The night had been a grueling masquerade of sorrow and fake condolences. Camila had endured hours of pretending to mourn for a man she had put up with for years. She had played the role of the grieving widow so flawlessly, she could almost believe it herself. But now it was time to shed the mask.
The weight of the evening's charade began to lift as the last guest disappeared through the casino's doors. She had been adept at ignoring his presence, not even sparing him a single glance all night, as if he didnât exist. It was an unspoken understanding to keep their illicit encounters safely tucked away from prying eyes.
Johnny's vices had been many, and his love for the casino was no secret. It was here that Camila had found a distraction in Eoin's arms. In the back room of this establishment, they had found comfort in each other's embrace. Their previous encounters had been explosive, moments of raw passion that had surprised them both. Her gaze drifted over to Eoin for the first time this evening, as she watched him lock the doors, allowing a smirk to play on her lips.
Her fingers played with the delicate straps of her dress, a silent invitation. "About time..." she murmured, the words a seductive whisper, dancing around the room before coming to rest on his ears. Without waiting for his response, she stepped closer, pressing her body against his. The fabric of her dress was thin, allowing her to feel the hard planes of his chest beneath.
This was what she came for, the raw, unbridled passion that seemed to consume them whenever they were alone together. When she finally reached him, she looked up, her eyes shimmering with a seductive invitation. âEnough pretending for tonight!â
If he wasnât working his official job or meeting his affiliates in secret, he was usually sleeping this time of the night. But tonight was different and Tarik found himself at a bar. He only went in for a drink after a long shift but once he spotted the familiar brunette, he decided to stay a little longer. Life had taught him to always be vigilant and even when he wasnât on duty, his mind still kept working. He couldnât turn that off, no matter how hard he tried. A pretty, young widow naturally rose suspicion and he couldnât rule anything out. His eyes remained locked on her when he approached er eventually. âTrouble finding sleep? Whatâs keeping you up so late?â His tone of voice was neutral but his eyes reflected a hint of wariness.
âDonât worry. Iâm off duty right now.â He mused and took a seat next to her without even asking if it was free but at least he had the decency to murmur a brief âhope you donât mindâ while he did. Then he paused for a moment and shifted his attention to the bartender. âMake it two.â Tarik ordered, tilting his head to look at Camila again. He studied her discreetly, trying to read her. âItâs nothing personal. Just a job.â Once their drinks were served, he pushed her glass to her, before lifting his own. âTo a good nights sleep then.â He smirked and took a small sip.
The whiskey burned going down, a familiar fire that did nothing to chase away the ghosts. Camila kept her eyes fixed on the smudged glass the bartender slid toward her, avoiding Tarikâs gaze. Off duty. As if that ever mattered with men like him. Their jobs bled into their bones, became who they were. âNothing personal,â she echoed, her voice flat as she traced the rim of her glass. A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up. Everything was personal now. Every sideways glance in the market, every hushed conversation that died when she walked past her husbandâs old colleagues at the precinct. Especially the ones who wore uniforms like Tarikâs.
She finally looked at him. The dim bar light caught the sharp angles of his face, softening nothing. âJust a job,â she repeated slowly, letting the words hang between them. Camila lifted her glass again, the amber liquid catching the light. âSo tell me, Detective. What exactly is it about my insomnia that interests the job tonight?â She took another swallow, longer this time, savoring the harsh warmth. She set the glass down with a soft clink, meeting Tarikâs watchful stare head-on. There was no plea in her eyes now, only a weary challenge.
The heat off the track shimmered like a mirage, the air already thick with champagne, perfume, and the stink of horseflesh masked under powder. Rosa adjusted the brim of her hat, the bright embroidery of her dress a deliberate contrast against the muted silks and satins around her. She didnât bother to scan the stands for longâher eyes landed where she expected they would.
