Claire's POV

Valeria's gaze hardened, her voice dropping low and rough. "You're a damn idiot," she muttered. "You could've died."

The smirk tugged weakly at my lips. "But I didn't. Guess you're stuck with me."

Her hand—the one not covered in blood—pressed against my forehead, cool against the fever burning beneath my skin.

Her voice, a whisper laced with something she wouldn't name, brushed the air between us.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I guess I am."

The moment stretched—warm, terrifying, fragile. Valeria's hand remained firm against my burning skin, but her voice, when it came, was steel.

"Stay away from Vera."

The heat in my chest hadn't faded, and through the fever's haze, my lips curled into something raw and knowing. "No."

Her jaw tensed. "You think this is a joke?"

My throat burned, my voice wrecked but steady. "Nah. You're the funny one here, breaking down my door like some bargain-bin action hero."

Her nostrils flared, but her voice—tight, strained—held something beneath the frustration. Something frayed at the edges. "Claire."

That single word carried more weight than a bullet.

I forced my breath through the fire in my lungs, blinking past the fever that blurred the room around me. "I get it, Val. Vera's dangerous. The whole damn world she lives in is." My ribs screamed as I forced the words out, but I pushed through. "But you—" my voice cracked, "—you, of all people, should understand."

Her fingers flexed against my arm, her grip tightening. A flicker of something crossed her face—raw, knowing.

"It's not the same," she said, quieter now, but no less sharp.

I huffed a weak, breathless chuckle, wincing at the pain. "No. You're right. It's not the same. But it feels the same, doesn't it?"

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Something shifted in her eyes. Just a flicker. Just enough.

"I know you're worried, Val," I said, voice soft but unshakable. "But I know what I'm doing."

She exhaled sharply, her tone dipping lower, colder. "You really don't."

The fire inside me burned higher, hotter. "No, I don't," I admitted, my voice cracking. "But I've got a pretty cool sister-in-law. She'd save my reckless ass if I got into trouble." A weak smirk ghosted over my lips, barely there. "Like now. Look at us."

For a fraction of a second—just a breath—her mask slipped.

Her eyes, dark and fierce, burned with everything she wouldn't say.

But she stayed. Her hand, steady against my forehead, didn't move.

The crash of the door shattered the moment.

"Claire!"

Emilia's voice sliced through the air, sharp with panic. The rapid click of her heels filled the space between us, and then she was there—hovering, her hands trembling, eyes wide and burning with fear.

"What the hell happened?" Her voice hit like a whip, barely contained.

Before I could speak, Valeria's voice cut through, sharp and edged. "Talk to your friend. Put some sense into her."

Emilia's head snapped toward her. "Valeria, what did you—" She stopped, her frustration evident in the tightness of her breath. Her gaze locked onto me. "Claire. What is going on?"

The fever burned through my veins, but my voice held. "I saw Leo," I said simply.

Emilia's expression cracked—panic bleeding into something deeper.

I swallowed hard, pushing through the fire in my ribs. "I thought he was after you. Or Val." The words scraped up my throat, raw and aching. "So I followed him."

Silence.

"Claire..." Emilia's voice wavered, uncertain.

I forced myself to keep going. "And then I saw Vera." My stomach twisted, remembering the way she had moved, the way the gun had been trained on her, the way my body had moved before my mind could catch up. "She was about to get shot."

Valeria, beside me, was still as stone.

Emilia's breath caught. "And?"

My fingers curled into the sheets. "And I did what I had to do."

The words landed heavy, final.

Emilia exhaled sharply, like the air had been stolen from her lungs. "Claire..."

But I pushed forward. "She would've died. I—" my throat clenched, "—I couldn't let that happen."

Her face crumpled, panic turning sharp, wounded. "Claire, we just escaped that life." Her voice shook, rising with emotion. "We almost died trying to leave it behind. And now you're—" she broke off, voice cracking, eyes blazing. "Why are you trying to walk back into it?"

