~~Sinveer POV~~
They say your body remembers trauma better than your mind ever could.
Mine does.
It remembers the sting of her blade—sharp, fast, and personal. She didn't shoot me. She came close. Close enough that I smelled her skin, felt the heat of her breath when she whispered, "Goodbye." She meant it to be the end.
Instead, it was the beginning.
For two years, I searched—unofficially, of course. I kept the incident quiet, let the rumors die. My men thought it was a failed hit by a rival gang. That I'd gotten lucky.
But I knew better.
Assassins don't whisper. They don't hesitate. They don't leave behind a scent that makes your chest tight for months after.
She wasn't just an assassin. She was a fucking ghost.
That I want to fuck.
And I can't stop chasing her shadow.
New she's back. She doesn't look like the girl who attacked me—but I know. Deep in my gut, I know.
It's her.
And she's sitting at the desk with her glasses outside my office, organizing files like she didn't try to slit my throat once.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
"Sir," Marek says, knocking me out of my spiral. "We caught the rat. The one that passed intel to Cisco."
"Bring him in," I mutter, rising.
Nothing clears my head like blood.
The warehouse is quiet when I arrive.
Our rat is tied to a metal chair, blood already dripping from his nose. Marek stands beside him, arms crossed, waiting for my permission to begin.
I don't give it.
I step forward slowly, eyes on the man's swollen face. "Why?"
"I—I needed the money," he whimpers.
I nod. I don't care.
"Do you know what they're saying about me?" I ask softly.
He shakes his head.
"That I'm slipping. That I've gone soft. That I let someone walk away after stabbing me like I was some street rat."
His eyes widen. "I—I never meant to—"
I don't let him finish. I grab a hammer from the worktable and bring it down hard on his knee.
The crack is loud. Satisfying.
He screams.
"I want to know what Gabriel Cisco's planning," I say calmly. "Names. Locations. Targets."
"I—I don't know! They blindfolded me every time--
Crack. His other knee.
He sobs, writhing in the chair.
"Don't insult me," I growl.
"I'm telling the truth! They didn't trust me! They just paid me to leave USBs under a bench in the park!"
Marek steps closer. "He's been consistent. Even under sedation."
I study the man again.
He's not lying. That's the problem.
The Ciscos are getting smarter.
And bolder.
My thoughts drift back to the lipstick message left on the mirror after the murder of that accountant last night.
Tell De Luna his time is coming.
Too theatrical for Gabriel.
Too precise for Dante.
But her?
She would do it just to see my reaction.
~~The De Luna's~~
Back at the office, I watch her.
Liach.
She moves like a dancer—graceful, calculated. Too self-aware for someone so new to this world.
She makes coffee with military efficiency. Files are alphabetized, color-coded. She's flawless. Too flawless.
I watch her type and imagine those hands wrapped around a blade instead of a pen.
What would she look like soaked in blood?
Why does the thought turn me on?
It's fucking dangerous—this curiosity. It's not just suspicion anymore. It's interest.
And that makes me furious.
I don't like not knowing. I don't like games where I don't control the board.
So I start testing her.
"Come to the meeting," I say casually, the next day. "I want you to take notes."
Her eyes flick up. There's a moment of hesitation—small, but there.
"Yes, sir," she says, standing.
I lead her to a back room where my captains wait. Hard men with old scars and sharp eyes.
I introduce her. "This is Liach. She's new, but brilliant. You can say anything in front of her."
Marek glances at me like I've lost my mind. I don't care.
I want to see how she reacts under pressure.
I want to see if the scent of violence brings back the girl I remember.
During the meeting, we discuss territory movements, suspected leaks, upcoming weapons, shipments.
She takes notes like a machine.
But when Marek brings up the Cisco accountant's death, I watch her closely.
Her pen falters.
Barely.
But it's there.
"Someone left a message in lipstick," Marek says, passing around photos. "Clean kill. The guy was gutted."
I look at her.
Nothing.
Not a flinch. Not a smirk. Not fear.
But her pulse ticks at her neck, faster than before.
"You ever seen anything like that?" I ask her.
She looks up. Smiles faintly.
"No. But it sounds theatrical. Unprofessional."
Bold words. But clever. She's trying to steer the narrative.
I want to drag her from the table, pin her against these wall, and see if she bleeds Cisco blue when I cut into her truth.
Instead, I nod.
"You're right. Maybe it was just a desperate message."
That night, I watch the security footage from outside the accountant's building again.
Frame by frame.
There. A figure in black. Moving fast. Hair pinned up. Small. Lean.
I zoom in on her profile.
Too grainy. But the walk… it's the walk that fucks with me.
I've seen that walk before.
In heels. Down my hallway. Carrying coffee.
I slam my fist into the desk.
Could it really be her?
Could I really be that unlucky and lucky?
Or that blessed?
Because the more I think about it… the more I don't want her to be just some killer.
I want her to be Mine.
I start pushing her harder after that.
More tasks. Longer hours. Close Proximity.
I tell myself it's surveillance. Strategic. I need proof.
But the truth?
I just want to watch her move.
Want to catch her slipping.
Want to know.
Want to break her wide open.
And I think she wants it too.
The glances.
The subtle shifts in her voice when she says my name.
The way her tongue flicks over her lower lip when I step too close.
There's heat under that skin. Fire.
But is it lust?
Or hate?
Both?
Either way, I'll feed it.
---
Three nights later, I "accidentally" run into her in the hallway after hours.
She's in leggings and a hoodie, hair in a bun, holding a folder.
"Still working?" I ask.
She nods. "You said the shipment manifests were urgent."
Always so fucking obedient and perfect.
I step closer. "You ever get tired of being perfect?"
Her eyes flick to mine.