Rosa let the corner of her mouth curl before she stepped forward, heels clicking against the wood. âCamila,â she said smoothly, like an old friendâs name, though it tasted more like a challenge. âI wondered if youâd show. You always did have a talent for knowing which appearances matter most.â
She didnât sit. She stood just close enough to cast a shadow over the edge of Camilaâs chair, one gloved hand resting lightly on the rail. Her gaze lingered on the womanâs immaculate mourning. âLeave it to you to make grief look editorial. Half the women here will be calling their seamstresses by morning.â A beat, then her smile curved, dry as vermouth. âBut then, you always did have a way of being two steps ahead.â her smile sharpened, ââyou make loss look enviable.â
The line landed soft as velvet, but the barb was there, bright and unmistakable. Rosaâs lashes lowered as she tipped her chin, watching closely, waiting to see how Camila would play the next hand in their never ending game of cards.
Camila didn't turn immediately. She let Rosa's voice pass in the humid air like the cigarette smoke curling from her holder, watching the parade from the vip balcony. The black and red fabric of her mourning dress absorbed the sun, a deliberate void among pastel silks. When she finally lifted her gaze, it was slow, deliberateâa panther acknowledging another predator but she didn't see any real threat.
She finally tilted her face upward, her expression was a masterclass in polished ice. "Rosa." The name dropped like a marble on tile. "Still mistaking pageantry for strategy, I see." Her eyes traveled the length of Rosa's light dress - a hummingbird riot against Camila's calculated darkness. "Though I suppose when one's fortunes hinge on spectacle..." She let the implication drift, tapping ash over the rail.
A faint smile touched Camila's lips as she noted Rosa's positioning, the strategic shadow, the gloved hand claiming territory. "Grief isn't editorial, darling. It's instinct" Her gaze sharpened, piercing through Rosa's performative confidence. "Let those copy cats do the only thing they know.â Her words weren't dismissive but she waved off the comment like it didn't matter.
Her hand gestured faintly toward the track below, where the horses paraded before the final race . âDonât mistake calculation for foresight," Camila murmured, her voice remained low and neutral. âDid you place your bet yet or do you have to ask your guard dog for permission first?â
She raised a finger toward the waiter, her diamond engagement ring catching the afternoon light. The ice clinked against the glass as Isabel set down her empty champagne flute. "Another one, Robert," she murmured, catching the waiter's eye. He nodded, retreating silently toward the bar. Fred leaned over the railing of their private box, too busy watching the horses and deciding which one to bet on to notice sheâd ordered herself another round.
Isabel turned to Carlos, a charming smile upon her lips. When her financeâs colleague leaned closer, she spoke low. "Heâll be like this until post time." Her gaze drifted to Fredâs rigid back. "Last week it was greyhounds. Before that, the Dodgers." She paused as the waiter replaced her drink. "Donât mention that to him ever. He thinks itâs not appropriate.â Her words may have sounded more like a warning but in reality they were more of a plea.
Carlos watched Isabel's diamond catch the lightâa sharp, expensive spark against the racetrack's faded glamour. Her champagne flute was already empty again. Third one since they sat down, he noted silently. Fred remained oblivious, elbows planted on the railing as he squinted at the parade ring below, program crumpled in his fist. âYouâre old enough to make your own decisions and as far as Iâm concerned the bartenders here are stingy on the alcohol so drinking three here is like drinking one elsewhere. Which would make this one your first still.â
Isabelâs smile when she turned to him was polished, effortless. But her voice was a threadbare whisper beneath the trackâs distant roar. "Heâs the same at work, if itâs any consolation." Carlos followed her gaze to Fredâs rigid spine. The man hadnât moved except to scribble frantic notes in his margins. He leaned back, the wicker chair creaking beneath him. "Appropriate," he repeated softly, letting the irony linger. âDonât worry. I know nothing. Your secret is safe with me, Isabel.â
Carlos had been sent to the hotel at about three in the morning. As he reached the main entrance, he adjusted the collar of his uniform. His eyes scanning the area out of habit. Olivia, the maid who had called in the tip, was easy to spot. She was a slight, nervous-looking young woman in a starched uniform, standing by the the reception desk. He approached her with a confident stride, his gaze focused.
