Claire's POV

TThe city felt colder tonight. Not the kind of cold you dress for—the kind that sinks into your bones and stays there. My boots scuffed against wet pavement, each step a dull thud swallowed by the city's endless hum. Sirens, distant and broken. Neon signs, flickering like dying stars. The city was alive—loud, restless, chaotic.

And inside me—nothing.

I used to love this city. The chaos. The heartbeat under its skin. But now it felt muted, like someone had turned the volume down. I walked because I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't running from anything. I wasn't running toward anything.

I was just waiting— For something to burn.

The corner store glowed ahead, a cheap neon beacon against the night. I paused, my breath clouding in the air. I didn't need anything. I wasn't even sure why I stopped.

But I went inside.

The bell over the door chimed, a brittle sound in the stillness. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too cold. The shelves were half-empty—candy, cigarettes, stale coffee. Behind the counter, an old man flipped through a crossword, his glasses sliding down his nose.

The store smelled like burnt coffee and cleaning solution. It was...quiet. And I almost turned back—

But the door slammed open behind me.

A sharp crack of air. The world shifted.

Two men—hoods, gloves, fast. One with a gun.

"Nobody fucking move!"

The air snapped tight, thick with something sharp and electric. My chest locked. My pulse—too loud, too fast—roared in my ears. The old man behind the counter froze, his eyes wide behind his glasses. The magazine slipped from his fingers, pages fluttering against the floor.

The second guy—jittery, his breath ragged—lurched toward the counter. "Open it!" he barked, his voice cracking on the edges.

The register rattled as the clerk's shaking hands tried to find the keys. "I—I'm trying—"

The world narrowed. The hum of the lights. The rattle of coins. The scrape of the man's boots on linoleum.

And my heartbeat. Wild. Reckless.

But it wasn't fear. It was fire. The same one I felt on that day when her arms wrapped around my neck. Dangerous. Exciting.

The second guy—the lookout—spun fast, his eyes sweeping the aisles. He saw me. His pupils, blown wide. Young. Too young. His hand twitched. The barrel of his gun wavered.

I should have ducked. Should have raised my hands. Should have done something.

But— "Hey," I said. My voice cut the air. Sharp. Sure.

His gaze snapped fully to me. The tremor in his arm rippled. The gun shook.

"Don't," I said, my voice low, threaded with something raw and dangerous. "You don't want this."

His lips cracked, dry and shaking. "Shut up." His voice broke. He was a kid. And I—

I felt alive.

The other man's voice tore through the moment— "Hurry the fuck up!"

The kid flinched. His panic hitched, his fingers tightening. I saw it—the split-second spiral toward disaster.

And I wanted to push him. Not to stop him— To feel what he'd do.

Because the chaos—the heat of it—felt like a live wire.

The register dinged as the drawer popped. The sharp sound sliced the air— And the kid's body snapped toward the clerk.

I moved.

My boot hit the metal rack beside me hard. It crashed sideways into him with a shriek of steel and plastic, a hailstorm of candy bars scattering across the floor. The kid hit the ground, hard, his gun skidding into the aisle.

Toward me.

The cold weight of it met my fingers. I felt it. The power. The heat. And for one breathless second— I didn't drop it.

I wanted to keep it. The world shrank to the trigger.

The chaos in my veins. The fire in my chest.

The kid—wide-eyed, scrambling, voice raw— "Don't." His voice cracked open, breaking. "I—please—"

The second man—the real threat—was gone. The door slammed. Tires screamed into the night.

And the sirens— Closer. Rising. I felt my ribs heave. My pulse—too loud. My hands—tingling from the weight they held. The gun hit the floor. Hard. The clang felt final.

The kid's body curled small, his hands up, his breath broken.

The door burst wide. "Police! Hands up!"

The store filled with commands and chaos—voices, footsteps, the slap of cuffs on wrists.

An officer's voice, sharp, cold:

"You're lucky." His eyes flicked to me, hard and disapproving. "You could've gotten yourself killed."

I met his stare. My throat was raw. My blood still electric.

And my lips— They moved. Into a smirk.

"Yeah," my voice scraped, rough and burning.

"I know."

When I stepped outside, the sirens still screaming, the copper sting of adrenaline still burning under my skin. My fingers ached— Not from fear. From the ghost of the weight they had held.

The fire hadn't gone out.

It had changed.

Because now— I knew exactly what it felt like— To hold it.

