CHAPTER 297: APOCALYPSE ROMANCE 7

"Character’s risky. But entertaining." Alvaro’s gaze lingered on her face, sharp and amused. "Tell me, Sasha—what are you doing with seventy kilos of theatrical chaos?"

"Business. Community improvement. Survival." Her laugh was brittle, her eyes saying what her mouth didn’t: I may already be in too deep.

For a beat, his smile softened. Predatory edge gone, replaced with something startlingly human. "You have expensive taste in survival," he said.

"I only wanted quality."

Alvaro laughed—just a small, amused sound—then his face slid into something sharper. "Alright. Enough with the jokes. How about you tell me the truth?"

Sasha felt the question land like a ledger being closed. Had she been reckless ordering a hundred kilos of explosives and buying out half his armory? Maybe.

I would have bought the whole armory if I had more money.

Had she time to regret it? Not even close. If she could turn his curiosity into alliance, she could turn a solo apocalypse into something survivable.

Two people watching each other’s backs increased the odds by a long, stubborn margin.

She stalled, fingers worrying the edge of the duffel. The room hummed with the steady neon of the casino, a hum that made secrets feel loud.

Loan sharks hovered like bad weather in the back of her mind. A warlord’s cold phone call could end a plan. Having Alvaro on her side might be the difference between getting eaten and getting out.

"You’ve gone quiet," Alvaro said smoothly, watching her. His voice had that dangerous evenness—velvet over steel. "Something on your mind?"

Sasha pulled a grin that tried to look cavalier and landed somewhere between tired and dangerous. "I’m contemplating whether to tell the truth or not. You might not believe me."

He leaned forward. "I deal with all sorts of people. The most important thing in my line of work is trust. Go ahead. I’ll believe you."

She nearly laughed. "Really? Even if I told you—less than a month from now—the city’s going to blow apart and monsters will come crawling out of the cracks, you’d believe me?"

For a heartbeat his smile stayed, then his eyes drifted to the room beyond the door, to the glitter and the gamblers and maybe, for a second, to something he wasn’t showing. "You think I’m a fool," he said bluntly.

"Thought so," she chuckled. "But what if I offer proof?"

"Proof?" His interest sharpened like a blade. Alvaro lived on risk, but proof was rarer than a genuine compliment.

She could see the flicker—the part of him that liked things that were not just dangerous, but undeniable.

Sasha nodded. "Proof. I’ll show you what’s coming is real. In exchange, I’ll need your cooperation."

This time there was no amusement—only curiosity and something like hunger. For Alvaro, a quiet night was an insult; an unusual proposition was an invitation.

"Alright," he said. "Show me."

"First—do you have my order?" she asked.

"It’s in the basement," he replied. "Orders this large don’t live upstairs."

She shoved the duffel under her arm. "Then let’s go downstairs."

He humored her because she was intriguing and because he liked being in on things others weren’t.

They walked to the private elevator in a silence that was full of possibility. The staff swiped the black card. The lift descended.

Close quarters forced proximity. The air tightened. Sasha could smell the faint smoke on his jacket—tobacco maybe, or the scent of a thousand careless nights—and something sweet underneath it that didn’t belong in a basement.

Her heartbeat synced to the lift’s mechanical drop; her palms didn’t slow.

"You know," Alvaro murmured as the elevator slid deeper, "if this is a scam, I will have you skinned faster than you can say ’selective acquiescence.’"

"If it is," Sasha said, meeting his eyes, "you’ll have the best damned receipt in the city."

He snorted, a short, approving sound. "Confident. I like that."

The doors opened on a wide basement that smelled of oil and metal and the promise of trouble. Crates lined the walls like obedient soldiers.

Men lounged in the shadows, eyes alert. The lighting was harsh and practical—no glamour here. It was the kind of place that preferred straight facts to stories.

Alvaro walked ahead, but his shoulder brushed hers—accidental, then not—and the contact left a small, distracting trail of warmth.

For a moment the game shifted. This was business, and yet the air between them crackled with something else: proximity, risk, a private joke neither wanted to name.

He crossed to the nearest crate and unlatched it. The parcels inside were neat, wrapped with clinical precision. He rifled through them, humming as if sampling a fine wine.

Sasha let her eyes sweep the room one more time—the neat rows of crates, the glint of barrel and bolt in the harsh light, the clinical bundles of something that could unmake a block.

Her chest tightened in a way that felt like both pride and a slow, tired fear.

"So we’re here," Alvaro said, voice flat now. "Where’s this proof you promised me?"

"First—payment." Sasha dropped the duffel onto the nearest crate and shoved it toward him. The bag thudded heavy; it had been getting heavier by the minute and she needed the weight off her back.

One of the men in black stepped forward and took it without ceremony.

"You need to count it?" she asked, voice too casual for how loud her pulse was.

"No need." Alvaro said.

"Then have them leave. I want you and me—alone." Sasha kept her tone light, but it was an order.

They did not leap to obey. The men in black clustered, hands never far from grips, eyes like gunmetal. The basement had one door—the single artery in and out—and they stood between it and the rest of the world.

Alvaro raised one hand. The room went quiet like someone hit a mute button. "Do as she says."

"But boss—"

"She’s not foolish enough to pull a stunt here," he cut in, smiling in a way that made the fluorescent lights flatter. "She knows she’s trap here. Am I right?" His grin sharpened, the kind that suggested he enjoyed dangerous puzzles.