"Miss, I'm Agent Carlos Gutierrez, are you the one who called?" he asked, flashing his badge. "Thank you for reaching out to us. Can you tell me what happened?" He listened to her observations, clinging to her every word. âTake us there, please,â he instructed, his hand resting on the holster of his gun, ready for whatever they might encounter.
They followed Olivia through the lobby, past the brass elevators, and down the carpeted hallways. The hotel was eerily quiet, the only sounds being their own footsteps. As they approached room 315, Carlos noticed the faint smell of something unpleasantâa mix of cleaning chemicals and something less identifiable. His instincts sharpened. They stopped. âIn here?â
"no harm done." stevie held up her hands as if to demonstrate that she was okay. "no need to apologise either, I had a momentary lapse in attention so it's just as much my fault as yours. or maybe that means I should be apologising too?" she laughed. "if so, sorry for my zoning out. the smell of bread distracted me, that ol' chestnut." she was full of the jokes today apparently.
"oh yeah?" colour her intrigued. "you a boxer or something? or just well versed in the art of the bar brawl? can't say i'm familiar with either, i've just heard things." a feigned innocent look crossed her features and she shrugged.
Carlos blinked, momentarily thrown by her rapid-fire humor. The exhaustion from the all-nighter clung to him like a second skin, but her energy was... jarringly bright. He rubbed the spot on his arm where she'd bumped him, more out of habit than actual discomfort. Boxer?" A dry chuckle escaped him. "More like... enthusiastic spectator. Back in my NYPD days, Friday nights sometimes got creative." He kept it vague, the memory of dive bars and bruised knuckles a lifetime ago. Her feigned innocence didn't fool him â there was a sharpness behind those eyes, watching him. "Mostly just learned to keep my head down and my coffee cup full. Less paperwork that way."
"Distracted by the smell of carbs," he mused, a genuine, tired smile touching his lips. "Can't blame you. Beats staring at crime scene photos too." The words slipped out, unguarded. He instantly regretted it â civilians didn't need that kind of mental image. âToo many details. I tend to forget not everyoneâs used to that kind of scenario.â
Rosa nearly jumped out of her skin when the bundle disappeared from her hand, spinning with her mouth half-open, ready to curse out whichever fool thought it was funny to play games in a crowded market. But the moment she saw his face, her eyes went wideâthen narrowed just as fast.
âMy God, Carlos! You tryna get yourself killed, sneaking up on people like that?â Her words had bite, but her lips betrayed her with a grin tugging at the corners. She swatted at his arm, not nearly hard enough to make him flinch. âAnd donât call me Rosie. You know I hate that.â
Still, she stepped forward and pulled him into a quick hug, the kind only siblings could get away withâhalf an embrace, half another swat for good measure. Pulling back, she eyed him critically, like she could see the all-nighter written in the tired lines around his eyes.
âYou look like hell, 'Los. Whenâs the last time you ate something that wasnât burnt coffee or a gas station sandwich?â She arched a brow, hand planted on her hip, so much like her mother that it scared her.
Then she reached out and snatched the culantro back from him, smug as anything. âAnd donât think youâre stealing this. Some of us actually know how to cook with it, you know. What are you even doing here, huh? The job got you running grocery errands now, or are you just following the smell of free samples?â
Carlos grinned, the familiar mischief sparking in his tired eyes as he dodged Rosaâs half-hearted swat. Her hug was all elbows and attitude, but the warmth in it was undeniable. Heâd missed that. The marketâs chaos faded for a second: the shouts of vendors, the scent of overripe fruit and frying plantains, the press of bodies. All that mattered was Rosaâs sharp tone softening into concern.
Always sees right through me, he thought. She wasnât wrong. His stomach growled, hollow and insistent. Two days surviving on stale coffee and fast food. The "gas station sandwich" jab hit too closeâheâd choked one down just that morning, grease soaking through the wrapper.
He leaned against a stall piled high with avocados, feigning nonchalance. "Free samples? Nah. Just tracking down my favorite pain-in-the-ass little sister." He nodded at the culantro clutched in her hand. "Figured youâd need rescuing from another culinary disaster. Remember the herb-infused charcoal briquettes you called dinner last year?"