The ache in my chest had nothing to do with the bullet wound.

I met her gaze—fierce, burning, and mine. "Do you remember," I rasped, my voice rough, "when you met Valeria?"

Emilia flinched like I had struck her. Her lips pressed together, her breath shaky. "...Claire."

But I didn't stop. "Do you remember how everyone told you that you were insane? That you were making the biggest mistake of your life?"

Her eyes flickered—old wounds, old battles. Slowly, she nodded. "I remember."

My throat tightened, but I forced the words through. "But I never said that. Did I?" My gaze burned into hers. "I never told you that you were insane."

Emilia inhaled sharply.

"I supported you," I said, voice cracking but unbreakable. "I supported both of you." My fingers curled against the sheets. "Didn't I?"

Silence. Thick. Raw.

Valeria's gaze flickered.

Emilia's eyes softened, the fire in them shifting into something warmer, something wounded and full. Her hand reached for mine, threading our fingers together, her grip firm, steady. "You did," she whispered, voice breaking just slightly. "You always did."

I squeezed her hand—tight, sure, final.

"Then just... support me." My breath shuddered, but I pushed forward. "You don't have to agree with me. Hell, you can hate every second of it." My chest heaved, but I didn't back down. "But I feel this. Something's pulling me toward her, and I don't know why, but—" my voice cracked, "—I know I'm not backing down."

The room pulsed with something heavy and unspoken.

Emilia's eyes searched mine, wild and scared and full of love. Slowly, so slowly, she nodded. "Okay," she whispered, her voice tight. "Okay."

I felt her fingers squeeze mine harder—like a lifeline, like a promise.

Her voice, soft but fierce, anchored me. "But if she hurts you—"

A rough, breathless laugh escaped me, my ribs screaming in protest. "Yeah," I rasped, "I figured you'd kill her."

A beat.

Then, to my surprise—Valeria's lips twitched.

"Good," she muttered.

Emilia exhaled sharply, somewhere between frustration and reluctant amusement. "And I would help."

A ghost of a smirk curled at Valeria's lips. "Obviously."

And in the heart of all that chaos, something broke—something that had been locked tight for far too long.

Vera's POV

The office was colder than it should be. The heavy scent of smoke and leather clung to the air, thick and unmoving. The dull scrape of my knife against the wooden desk was the only sound, carving slow, deliberate lines into the scarred surface. My fingers pressed harder, the grain splintering beneath the blade.

But it wasn't the desk I wanted to cut open.

Claire. That damn woman.

She shouldn't be in my head, and yet here I was—thinking about the reckless fool who threw herself between me and a bullet.

She reminded me of someone.

And that was the problem.

Valeria.

The name curled like acid in my throat. My sister. The sister I never knew I had—the sister I spent years wanting, resenting, maybe hating in equal measure.

I traced my thumb over the blade's edge, welcoming the sharp sting as it bit into my skin. Pain was easier than thinking. It was easier than remembering.

I grew up alone. No hand to pull me up—only fists to knock me down. In this world, you learn fast. No one is coming to save you. You survive, or you get swallowed. So I fought. Every day. And I won. I built myself out of blood and bone, and I needed no one.

Or so I thought.

Then my useless father told me about her.

Valeria . A name that carried weight. Fear. A name whispered with respect in rooms filled with men twice her size. Ruthless. Powerful. Everything I respected. Everything I was.

And then came the punchline. She was my blood. My sister. I shouldn't have cared.

But I did.

I was... happy. The kind of happy that comes before the fall. Because for one stupid second, I thought I wasn't alone anymore. I thought maybe—just maybe—I had someone who could stand beside me.

So I watched her. Studied her moves. The way she carried herself. The way people reacted to her presence. But the more I saw, the more something inside me cracked.

She rose from a nobody to Leo's mad dog in couple of months.

Valeria wasn't who I imagined. She wasn't loyal to her crew. She wasn't ruthless for the empire. She was ruthless for her.