And I knew— That's what she feels.

Vera's POV

The docks were alive with their usual symphony—grinding steel, the low groan of cranes, and the distant screech of gulls picking through rot. Cargo crates loomed in towering stacks, casting shadows like tombstones over the damp concrete. The air was thick—salt, oil, and the metallic bite of something inevitable.

I stood in the dark, the wind tugging at my coat, and watched the deal unfold. Gabriel was at my side, his eyes cold, his hand never straying far from his piece. Beyond the cover of the containers, Leo's men huddled in a loose circle, their shadows stretching under the harsh floodlights. At the center stood Vargas, Leo's top enforcer—gruff, loud, and about to lose more than his shipment.

Because this was supposed to be Leo's deal.

But it was already mine.

The buyer—slick suit, slicker smile—was inspecting the crates, his hand brushing the edge like he could taste the power inside. Guns. Enough to arm an army or burn a city down.

Vargas's voice carried sharp over the hiss of the tide. "You get your shipment. Leo gets his cut. Everyone walks happy." His confidence oozed. He thought this was his stage.

But he didn't know he was already standing in my graveyard.

I waited until the crates slammed shut with finality, the buyer sealing the deal with a nod. The papers exchanged. Hands shook.

Then I stepped forward.

My boots hit the concrete, the sharp crunch breaking the night wide open.

"Problem is," I said, my voice soft but slicing, "You're shaking hands on something that doesn't belong to you."

The reaction was immediate—guns snapping up, bodies tensing. Vargas's head whipped around, his face pulling into something between shock and fury. "Castillo?" His voice cracked on my name. "The fuck are you doing here?"

I smiled, cold and slow. "Didn't you hear, Vargas? I bought the rights to this little fireworks show." My eyes flicked to the buyer. "Paperwork included."

The buyer's lips thinned. "What the hell is this?"

Vargas growled, his hand twitching toward his piece. "This is Leo's shipment—"

Gabriel's gunshot cut through the night, sudden and precise. Vargas screamed as his weapon hit the ground, his hand mangled, blood slicking between his fingers. And the crew took out the rest of Leo's men before they could react.

The buyer stumbled back, face pale, voice shaking. "Jesus—"

I didn't look at Vargas's wrecked hand. I looked him in the eyes. "Correction," I said, my voice even, calm, unshaken by the violence. "It was Leo's. Now it's mine."

Vargas's breath was ragged, pain and rage warring in his throat. "Leo—Leo's gonna come for you."

I crouched down, close enough for him to choke on my words. "Good. I've been waiting."

His eyes, glossy with pain, locked on mine. "You can't win against him. You're strong, but you're alone."

A slow smile carved across my lips. "Win?" I repeated, and my voice dipped, cold and final. "Vargas, you've got it wrong." I leaned in, my whisper sinking like a blade between his ribs.

"I don't need anyone to win. I just need everyone else to lose."

The sharp hiss of Gabriel's silencer ended the conversation.

Vargas's body crumpled, dead weight against cold concrete. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the cracks—an offering to the ground.

I rose, my gaze slicing through the buyer. "The deal stands," I said, my voice flat. "Same shipment. Same price. New owner. You have a problem with that?"

The buyer, his face pale and tight, shook his head quickly. "No. No problem."

"Good." I nodded to Gabriel, and the shipment began to move, my men emerging from the shadows to load the crates into my trucks.

The buyer lingered, his voice shaking but bold enough to question, "Leo won't let this slide."

I turned to him, and my eyes—cold, sharp, and burning—cut through his bravado. "Then let him try."

The buyer swallowed, stepping back into the shadows. Smart man.

Gabriel's voice, dry but edged, broke the night. "Leo's going to retaliate."

I felt the corner of my mouth curl. "I hope so."

Gabriel's brow lifted slightly. "We just declared war."

I met his gaze, my eyes burning with something raw, something cold, something inevitable.

"No," I said, my voice steady and sharp.

"We started it."

The engines roared as my trucks pulled away, the air thick with exhaust and the coppery sting of blood. The docks, slick with death and victory, felt like a promise carved into the night.

And the fire— The fire was mine.

Claire's POV

The café smelled like burnt espresso and broken promises—too bitter, too sharp. I hadn't planned on stopping here, but my feet moved faster than my thoughts. I needed air. Space. Something to ground me after the fire that still simmered under my skin from the robbery.

The bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped inside, the warm buzz of chatter brushing against my ears. Students buried in laptops, baristas calling out orders, the hiss of steaming milk—it felt normal. Safe.

But then I saw him.

Leo.

My pulse thudded once, twice, then dropped into a slow, cold rhythm. He sat in the corner, back to the wall—because of course he did—sprawled like he owned the air around him. Across from him sat a wiry man with the nervous energy of someone who knew he was playing with fire.

My body locked up, heart hammering. What the fuck is he doing here?

I dropped into a seat, half-hidden behind a dusty potted plant, my pulse thudding in my ears. My fingers curled under the table, digging into my jeans to stop the tremor threatening my hands.

Across the room, Leo leaned back in his chair, oozing that casual arrogance—the kind only men who deal in death carry like a second skin. His shirt crisp, his jacket tailored, and his smile—the worst thing about him—slow and venomous. The man sitting across from him wasn't smiling. He was stiff, his body humming with the tension of someone sitting across from a loaded gun.

The café's noise faded into a soft, distorted blur, and I listened.

Leo's voice, smooth and cold: "Calle Solana. One-four-five. Nine-thirty tonight."

An address. A time.

The other man shifted, uneasy. His fingers drummed the table once, twice—then stopped when Leo's eyes flicked to them.

The background hum of the café buzzed in my ears, but my focus tightened, threading into the silence between them.

"And the target?" the man asked, his voice dry, wary.

Leo's lips curled into a smile, sharp and hollow. "No warnings. No second chances." He leaned forward, and his voice dropped lower—too soft, too cold: "One shot. Clean. Done."

My spine stiffened. My body locked around the cold knot forming in my chest. A hit. My pulse beat hot and frantic, a war drum against my ribs. But the worst came next.

Who is he talking about? Emilia? Valeria? Did he figure out they played Dominic.

The man hesitated. "And if someone's with them?"

Leo's voice—like glass shattering in a velvet glove "Collateral. No loose ends."

A spike of something—anger—punched through my chest, sharp and sudden. My breath felt tight.

Who? Who the hell was he sending a bullet after? I didn't know. And I couldn't be wrong. I couldn't look away.

The buyer, his nerves shot, licked his lips. "It's a lot of heat for one person. Are you sure this is worth it?"

Leo's smile—slow and venomous—cut through the air "They took something from me. I'm taking everything from them."

A chill broke down my spine. My throat felt dry. My chest—hot, restless, burning.

He never said a name. Not once. But everything about this screamed that whoever was on the other end of that bullet—

It wasn't business. It was personal.

The chair legs scraped as they stood, and the sudden scrape of metal on tile jolted me back into my body. My fingers moved, quick and raw, scratching down the address and time on a crumpled napkin. My writing was jagged, slanted from the shake in my hand.

Leo's voice, smooth with amusement as he buttoned his jacket "Don't miss."

The bell above the door chimed as they walked out, and the silence that followed was deafening. My heart was a war drum in my chest. My hands curled tight, the napkin crinkling beneath my nails.

I should call Valeria. I should call Emilia.

But I didn't. Because I knew— They'd stop me. They'd tell me it wasn't my fight. But that restless, burning ache in my ribs—

Said it was. Said that this—this moment, this chaos—was mine. I shoved the napkin into my jacket, my chest tight and heaving. This wasn't about being reckless.

It was about the feeling screaming under my skin. That this mattered. That someone—whoever they were—was about to be erased.

And maybe, just maybe— I could stop it.

---

The studio buzzed with soft clicks and flashes—the steady heartbeat of another photoshoot in progress. Warm light streamed through the wide windows, casting Emilia in a soft, golden glow as she worked. She looked right behind the lens—completely in her element, every command effortless, every frame already alive in her mind.

And me?

My skin felt too tight, like I was wearing my nerves on the outside. My fingers tapped against a light stand—a little too fast, a little too sharp. I wasn't even holding coffee, but my body hummed like I was wired to something electric.

"Claire."

Valeria's voice—cool, direct, slicing through me. "You're twitchy."

My spine snapped straight, but my grin followed—quick, bright, armor on. "Can't a girl be caffeinated and chaotic?"

Her eyes—razor-edged and knowing—narrowed slightly. "No. This isn't caffeine. It's something else."

I rolled my shoulders, breezy. "I can explain, the joint you found was not mine."

Valeria's gaze stayed locked, sharp enough to flay. "You're hiding something."