âWhy? I always liked Rosie. It sounds cute.â Carlosâs gaze flickered past Rosaâs shoulder, scanning the crowd. Instinct. Old habits. His hand drifted toward the worn leather jacket slung over his shoulder, where the weight of his service pistol rested against his ribs, comforting yet heavy.
"Jobâs got me nearby," he admitted, his voice dropping casually. "Heard whispers. Nasty business brewing in the Barrio del Mercado. Wanted to make sure you werenât sticking your nose where it doesnât belong." He met her eyes, the playful glint suggesting he was still joking. "Again." Carlos nudged her nose teasingly, laughing like he only would with someone he trusted.
With a name like Camila Halperin Santos, life was a roller coaster. She was used to packed schedules, rushing from one event to the next, being followed by the press and strangers, who wanted an autograph. However, since the oh so very tragic passing of her dear husband Johnny, things had gotten beyond wild. And in the heart of all this mess was a young woman, playing the role of a lifetime, the one of a devastated widow. Only this time she had to play her part twenty four hours a day. It was tiring even for someone with her energy and determination. But all obstacles didn't hold her back. Hiding was no option and so she found herself out and about, taking a little break in the park after a refreshing jog as part of her work out routine.
Soon after she sat down on one of the benches, the air shifted. There was something about the way the wind seemed to tickle the soft skin of her neck, the hint of a rich, earthy scent that suddenly filled her nostrils and last but not least... the feel of a very penetrating set of baby blue eyes on her. She could sense them without as much as seeing him standing right behind her. It was a vibe, a presence he emitted that only few possessed. Her rosy lips stretched into a knowing smirk. "Don't they teach you it's rude to spy on a woman like that in Italy?"
It was about four in the morning, the bartender had already cleaned up and was ready to close the doors when Camila walked in. She'd been working late again, avoiding home but a bar was the last place she wanted to be seen at, considering she was a grieving widow, there was an image to maintain in front of the public. That was why she waited until most of the guests were gone. She offered a brief smile to the young man, who was no stranger to her. Heâd been working behind this very bar for years and knew more about this cityâs habitants than most would care to admit. "Is it too late to order a shot? I won't be holding you up for long. Just need something to help me sleep tonight.â
She knew how to play her cards to get what she wanted. And the poor guy didn't really have a chance to say no anyway. Cami took a seat by the bar, waiting for her drink. While the bartender tried to distract her with some small talk, a very tall man approached them. She'd seen him before, she reckoned but almost didn't recognize him without his uniform. The casual outfit looked better on him, she had to admit. "I hope you're not here to interrogate me again." Her tone was firm but not unfriendly though her eyes carried the slight hint of a warning she didnât even try to hide. Another reminder of what happened, even more questions she couldnât, and didnât want to, answer was the last thing she needed right now.
It didnât matter how many gowns Rosa Alvarez owned, how her star rose or fell, or how many fellow wives of means tried to tell her to let someone else âhandle it.â
This part? No one else ever handled it.
The heat inside Grand Central Market was its own kind of perfumeâchili oil and roasted pork, fresh cilantro and ripe mango, something frying three stalls over, and the clatter of knives hitting cutting boards like percussion. The whole place buzzed, a tangle of languages and hands and hunger. Rosa moved through it with a kind of ease that could never be fakedâbasket on her arm, heels traded for flats, lipstick still perfect because of course it was.
She was bartering in Spanish with a produce vendor over the price of guajillos, but her mind was already on the rest of the list. She needed plantains firm enough to fry, culantroânot cilantro, culantro, por el amor de Diosâand a very particular cut of pork shoulder that only old Man Torres ever got just right. Sheâd promised her motherâs pastelĂłn recipe for dinner this week, and she wasnât about to half-ass it, not even for a private meal at home.
