~~Liach POV ~~
Some girls dream of love. Of gentle hands, warm smiles, promises made beneath stars.
I dream of screams.
Of blood on my knuckles. Of silence that follows the final breath.
I was born wrong, I think. Somewhere in my wiring, the part that craves affection was twisted into something darker. Something sharper.
It's why I don't mind when my father sends me out again.
The message came in at midnight, encrypted and cold.
"Cleanup required. Full disposal. No traces. Use creativity."
It makes me smile.
And my thoughts Creative.
That means he wants it messy.
The target is a low-level informant who thought a petty deal with the police would go unnoticed. He's hiding in a cheap motel, room 6C. Alone, twitchy, paranoid.
But not paranoid enough.
I'm already inside the building before he knows anyone's coming. Black gloves. Compact knife. A bag of supplies that would make a coroner weep.
I knock.
No answer.
I knock again, harder.
He peeks through the chain lock. I catch his eye.
"Delivery," I whisper, even though I'm not holding anything.
He hesitates.
Opens the door.
Big mistake.
I slam the blade into his face before he can scream. My other hand shoves the door open, forcing him inside as he gurgles and collapses against the carpet.
Blood sprays across the dingy walls like paint.
Art.
He's not dead yet, though. Not completely.
I drag him into the bathroom and start my work.
"Why'd you do it?" I ask as he bleeds from a puncture just below his ribcage.
He's sobbing. "I didn't mean to… They threatened my family—"
I slap him across the face. Not hard. Just enough to remind him who's in control.
"Wrong answer."
I don't really care why. I just want to watch the light leave his eyes.
I remove his fingernails one by one, slowly, savoring each flinch, each scream muffled by the towel I shoved in his mouth. His fingers tremble after every one, twitching like a broken machine.
His pain is exquisite.
I lose time in it.
When he finally dies, it's not with a scream—but a whimper. I clean the knife, wipe my gloves, and scatter bleach across every surface.
It's perfect.
Untraceable.
But brutal enough that it'll send a message through the streets.
Don't cross the Ciscos.
And don't fuck with Gabriel's daughter.
I step outside, hoodie pulled low, the chill biting through my bones.
*DE LUNA HQ – 9:03 AM*
Sinveer walks in late again. His shirt is slightly unbuttoned, hair ruffled like someone's fingers ran through it. Probably some faceless girl from the night before.
The thought shouldn't bother me.
But it does.
Not because I care.
Because if someone else distracts him, he might miss my moves.
And I want him watching.
"Morning," I say, offering him his espresso without looking directly at him.
He takes it without a word but pauses just long enough to make the air tighten.
"You look rested," he says.
I glance up. "Shouldn't I be?"
His gaze lingers too long on my lips.
"Depends on what you were doing last night."
"Sleeping."
Lie. But my voice is even, smooth. I've practiced since I was ten.
He hums. "Shame."
Then he walks into his office.
He's testing me now—words dropped like knives.
I wonder how many times I can let him cut me before I cut back.
Moment Later
It starts with heels.
Too loud. Too arrogant.
The kind of sound only a desperate woman makes when she wants everyone to know she's arrived.
"Hey, is Sinveer in?"
I don't look up. Not right away. I finish the schedule for tomorrow's security briefing, click save, and only then do I lift my gaze.
"Hey I'm talking to you bitch."
And there she is.
Long legs. Tight dress. Platinum hair. Lips too red for morning.
"You listen?"
And fury in her eyes.
She marches across the De Luna headquarters like she owns it. Like she belongs.
Wrong.
I know who she is. Everyone does.
Marla.
Sinveer's little side toy. She's the kind of woman who spreads her legs and thinks it earns her power. The kind who confuses being used with being wanted.
She stops in front of my desk, one hand on her hip, the other holding a designer bag probably full of nothing but lip gloss and condoms.
"You're Liach the new assistant?" she snaps.
I raise an eyebrow. "Depends. You selling something?"
"I think this bitch is fucking Sinveer. If my Sinveer is fucking you, it's because he misses me."
Wrong answer.
Her hand slams on my desk. "Listen, bitch. I don't know what you think you're doing around my man, but let me make it real clear for you."
She leans closer, breath reeking of vodka and jealousy. "Stay. The fuck. Away. From Sinveer."
I pause.
A hush falls in the hall. Even Marek is watching from the corner.
I smile.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Why does she talks as she saw us fucking
. Shit. She getting on my nerves.
Then I stand.
Marla's bravado falters—just a flicker.
I take one step forward.
Then another.
Now we're face to face. Her heels give her height, but I'm the storm.
"I'm going to say this once," I murmur, my voice calm. "And I want you to listen, Marla."
She blinks.
"I don't chase men. I don't need to."
I step even closer, forcing her back a fraction.
"And if you ever put your filthy, fake-nailed hands on my desk again…"
My voice drops to a whisper.
"I'll cut them off and shove them so far down your throat you'll be tasting acrylic in your next life."
She gasps. Raising her hand to slap me. And I slap her.
Hard.
The crack echoes down the hallway.
She stumbles. Grabs the edge of my desk.
I follow it with a fist to the gut—fast, brutal.
She collapses to the floor, "You think fucking a man makes you untouchable?" I hiss. "I was carving out organs while you were sucking cock for bottle service."
She tries to slap me back.
I catch her wrist midair and twist it, slow, painful.
She screams.
I release her and stand, brushing my blouse smooth.
"Next time you come for me," I say over my shoulder, "bring a weapon. Or don't bother coming at all.