I clenched my jaw. Diaz. The image of him in that hospital bed flashed through my mind—alive, but broken. His hand and legs gone, his body reduced to a shell of what it once was. He could do nothing but lie there, a prisoner of his own survival, or move in a wheelchair, a constant reminder of what happened when you crossed me.
"They’re afraid of you," SERA continued. "And with good reason."
I leaned back in my chair, my fingers steepled. Fear was a useful tool, but it could also make men desperate. Javier and Sergio were out there, hiding like rats, and that kind of desperation could make them dangerous. Or stupid.
I smirked. Stupid was easier to handle.
"Keep an eye on them," I ordered. "I want to know the second they surface."
SERA’s response was immediate. "Understood."
I stood, rolling my shoulders as I turned to leave. The game wasn’t over yet. Javier and Sergio were still out there, cowering in the shadows like the cowards they were. But they’d slip up eventually. They always did. And when they did, I’d be ready. I never lost. Not when it mattered.
But before I could focus on hunting them down, there was another matter to attend to: Officer Diaz.
I pulled up SERA’s interface again, my fingers hovering over the screen. "Tell me about Diaz’s family," I commanded, my voice steady, but my mind already racing with possibilities.
The screen flickered, and a file appeared. Diaz had no wife, no siblings—just a mother. Gabriela. Fifty-two years old. A photo loaded, and I froze.
Damn.
She wasn’t the kind of woman who turned heads with a model’s body. She was softer, fuller—plump in a way that made my fingers itch to grip her hips.
But it was her ass that caught my attention. Round, full, the kind that would spill over my palms if I pulled her against me. And her skin—that rich, warm brown, like sun-kissed caramel.
I shook my head, a slow smirk curling my lips. Diaz had tried to take advantage of Sarah, hadn’t he? He’d wanted to break her, to own her.
How poetic would it be for him to wake up and see me with his mother instead? The thought sent a jolt of dark satisfaction through me. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Gabriela was staying at the hospital, keeping vigil by Diaz’s bedside. He still hadn’t woken up. Still unconscious, still broken. Still useless.
I decided to pay him a visit.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Lorena. I answered, her voice smooth and professional on the other end. "We need to discuss the case further," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I leaned back, my gaze flicking over the city outside my window. "Dinner tonight," I replied. "Somewhere quiet. I’ll send you the address."
She hesitated for only a second before agreeing. Lorena was sharp, but she knew when to pick her battles. And right now, she needed me more than I needed her.
When I got back to the house, Sarah and Marina were curled up on the couch, their heads bent together as they laughed over something on Marina’s phone.
The sight of them—so at ease, so close—sent a possessive thrill through me. They’d become like sisters, bound by something deeper than blood. Bound by me.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorway. "Sarah," I said, my voice cutting through their laughter. "Be ready in your police uniform tonight."
Sarah’s head snapped up, her cheeks flushing pink. "My—what?" she stammered, her eyes widening.
I smirked. "You heard me. The full uniform."
Marina let out a low, appreciative whistle, her gaze raking over Sarah’s body like she was already imagining it. "Oh, this I have to see," she purred, nudging Sarah playfully. "Come on, official. Let’s get you ready."
Sarah shot me a glare, but the heat in her eyes betrayed her. She liked the idea. She liked the power of it. With a huff, she stood, following Marina out of the room, her hips swaying just a little more than necessary.
I watched them go, my cock already stirring at the thought of Sarah in that uniform—her boots clicking against the floor, her hands cuffing me to the bed, her lips wrapped around—
I adjusted myself with a groan. Later. There’d be time for that later.
I drove to the hospital, my mind still half on Sarah and half on the game ahead. The parking lot was nearly full, but I found a spot near the entrance. As I stepped out, I noticed a fruit shop and a flower stand nearby. Going empty-handed would be rude, wouldn’t it?
I bought a basket of fruit—plump strawberries, ripe mangoes, juicy grapes—and a bouquet of deep red roses.
The hospital air was thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the faint, underlying tang of sickness. It did nothing to dampen the anticipation humming through my veins. I adjusted the basket of fruit in one hand and the bouquet of roses in the other, the thorns pricking lightly against my fingers—a sharp reminder of the game I was playing.
The receptionist, a tired-looking woman in her forties, barely glanced up as I approached. "Room number for Diaz," I said, my voice smooth, unhurried. She tapped a few keys on her keyboard, her nails clicking against the plastic, then muttered, "307. End of the hall."
I nodded my thanks and made my way down the linoleum-floored corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
The door to Room 307 was slightly ajar, the sound of muffled sobs slipping through the crack. I knocked once—firm, commanding—and pushed it open without waiting for a response.
Gabriela was there, just as I’d imagined, but better.
She was perched on a stool beside Diaz’s bed, her body angled away from me, her round, full ass hanging slightly off the edge, the fabric of her dress stretched taut over the curves. The stool was too high for her feet to touch the ground, leaving her legs slightly parted, her skirt riding up just enough to tease.
She was crying, her shoulders shaking, her fingers clutching a crumpled tissue. When the door creaked open, she turned, her dark, tear-stained eyes widening as they landed on me.
For a moment, she just stared, her breath hitching. Then, as if suddenly aware of her appearance, she wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, her cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed red. "¿Quién eres tú? (Who are you?)," She asked, her voice thick with emotion, her accent wrapping around the words like warm honey.
I stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind me. The roses and fruit became an offering, held out between us like a peace treaty—or a baited trap.