"Dos puñados, pero bien secosâsĂ, asĂ, gracias, corazĂłn." She gave the vendor a smile that couldâve knocked the wind out of a lesser man and moved on, the basket already starting to fill. There was something centering about this place. Among the chatter and the chaos, she didnât have to be anything except her father's daughter. Her mother's daughter. A woman raised in a kitchen that never went quiet, in a home where food was affection, and the right sofrito could fix almost anything.
She reached for a bunch of culantro just as someone elseâs hand did the same, and her fingers brushed theirs. Rosa looked up, one brow arched, a spark already in her smile. âCareful. I will fight you for this.â
Watching his diet wasnât always easy with the schedule of his job but Carlos tried. If only to keep his family happy and avoid being scolded, or worse, have a pair of chanclas thrown his way. To most it was early morning and theyâd just started their day but Carlos had pulled another all-nighter at the station, studying case files. There was no time for sleep. Or food. When heâd finally gotten to his apartment, he came home to a fridge that was just as starving as he was. Empty. Like his stomach. The easy way wouldâve been to just get something at the gas station close by but he already heard his step motherâs voice in the back of his head, nagging and cursing him out. âThe market it is.â He huffed, defeated by voices in his head.
When he reached the market, he already knew what he was going to get. His cooking abilities werenât those of a chef but also not non existent. He could do basic meals at least. Enough for him. As he approached, his brows furrowed. Either, he was hearing voices again or⊠. But just then, his eyes found the familiar woman and he couldnât help himself. Carlos walked up behind her and snatched the bundle of her beloved culantro out of her hand. Without a word, holding back his laugh until sheâd turned around to face him. âBuenos dĂas, hermanita. You should see your face right now! Itâs priceless, Rosie!â
grand central market was buzzing with activity. stevie had no direction in mind this morning - she knew she had to be over at club eden later on - but she had time to kill. the smell of freshly baked bread wafted over to her from a couple of stalls over. if she could bottle that smell, she would.
distracted for a moment, she dug into her pocket, looking to see how much cash she had on her. enough for a loaf or two, she hoped. she started to walk over to the bakery stall, admittedly not looking where she was going before she set off. the body that crashed into her managed to hit her directly in the stomach, which got a pained groan out of her. "jeez." she couldn't exactly cuss them out about not looking where they were going because she hadn't been looking where she was going. so, instead, she made a joke out of it. "you pack a real punch, anyone ever told you that?"
One would think, five years after he had successfully completed his personal little vendetta and moved to L.A., his life finally calmed down. Wasnât it supposed to be peaceful for once? Realistically it probably would never be. Not in this world. Not for a man like him. And not with his job. But Carlos wouldnât change it if he could. Not that he couldnât if he wanted to. Heâd been working on a particular case, involving the serial killer that had gotten way too much attention from the media. The pressure to solve this case weighed heavily on his team. Theyâd gone over every single one of their piled up files all night, trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle. Lost in thought, he was stopped by an unexpected bump against his body. âShit! Sorry. Didnât see you there.â Carlos apologized, meeting her gaze. âAre you okay?â The least he could do was ask. âYeah but⊠under different circumstances.â He joked, taking a step back to the right to give her more space.
ă bruna marquezine/ 30/ she/her ă see CAMILA HALPERIN SANTOS over there? they have quite a reputation for being UNPREDICTABLE. some would beg to differ & say that theyâre more FIERY. the TWENTY EIGHT year old has been around los angeles for SEVEN YEARS and has landed themselves a job as an ACTRESS / PRODUCER. just keep an eye on them â in this city, everyoneâs hiding something & itâs only a matter of time before their true colors shine through. (connection: widow to Johnny Halperin)
When Camila was born, her biological father tried to hide her existence. Too strong was the fear of the consequences if it ever came out. As one of Brazil's most influential business moguls with ties to both politicians and royalty, he couldn't afford a scandal like a bastard child with a local dancer. After all he had to uphold the image of a respectful, traditionally married man. Her mother was a humble, young girl, who never asked for anything but in order to buy her silence, Don Claudio Santos made sure they had all they needed. While she didn't grow up amongst the rich and powerful, she had a fairly decent childhood and couldn't complain. Camila always dreamed big, of a future brighter than the one her mother had foreseen for her. And fate meant well for her.