A flicker of heat—annoyance, defense—lit under my ribs. "Didn't know you were moonlighting as a psychic, Val."

"Don't need to be," she replied flatly, her voice brushing too close to the truth.

Emilia, lowering her camera, chimed in from across the room, her voice soft, familiar: "Be nice, Val. You know Claire thrives on chaos. It's basically her brand."

I shot Emilia a wink, chasing lightness. "Exactly. You get me."

But my chest stayed tight, the coil of tension winding sharper. My nails pressed into my palms, and the napkin with Leo's scrawl—Calle Solana. 9:30.—burned against my thigh like a brand. I felt Valeria's stare still on me, steady, stripping. She was reading me. She always did. And I hated how close she was to cracking me open.

So I did what I do best.

I slipped behind the mask.

Humor. Sarcasm. A smirk sharp enough to dodge a bullet. "Anyway," I drawled, stretching with fake nonchalance, "I'm heading out. Try not to miss me too much while you two stare deeply into each other's eyes. Real tragic romance stuff."

Valeria's smirk was slow, knowing, and all teeth. "Jealous, Claire?"

I shot back smoothly, "Please. Third-wheeling you two is my cardio. And I don't even get paid for it."

Emilia shook her head, soft laughter threading through the air. "You're impossible."

I tossed them a lazy two-finger salute, but my grip on my jacket twisted tight as I turned for the door. "It's part of my charm. Later, lovebirds."

The second I hit the hallway, the air felt different—thinner, colder. My pulse pounded hard and hot beneath my skin.

Because it wasn't nerves.

It was the goddamn napkin. A name. A time. A promise.

It burned through the fabric, through my skin, all the way into my ribs.

I wasn't going home.

And I wasn't telling them.

Because this fight— is mine.

---

The car engine hummed beneath my fingertips, the leather steering wheel warm against my palms. The air inside felt tight, too thin, like the city had squeezed every breath from my lungs and left me hollow. My headlights were off, my body thrumming with something sharp and electric as I stared out at the address Leo had given. Calle Solana.

An abandoned lot, cracked asphalt glistening under a weak streetlight. Rusted shipping containers loomed like forgotten giants, casting jagged shadows across the ground. I scanned the lot. Figures. Armed. Six... no, seven. Rifles slung low, their body language loose but ready. A truck idled in the corner, its cargo still hidden.

Weapons deal? Drugs? My pulse ticked faster. Dominic's crew? But Dominic was rotting in a cell. So who—

Movement. My eyes locked on a shape breaking from the shadows. My stomach knotted, cold and sharp.

The man from the café. The one who met with Leo. And he wasn't carrying a briefcase this time. He was assembling a rifle.

My body froze, every muscle pulling tight as the metallic clicks of the bolt and scope rang in my ears. My hands clenched the wheel, slick with sweat, my heart a hammer against my ribs.

This wasn't a deal. It was a hit. My gaze snapped to his line of sight, and my chest caved—

Vera.

The air left me. She moved with a predator's grace, her body slipping through the maze of containers like she owned every inch of the night. The streetlight caught in her eyes for a flicker, burning cold and sharp. She looked... unbothered. In control. Like she belonged in the chaos.

But she didn't see him. Didn't see the rifle that had already marked her.

A spike of heat burst up my spine. Fear—no. Something hotter. Something reckless. The air between us felt stretched thin, a thread about to snap.

I barely knew her. Once—a flash of a smirk, the weight of her voice curling through my ribs, and the ache it left behind. I had chased the ghost of her for months, begged Valeria for an introduction—always denied. And now, here she was.

But so was he. The sniper's body settled, his shoulder pressing against the rifle, his finger brushing the trigger.

I hovered, my hand shaking above the horn. If I hit it—he'd see me. I'd lose my cover. I'd be next. My pulse roared. My breath burned. My skin felt too tight.

The sniper's finger squeezed— I slammed the horn. The blaring note shattered the night, raw and jagged.

Vera's body reacted instantly—her head whipped toward me, her eyes cutting through the dark and locking on my car. For one half-second—recognition flared. Her body dropped low, fast and lethal, vanishing behind a crate.

The shot cracked the air, a muted hiss— A crate exploded where her chest should've been, wood splinters flying in a vicious scatter.

I gasped, every muscle locking tight as my fingers found the high beams.

