Claire's POV

The kitchen felt warm, filled with soft morning light that painted the marble counters gold. The smell of coffee lingered—comforting, familiar, a piece of home. My fingers tapped against my mug, the rhythm thoughtless, the warmth long gone. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt lived in—peaceful, earned. And it made me smile.

Valeria and Emilia had found something rare here. Something solid. The kind of love that people bleed for. I saw it every day—in the shared glances, the easy touches, the way they pulled each other closer without even realizing. It didn't just make me happy. It made me whole. Watching them win their war felt like watching my family find their place in the world. And God, they deserved it.

But love—real, fierce, and all-consuming—has a gravity. And I guess I never realized how weightless I felt standing outside it.

The studio buzzed with life—clicks of the camera, the hum of music, and the warm, steady current of Emilia's voice directing the chaos. She moved like she owned the air around her—like every flash and shutter bent to her will. She wasn't just working. She was alive.

I stood there, reflector in hand, but my body felt distant—like I was watching myself from somewhere else. Emilia glanced over, her brow lifting with something soft and knowing. "Claire," she said, her voice a gentle tug. "You good?"

I pulled on a grin—my usual armor. "What? Can't a girl just vibe with the ambiance?"

Her eyes narrowed just enough to say liar without needing the word. Emilia always saw more than I wanted her to. She always had.

The door opened, and Valeria walked in—sharp, deliberate, a presence that shifted the air. She didn't have to say a word. Emilia's eyes found hers, and everything around them softened, like they existed in their own world. No spotlight, no script—just them.

It made me ache. But not because I wanted it—because I loved that they had it. And I think that's when it hit me—I had fought beside them but never for myself.

I wasn't on the battlefield. I was the witness. The support. The anchor. And that mattered. But when the dust settled and their war was over... where did that leave me?

The air outside was sharp with cold as I stepped onto the street, boots hitting pavement with no destination. The world moved—people brushing past, sirens in the distance, the low murmur of the city's pulse. I let it swallow me. My phone buzzed—Emilia, probably checking in. I let it ring. I wasn't running from her—I'd never do that. I'd always come back.

But right now?

I wasn't lost because I didn't have them.

I was lost because I didn't have me.

They had found their chaos—the thing that made them fight, burn, live.

And I—

I was still waiting to find my fire.



Vera's POV

Ignacio's hideout was mine now—a gutted kingdom, stripped bare after his fall. One kingpin dead. Another in chains. And me? I didn't inherit this throne—I took it.

The walls bore scars from wars fought in shadows—bullet holes, cracks, and the weight of ghosts. No velvet thrones here. Power, in a place like this, was carved from ruin.

I stood behind the battered desk, my blade scoring deep lines into the wood. One cut for every fool who thought I wouldn't last. Ignacio played the game. Dominic played the fool. Now, I own the board. No lies. No deals. Just control.

The door creaked, and the air shifted—hesitant footsteps. One of my men, nervous. Good.

"Talk," I ordered, my voice slicing through the tension.

"We're pulling in survivors," he said, voice tight. "But... Raul's stirring things up."

I didn't blink. "Spit it out."

He swallowed hard. "He's questioning you. Riling the crew."

A slow, cold smile. Raul. There's always one.

I buried my blade into the desk with a sharp crack. "So, Raul wants to play king?" I said, voice low, lethal.

"Let's show him how swiftly kings fall—and how ruthlessly queens rise."

___

The crew froze when I entered, conversations cut clean. Eyes wide. Fear thick. Raul stood at the center, mid-sentence. I advanced, slow and deliberate, my words cold enough to burn.

"Got something to say to me, Raul?" My voice was soft—too soft.

The air inside the hideout pressed down like a loaded gun—thick, heavy, and waiting to explode. The faint hum of the generator buzzed against cracked concrete walls, casting flickering shadows that felt more like ghosts. This place was once Ignacio's, but now, it was mine. And every eye in the room watched me, waiting to see if I would prove it.

Raul stood across from me, his chest puffed with borrowed pride. He wasn't shaking—yet. But I saw it in his eyes—the flicker of doubt beneath the bravado. He was testing the water, hoping it wasn't as deep as it felt.

I leaned on the edge of the old steel desk, the dull scrape of my knife against its surface the only sound in the room. Slow, steady strokes—like counting down seconds before a trigger pull. "You wanted my attention, Raul," I said, my voice smooth but sharp enough to cut. "Now you have it. So talk."

His lips curled into something that wanted to be a smirk but didn't quite get there. "You've been calling the shots since Ignacio went under," he said, voice lifting as if trying to fill the room. "But you're not him. You're just—"

I raised a brow, letting the silence stretch between us. "Just what?"

His jaw tightened. "You're holding this crew together with fear. That's not leadership." His voice edged higher, reaching for the room. "The crew knows it. I know it."

A soft breath escaped me. Fear is leadership, I thought. He just hated that he was the one feeling it.

But I let him speak. Let him dig his own grave.