A rich woman. Emilia Hayes.

Valeria burned down worlds for her. She killed, bled, and tore through every enemy—but never for the people who followed her. Never for the ones who called her family. Never for me.

It wasn't the love that disgusted me.

No.

It was that she chose it over everything else. Over power. Over loyalty. Over me.

The knife in my hand pressed deeper into the desk, the wood groaning under the pressure. I should have let her become another ghost—just another disappointment to bury with the rest.

But then Ignacio told me Dominic was coming. He said there would be a meeting. And for the first time in a long, long while, I felt something real—excitement.

Because Valeria would be there.

Despite everything I knew about her, despite every betrayal I felt without her even knowing—I still wanted to meet her.

Ignacio was the closest thing I had to a father. He raised me in this hell, and he was the only man I trusted. He knew what Valeria meant to me. And he gave me that chance.

And then Dominic put a bullet in his skull. Right there. In front of me. I still hear the shot. I still see the blood. And I still feel the weight of Valeria's silence.

She didn't pull the trigger. She let it happen.

And that—that was the betrayal that mattered.

I could've killed her. I had the chance. The barrel lined up, my finger on the trigger. She was right there—the sister who wasn't.

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

Because no matter how deep the betrayal cut, no matter how raw the hate burned—she was still my sister.

The memory clawed at me like an open wound, raw and unhealed. The air in the room felt heavy, pressing against my ribs. My chest ached in a way no bullet ever made it ache.

So I did what I always did when the pain got too close.

I buried it. Deep. But Claire...

That damn woman tore it open again.

Seeing her—so reckless, so willing to throw herself into the fire without thought or reason—it was like facing a ghost. She reminded me of the person I thought Valeria could be.

And I hated her for it.

The knife drove deep, and the wood splintered beneath my palm. The cracks in the desk felt like the ones inside my ribs—spreading, breaking, raw. I pulled the blade free and straightened, the cold weight of steel familiar and steady.

I didn't know what Claire was playing at. But one thing was certain—

I wouldn't let her become another regret. The past had taken enough from me. No more ghosts.

This time, if anyone wrote the ending—

It would be me.

I rolled my wrist, the glass of whiskey cool against my fingers, the amber liquid catching the low light. Across the room, Gabriel stood with his usual easy arrogance, but his stance—just the slightest shift of weight—told me he was waiting.

Good.

I dragged my gaze up to him, letting the silence stretch a beat too long. Then—flat, disinterested— "How are the docks?"

Leo exhaled a sharp breath through his nose, running a hand over his jaw. "Smooth. Shipment came in clean. Crew's keeping their heads down, like you told 'em. No signs of heat."

I nodded once, slow and deliberate, before swirling the whiskey in my glass. It should've been enough. Business was running, operations were intact. But the words that followed came out before I thought twice about them.

"And the girl?"

"She hasn't left the house," he said, getting straight to it. "She's still holed up with Valeria and Emilia."

I flicked my lighter open, then shut. The flame flared—died.

"Still recovering?" My voice was too even, too casual.

Gabriel's eyes flickered, catching it. "Most likely." A pause. "But Valeria's not leaving her side."

My fingers tensed against the lighter. Of course she isn't.

I should've expected it. Claire probably told them everything. The shootout. The bullet. Me.

I exhaled through my nose, slow and steady. That should have been fine.

If Claire was under Valeria's watch, then she was out of my business. And yet—I didn't like this.

Not because of what she might've told them. But because Valeria knew now.

And Valeria didn't let things go.

I shut the lighter with a sharp click. "And they haven't moved?"

Gabriel shook his head. "Not yet."

Yet.

The word sat heavy. Valeria wasn't reckless. She didn't act without reason. But if she decided I was a threat to Claire, she'd come for me eventually.

The thought pressed at the back of my ribs. I should have been relieved that Claire was locked away behind Valeria's walls. That she was someone else's problem now. So why the hell wasn't I?