And the world—lit up. The glare slammed into the rooftop, catching the glint of glass—the sniper's scope, his silhouette frozen, blinded.

Another shot—rushed—pinged off my hood with a metallic scream. I flinched hard, panic punching through my chest.

Gunfire erupted from below—Vera's crew, fast, precise, shredding the air with bullets. Boots pounded. Men shouted. But the sniper—

Gone. Vanished into the night.

My pulse crashed, my breath a wild, shaking mess. The wheel felt fused to my fingers, the leather hot and damp from my grip. The silence that followed tasted like metal and adrenaline.

Then I felt it— Vera stepped into my headlights, her face carved in something sharp and dangerous. Her body was taut, her lips slightly parted, her chest rising with the echo of the fight. But her eyes—

Her eyes burned straight through the glass and into me.

No confusion. No guesswork. She knew. She knew exactly who was behind the wheel.

A flicker passed her face—something unfinished, raw and questioning—before it sharpened. Her steps quickened, cutting the distance fast. I moved first.

The gas pedal slammed under my boot. Tires screamed, the back end fishtailing on cracked asphalt before catching. I felt the snap—the instant the car obeyed me and surged forward.

Her figure blurred, the heat of her gaze chasing me into the night. I didn't look back. But I felt her. The heat of her eyes. The burn of her question. There was no point to run. Because now— She'd come looking.

Vera's POV

The air still throbbed with the echo of gunfire, sharp and metallic against the night. My pulse was steady, but the adrenaline hummed under my skin—a crackling heat just waiting to ignite.

Boots crunched on shattered glass, and Gabriel's voice cut through the haze. "You good?"

I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth, feeling the sting where a splinter from the crate had grazed my cheek. "I'm standing," I said, my voice tight, sharp. "Get eyes on that rooftop."

Gabriel's gaze flicked to where the sniper had been, then back to me. "More important—who the hell warned us?"

My teeth ground together. I'd seen the headlights. Heard the horn, sharp and deliberate. And then—those eyes. Familiar and not.

"One of Valeria's strays," I said coldly. "Her little puppy off the leash."

Gabriel's jaw tightened. "Your sister sent her?"

My lips curled, but it wasn't a smile. "No. Valeria doesn't waste her time watching me. And she wouldn't send anyone—not for a warning." My voice dropped, cold and certain. "She is on our side. If Valeria wanted me dead, I wouldn't get a horn."

Gabriel stepped forward, his hand already shifting to his belt. "I'll get her."

"No." My voice snapped like a whip. "Someone just tried to kill me." I felt my heartbeat in my ribs—cold, alive. "I need you here."

Gabriel's brows knit, but he didn't argue. His loyalty had teeth, but it wasn't blind. "Then who do you want on her?"

"Send one of the crew," I said, my voice low and clipped. "Bring her to me."

Gabriel's head tilted slightly, his eyes catching mine with a flicker of something unspoken. "Valeria?"

My eyes burned into his. "No," I said with a cold, sharp edge. "None of these idiots can bring Valeria in—she'd tear them apart before they opened their mouths." My voice thinned, soft and dangerous. "Bring the girl." My eyes narrowed. "She's the weakest link."

Gabriel paused, and I felt the weight of his silence. His voice, when it came, was measured. "Weak?" His lips pressed, thoughtful. "She's the reason you're still breathing."

I hated the truth of it. But it only made me want answers more.

My jaw locked. "Then she owes me an explanation."

Gabriel's radio crackled. A clipped voice from one of our men—"Lost her. She's fast."

No surprise. That girl had the instincts of someone who knew what it meant to run. But nobody outruns me. Not for long.

Gabriel's eyes flicked to mine, waiting. "Orders?"

"Lock down the perimeter. Street cameras, alleyways—find me a trail." My voice was ice, sharp and cutting. "I want her alive."

Gabriel pressed into his comm. "You heard her. No bullets. She breathes." His eyes, dark and steady, met mine again. "And when we have her?"

A slow curl pulled at my lips. "I'll handle the rest."

My gaze lifted to where the sniper had been, the rooftop now a ghost of danger. Someone out there wanted me cold and buried. But that girl—whoever the hell she was—stepped into the line of fire for me.

And nobody does that for free.

My fingers brushed the raw edge of the shattered crate, the sting grounding me. "She's running," I murmured, more to myself than Gabriel. "But if she knows Valeria... she should know—"

I turned, my eyes hard as steel.

"—no one runs from me."