Raul turned to the others, his voice rising. "You all just gonna stand there?" His eyes burned with desperation as he searched their faces. "Ignacio built this crew! Not her! Are you really gonna let her run it into the ground?"

The room stilled. Boots shifted against the floor, but no one stepped forward.

I watched the moment hit him—the slow, cold weight of it sinking into his bones. Alone.

My voice, soft and cutting: "Looks like they've already chosen a side."

The mask cracked. Panic flashed—and then anger. His hand jerked toward his belt.

Too slow.

I moved, the world snapping into sharp focus—the whisper of my knife slicing the air, his wrist twisting beneath my grip with a sick crack, and the clatter of his weapon hitting the ground.

His body hit mine, rigid and trapped, my arm locking his throat from behind. The cold kiss of my blade pressed against his jaw.

I felt his pulse—fast, wild—knowing.

I leaned in, my voice low and cold. "You wanted to lead," I whispered against his ear, the words a slow, sharp thing. "But no one follows the man who bleeds first."

A sharp, clean press. A gasp—wet and broken. And then, nothing.

The silence returned, thicker than before. My eyes lifted—sweeping over the room. I met every gaze. I felt their fear. Their loyalty. Their surrender.

Raul's body sagged, and I let him slump to the floor, the tension in the room tightening—then cracking—into a silence thick enough to suffocate.

The sharp tap of blood hit the floor, and I sheathed my blade with a lazy flick. I looked at the blood splatter beneath me. My fucking rugs.

I sighed, annoyed. "Fuck. I just got those cleaned."

The room stayed frozen in the wake of my passing. Because tonight, there were no questions left.

Just answers. And my name written in their silence.

"Gabriel," I said dryly, already walking. "Follow me."

"Vera. Leo's making his move."

My body stilled. The air felt colder.

"Do we know what he's plotting?" I asked, my voice dropping low, controlled.

"Not yet."

My teeth pressed together. "Then whatever it is, we're moving first." My eyes flashed to his. "If Leo's planning something, he's trying to get Dominic out of prison. We hit hard before that happens."

Gabriel's voice carried a quiet warning. "We'll need more power. More men abroad. You'll be stretched thin."

I turned fully then, my gaze cutting through him like a blade. "You think I can't handle it?"

He stepped back a fraction—a rare thing from him. "Didn't say that," he replied, a beat slower. "I trust you."

I let the silence settle—let him feel it—before I broke it. "Good."

Then I turned to go, my voice brisk and final. "Gather some men. I'm finalizing our next shipment."

Gabriel's voice followed, wry but knowing. "Arms deal, I assume?"

I threw a glance over my shoulder. "Of course," I said coolly, "Can't build an empire without fire."

And I walked away.

---

The docks reeked of oil, salt, and the sharp bite of gunmetal. The smell clung to the air, thick and heavy, as I leaned against the crates. My men stood at the edges—silent, waiting.

Luis, the middleman for this deal, stood before me, his fingers twitching at his sides. Sweat lined his brow, his confidence bleeding away with every second of my silence.

I liked that.

"You're short," I finally said, my voice calm, detached. I carved the knife deeper into the desk, watching as the grain splintered under the blade. "Two crates. That wasn't the deal."

Luis swallowed, his throat bobbing. "I—It was a mistake, I swear. The shipment got delayed—"

I tilted my head, considering him. "A mistake." The word rolled off my tongue slowly. "Or a test?"

He froze. His fear was a tangible thing, thick and desperate.

Good.

I sighed, standing up, sliding the knife effortlessly into the sheath at my thigh. "I'm feeling generous today," I said, stepping forward, slow, measured. "So I'll give you a choice."

Luis barely nodded, his body rigid.

"One," I lifted a finger, "you fix the 'mistake' in twenty-four hours. Two—" I flicked my gaze to Gabriel, who stepped forward without a word, the weight of his presence alone enough to make Luis flinch.

"No—no, I can fix it," Luis blurted, hands shaking.

I smiled, slow and sharp. "I thought so."

The room exhaled, tension loosening just enough. But then Luis made the mistake of speaking again.

"Leo offered me double," he admitted, voice shaking. "I—I didn't take it, Vera, I swear, but—"

The temperature in the room dropped.

I let the words settle, pressing into the silence like a blade at his throat. "Leo." I echoed the name, rolling it over my tongue like it was foreign. "You entertained an offer from Leo?"

Luis paled. "I—I just—"

I moved before he could finish, grabbing the back of his neck and slamming his face onto the desk. The wood cracked under the impact, blood spilling from his nose instantly.

"Do I look like someone you negotiate with?" My voice was low, calm. More dangerous for it.

Luis coughed, blood splattering onto the desk. He trembled but didn't dare move.

I released him, letting him stumble back as he clutched his face. He gasped for breath, but I barely spared him a glance. Instead, I turned to Gabriel. "Find out exactly what Leo offered him."

Gabriel nodded once, stepping forward to grab Luis by the collar, dragging him away.