Gabriel must've caught the shift in my expression. His voice turned sharp. "She's not your concern."

I didn't answer. Because he was right. And yet— I didn't like not knowing.

Not knowing if Claire was okay. Not knowing what Valeria was planning. Not knowing if that idiot—**the one who had the audacity to throw herself in front of a gun for me—**would be reckless enough to do something just as stupid again.

I leaned forward, elbows on my desk. My voice came out calm, cool. "Keep an eye on them."

Gabriel exhaled sharply, his patience thinning. "What for?"

My lips curled, sharp and unreadable. "To make sure they don't come looking for me."

A beat of silence. Gabriel didn't buy it. Neither did I. But he gave a sharp nod and turned toward the door.

Before he left, I added—too quiet, too offhand—"If she does leave the house, I want to know first."

Gabriel didn't question it. He just smirked like he knew something I didn't. And left.



Claire's POV

The sheets were damp against my skin, clinging from fever and sweat. My body still ached, every movement a slow, dragging reminder of the bullet that had torn through me. But the pain wasn't what kept me awake.

It was her.

Valeria sat on the edge of the bed, fingers expertly peeling away the bandages from my shoulder. Her touch was light but precise, the coolness of antiseptic barely registering against the lingering burn of my wound.

She was focused—but not entirely.

Every few minutes, her head flicked toward the window. Subtle. Quick. If I hadn't been staring, I wouldn't have noticed.

She was checking. Watching. And the tension in her jaw told me something was off.

I exhaled, voice dry. "You're acting like a damn watchdog."

Valeria didn't look at me. "You're delirious. Go back to sleep."

I narrowed my eyes. "I feel like shit, but I'm not blind. You keep looking at the window like you're expecting someone to crawl through it."

She let out a slow breath through her nose, finishing the bandage with a sharp tug. "It's nothing."

"Right," I muttered, wincing as I shifted. "You always get this tense over nothing."

Valeria didn't answer right away. Instead, she stood, moving toward the chair where she'd tossed her jacket earlier.

"I need to grab some things from my place," she said, pulling it on.

I frowned. "Now?"

She glanced at the window again.

"Yeah."

The air in the room felt different now. Like there was something unspoken, pressing against the walls.

My fingers twitched against the sheets. "Val—"

"Just stay here," she said, cutting me off before I could ask. "I'll be back soon."

Something in her voice wasn't right. It was too smooth. Too calm. Like she was trying not to worry me. I should've pushed. Should've demanded the truth. But my body felt too heavy, my mind too sluggish.

So instead, I watched her tense shoulders as she left.

And I couldn't shake the feeling—

She was not letting this go.

Vera's POV

The night was quiet. Too quiet.

I exhaled slowly, the smoke from my cigarette curling through the dim light, my fingers tapping against the desk's surface. The reports were spread out before me—shipments, numbers, names—but my eyes weren't on them. I couldn't stop thinking about her.

Claire.

She hadn't left the house. My men confirmed it. Valeria and Emilia had been with her. Watching her. Guarding her.

Or keeping her from running.

I didn't know why that sat wrong with me. Maybe because it meant Claire had told them. That meant Valeria knew.

A sharp crack outside.

Boots. Heavy. Uneven. Dragging.

Then the door to my office slammed open, the hinges groaning from the force.

And Valeria Castillo walked in like a goddamn hurricane—all controlled fury and sharpened edges.

She wasn't alone.

One of my men—Carlos—stumbled forward, barely upright, blood trickling down the side of his face. Before he could get his footing, Valeria shoved him forward, sending him sprawling onto the floor at my feet.

I flicked my cigarette, watching as Carlos groaned in pain.

Valeria's voice cut through the room, sharp and cold. "You need to do better at hiring."

Gabriel was already at my side, hand twitching toward his gun. I barely lifted a finger, and he froze. Not yet.