Everything changed for her when she was just fourteen years old. After the loss of his wife, and left with no heir to his empire, her father decided to finally step up and officially accept Camila as his own. Suddenly she was thrown into a world of glitz and glamour but she adapted quickly, became one of them and pursued a career in the film industry but she wanted to make herself a name without her father's help first and therefore went by her mother's maiden name Lima. She was a star on the bright sky of Latin America and always in search of new adventures.
During one of Brazil's lavish events, she met her future in laws, who had introduced her to their son, Johnny. At first she wasn't impressed. To her, he was just a spoiled boy who thought he could buy the world with his name and money. But the more she found out about him and his family, the more opportunities she saw. Neither of them accepted this marriage out of love. The only one Johnny ever really loved was the man he saw when he looked into a mirror but he was fascinated by her, and, in order to get his share of his recently deceased grandmother, he needed to get married. He kept telling her, he knew she was the one the moment he first laid eyes on her but Cami was sure it wasn't love and doubted he was even capable of it. But she didn't care, after all, the lack of feelings was mutual.
Starting a new life in L.A. seemed like a dream come true. The Halperins ruled over Hollywood and Camila was where she always wanted to be. It could have been a perfect life - if it wasn't for Johnny's increasingly stupid decisions and poor life choices. She could pretend to be the trophy wife everyone expected her to be. His countless affairs didn't bother her, she just wished he'd have been more discreet for their reputation's sake but their PR department really was worth their money. What actually did provoke fights between the unlikely couple was his gambling and the way he just threw fortunes out the window like it was nothing. Although it was a long time ago, Camila never forgot where she came from and didn't approve of most of her husband's so called hobbies.
Needless to say, Johnny's young widow may not be half as sad about her husband's tragic passing as she pretends to be in public. And maybe there are some bodies hiding in her closet no one would even dare to imagine. Just maybe.
CONNECTIONS:
Wanted Connections:
Halperin family members, friends, best friend, colleagues in the film industry, enemies, forbidden love interests
ă adam rodriguez/ 50 / he/him ă see CARLOS GUTIERREZ RAMOS over there? they have quite a reputation for being RELENTLESS. some would beg to differ & say that theyâre more COURAGEOUS . the FOURTY FIVE year old has been around los angeles for FIVE YEARS and has landed themselves a job as a FBI AGENT. just keep an eye on them â in this city, everyoneâs hiding something & itâs only a matter of time before their true colors shine through.
Life however taught them too soon what it meant to lose the one you love the most. When Carlos was 6 years old, he was too little to understand the extend of what had happened, his mother fell victim to a crime gang whoâd chosen to end her life and destroy a young family for the lucrative deal with a rich family, who was in desperate need of a liver. Theyâd paid off a famous doctor at a public hospital to find the perfect match and it just happened to have been Mirabel. It was staged as a simple car accident. Decades later, he found out about the hideous crime behind his motherâs death.
The loss of his mother changed everything but it only brought the three Gutierrez boys even closer together. A father and his two little sons mourning the heart and soul of the family. While his brother kept drifting off and got into trouble all the time, Carlos only studied harder to become a cop. His family had always been suspicious about his mothers passing. Some things just didnât add up. Lost evidence, stolen documents at the police station, a strange fire at the hospital in the office where theyâd stored the records. He knew there was more and he was determined to uncover the truth.
A few years later, his father met someone new and fell for her hard. This woman didnât just become his fatherâs new wife, she also became the mother figure the two boys needed, treating them like her own sons. The family grew together and grew bigger fast, turning the Gutierrez household into a huge, colorful and loud home. It was never quiet, never boring and despite lots of fights between the many siblings, they stuck together when shit got real.
Carlos being the oldest, was always the most protective of them, making no difference between full and half siblings. They were his siblings. End of story.
He became the cop he always wanted to be and dedicated most of his adult life to his job and fight against the organization tied to his motherâs death. Once every last one of the members, doctors and cops involved had been brought down, he decided to follow his sister Rosa to LA.
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