I picked up a cloth from the desk, wiping the blood from my fingers.

Leo was pushing. Testing.

I had been patient. I had let him move in the shadows, let him believe he could play his little game. But patience had a limit.

And mine just ran out.

Claire's POV

The golden morning light streamed through Emilia's kitchen windows, soft and warm against the polished marble counters. The scent of coffee hung between us, but Dani sat across from me, her fork aimlessly chasing eggs around her plate.

I leaned back in my chair, swirling my coffee. "Want to tell me why your eggs deserve this abuse?" I raised a brow. "It's brunch not a crime scene."

Dani's eyes flicked up, dull and frustrated. "The house is unbearable since she moved in."

Valeria. No surprise there.

I grinned, trying to tease the shadows from her. "What's the problem? Too much tension? I hear longing and heartbreak can be fatal."

Her lips twitched, but the bitterness remained. "You don't get it. It's like I don't exist to Emilia anymore."

I propped my chin on my hand, smirking. "Well, if moping was a sport, you'd be a gold medalist."

Her eyes flashed, the crack in her armor showing. "Says the woman chasing a ghost."

My smirk froze for half a second before I smoothed it back into place. "Hey, I'm actively running towards a new problem. Totally different sport."

Dani's fork clattered onto the plate, and she slumped back, the fight draining from her voice. "Just... She's happy with Valeria. And I—I don't even get to be in the background anymore."

I set my mug down with a soft clink. "Dani, you're making heartbreak your whole personality. Emilia's happy—maybe you should be too."

Her voice dropped, raw and sharp. "You're not in love with her."

I offered a crooked smile. "True. But I am in love with my peace and quiet. And you moping around? Killing the vibe."

A reluctant curve at the corner of her lips. Small, but there. I gave a lazy stretch, victorious. "Look at that—progress. Miracles before brunch."

She shook her head. "You're such a pain in the ass."

I lifted my coffee in a toast. "It's part of my charm."

But the truth?

I wasn't chasing a ghost.

I was chasing a fire.

---

"Claire," Emilia's voice brought me back. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear, her eyes warm but focused. "Can you grab some supplies for me? Need them for the next set."

I tossed a mock salute. "You got it, boss." My smile felt easy. My chest felt tight.



Vera's POV

The air in the abandoned distillery was thick with the scent of rusted metal and stale alcohol, the cracked windows filtering the dull amber glow of the dying sun. Dust swirled in the shafts of light, dancing lazily above the cold concrete floor. This place, once a monument to industry, was now a stage for power plays. And tonight, the spotlight was on me.

Across from me stood Mateo Cruz—a supplier who thought he had leverage. Too bad no one told him that with me, leverage snapped like bone. His boys stood behind him, hands itching near their belts, while Gabriel loomed at my side, his expression carved from stone.

Mateo's lips curled into a smirk he hadn't earned. "Vera," he said, dragging out my name like we were old friends. "You've been making quite the noise. Fast. Loud. But noise? It fades."

I tilted my head, amused by his confidence—so brittle it was begging to be cracked. "Is that what you're here for?" I asked, my voice low and edged in velvet. "To teach me about echoes?"

Mateo's smirk widened, but his eyes flashed. "I'm here to propose an adjustment. Your routes through the southern port—they're mine now. I'll let you keep the docks, but anything moving inland?" He spread his hands wide. "That's Cruz territory."

Silence stretched, heavy and sharp. Gabriel tensed beside me, but I didn't blink. Didn't smile.

Finally, I spoke. "You're confused," I said softly, my voice cold and measured. "This isn't a negotiation. It's a eulogy. Yours. Unless you walk out of here in the next ten seconds."

Mateo's smirk faltered for a flicker of a second, but he held. "You're bold," he said, his voice dipping into something harder. "But power moves through alliances, Vera. You're new. Unchecked. You haven't bled enough yet to own this table."

I stepped forward, closing the air between us until I felt his breath shift. "You're right," I murmured, my eyes cold. "I am new. But what you don't get, Mateo..." My lips curled, and my voice dropped to a deadly whisper, "...is that power doesn't move through alliances. It moves through fear."

Without breaking eye contact, I raised my hand—and the sharp, metallic crack of a single gunshot split the air.

Mateo's second crumpled behind him, his body hitting the concrete with a sick thud.

Mateo's breath hitched, his mask cracking wide. His eyes—wild, disbelieving—locked on me.

"See?" I said coolly, letting the silence seep into his bones. "Now you're afraid. And suddenly—" I leaned in, my voice a razor at his throat, "—I own this table."

His chest heaved, the facade of bravado crumbling under the weight of what he finally understood. "You're insane," he breathed.

A slow, cold smile slid across my lips. "No," I said softly. "I'm inevitable."

---

The name Vera Castillo was on every tongue from the ports to the alleyways. A name whispered with caution, a name that meant no negotiations. No mercy.

In the dark corners of the city, the underworld learned something new.

I don't ask for power. I take it. And where I go—I leave no survivors.