My gaze dragged from Carlos—who wasn't even trying to get up—to Valeria.

She was dressed in black, sleeves rolled up, knuckles dusted with blood that wasn't hers. Not a damn hair out of place.

She'd beaten the hell out of him. And she wasn't even breathing hard.

I let the moment stretch, dragging the silence out until I could almost feel her patience fraying. Then, slowly, I leaned forward, resting my elbows against the desk.

"Bold move," I murmured, tapping the ash from my cigarette. "But I didn't send him after you."

Valeria's lips curled, not a smirk—something sharper.

"Didn't need to," she said. Her eyes burned, dark and unreadable. "You've got enough rats crawling around my streets. Thought I'd return the favor."

Carlos groaned again, shifting on the floor.

She nudged him with her boot, her tone razor-edged. "Is he important to you?"

I tilted my head, considering. "Not really."

"Good."

Her foot came down—fast, brutal. A sharp crack echoed through the room as she broke his nose with a single, effortless stomp.

Carlos howled, clutching his face, but didn't dare try to stand.

Gabriel's hand twitched again. I gave him a glance that told him to hold.

Valeria wasn't here for blood. Not yet.

I took a slow drag from my cigarette, exhaling through my nose.

"Now that we're done with the dramatics," I said, voice lazy but deliberate, "why don't you tell me why you're really here?"

Valeria's jaw flexed, but her eyes didn't waver.

"Claire."

Her name hit the air like a blade unsheathed.

I flicked my cigarette into the ashtray. There it is.

"She got shot." Valeria's voice was steel wrapped in something that almost sounded like fury. "She got pulled into your war."

I leaned back, spreading my hands. "She pulled herself into it."

Valeria's nostrils flared, but I wasn't done.

"Tell me something, hermana," I murmured, watching her reaction closely. "Why was she there in the first place? Why did she know where to find me?"

She didn't blink. But she didn't answer either.

Ah.

So Claire had been looking for trouble long before she found me.

I smirked. "She told you, huh?"

Valeria's expression didn't crack. But her fists—just barely—did.

She stepped closer, her voice lowering. "She's not part of this world, Vera."

"Funny," I said, voice smooth. "She bled like she was."

Her jaw tightened.

I let the silence stretch, let the weight of it settle between us before I spoke again, voice softer now—cutting right to the nerve.

"You can lock her in that house all you want. It won't change a damn thing." I tilted my head. "She didn't listen to you. She'll come to me."

That did it.

I watched something flicker behind her eyes—quick, raw. A crack in the foundation.

Because we both knew the truth. Claire made her choice.

I leaned back, letting that settle between us. "You should be asking yourself why."

Valeria's fingers curled, a silent storm brewing behind her gaze.

Then— She stepped back.

The movement was controlled. Calculated. Like she'd decided something. She adjusted her sleeves, voice dropping low. Dangerous. Final.

"Keep your people away from her."

I exhaled, the ghost of a smirk playing at my lips. "That a request?"

Valeria's eyes darkened. "It's a warning."

I flicked my cigarette, my smirk sharpening. "You know what's funny, Valeria?"

She stilled. Just barely. But I saw it.

"It's been, what—eight months since we last saw each other? And in all that time, you never tried to find me. Never even tried to talk. I am your sister." My voice dipped, smooth and cutting. "But now, your little puppy gets hurt, and suddenly, here you are."

Her shoulders squared, the tension in her jaw locked tight.

I leaned forward, slow and deliberate, my voice soft but slicing. "What's that say about you?"

A flicker of something passed through her eyes. Something sharp. Something bitter.

She stepped back, turning on her heel without another word. The door swung shut behind her.

I stared at the empty space she left behind, the smoke curling from my cigarette, the echo of her words pressing against my ribs.

I should've let it go.

I should've been done with her, with Claire, with whatever the hell this was.

But as I glanced down at the blood smeared across the floor, I realized something.

I wasn't.