Claire's POV

The morning air was crisp, the kind of cold that bit through fabric and made the world feel sharper. My shoulder still ached, but it was a dull throb now, nothing I couldn't ignore. What I couldn't ignore, however, was the conversation with Valeria still looping in my head.

"She's playing you."

Yeah, no shit. But the thing was—I knew Vera was playing a game. I just didn't think she realized I was playing one too.

Vera loved control. Every little thing in her world had to be exactly as she dictated, from the way her men moved to the way a conversation unfolded. The second something slipped outside of her grasp? She'd burn the whole place down to fix it.

And that? That was my way in.

She sent the flowers because she expected something. A reaction. A thank-you. A pissed-off message. Something that told her she still had the upper hand. When I gave her nothing, I knew it would drive her insane.

That's the trick, isn't it? If Vera wants control, then I take it away. If she wants a reaction, I give her silence. If she wants silence, I make noise. The moment she thinks she understands me, I change the rules.

And maybe—just maybe—this game she started would be the way to her heart.

Or, I thought as I reached the café, it'll get me killed.

Worth the risk.

I pushed through the door, the bell chiming above me. The scent of coffee and cinnamon wrapped around me, warm and familiar. The line was short—thank God—and when I stepped up to the counter, the barista, a guy with shaggy brown hair and tired eyes, perked up.

"Well, well," he drawled. "Back from the dead, are we?"

I smirked, leaning against the counter. "Surprised to see me?"

He snorted. "A little. Figured you finally got chased down by one of those debt collectors."

I gasped, placing a hand over my chest. "You wound me, Luis. I pay my debts."

"Uh-huh." He didn't even blink, already punching in my usual order. "So, what happened? Car accident? Bar fight? Sudden urge to wrestle a bear?"

I sighed dramatically. "Would you believe me if I said all of the above?"

"Not even a little." He handed me my cup, shaking his head. "But I appreciate the effort."

I grinned, taking the coffee from him. "You should. Lying is an art."

Luis smirked, already moving on to the next customer. "Then you must be the Picasso of bullshitting."

I winked over my shoulder. "And don't you forget it."

Chuckling, I turned, taking a slow sip of my coffee. The warmth spread through me, a much-needed comfort, but the moment didn't last long.

Because then—I saw him.

Outside. Walking past the café.

The sniper.

A cold wave crashed through me, a stark contrast to the heat of my drink. He was just there, moving casually down the street like he hadn't nearly taken Vera's head off just a few nights ago.

Panic shot through my veins. My body tensed, my breath hitching.

What the hell is he doing here?

I moved without thinking, pushing through the door and stepping outside. The rush of city noise hit me all at once—engines, distant conversations, the rhythmic pounding of my pulse in my ears.

I scanned the street, my eyes darting across every face, every car. I knew Vera was watching me. There had to be someone nearby.

Where?

Maybe I was wrong to assume one of Vera's men was nearby. Maybe, for once, I wasn't the one being watched.

Or maybe... I was walking straight into something I couldn't see.

My fingers clenched around my coffee cup, the warmth forgotten as a new kind of heat burned through me—sharp, adrenaline-laced. I couldn't let him slip away. Not after everything.

I started walking, heels clicking against the pavement, my pace steady, deliberate. Not too fast. Not too eager. Just enough to keep him in my line of sight. Every turn he took, I took. Every alley, every shortcut—I followed.

Until I lost him.

My pulse spiked. Shit. My breath came shallow as my eyes scanned the street, the alleys, the shifting silhouettes of the crowd.

A mistake. I'd made a mistake.

Before I could move, before I could even think, an arm wrapped around my shoulder, pulling me in close.

"Hey, baby, where'd you go? I was looking for you."

My body went rigid. The voice was smooth, too casual. The grip on my shoulder was firm but not aggressive.

Confused, I turned my head slightly. The man leaning in close had dark, slicked-back hair, a sharp jawline, and a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. He looked like someone I should recognize, but I didn't.

His lips brushed my ear as he lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Play along. You're made."

My breath caught.

He tightened his hold just slightly—enough to press the warning home. "Behind the crates. He saw you following. Gun's already on you."

A cold sweat broke out along my spine. I fought the instinct to whip my head around, to check if he was telling the truth. But I didn't have to. I felt it now—that shift in the air, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on me.

I leaned into the stranger, forcing a laugh, my voice light despite the pulse hammering in my throat. "I got lost," I said, slipping into the easy role of a careless girlfriend. "You know me, always wandering off."

He hummed, his hand sliding down my arm, the perfect imitation of an affectionate touch. "You really gotta stop doing that," he teased, his voice still low, measured.

We started walking, casual but purposeful. I could feel the tension humming beneath his skin, matching my own.

Once we were far enough, I risked a glance up at him. "Who the hell are you?" I asked under my breath.

He didn't answer.

I gritted my teeth. "Do you work for Vera?"

A slight nod.

I exhaled sharply. "Good. Because we can't let that man walk away."

His eyes flicked down to me, unreadable. "Why?"

My voice dropped, tight and edged with something sharp.

"Because that's the sniper who tried to kill Vera."

The second the words left my mouth, I felt him tense beside me. It was subtle, just the faintest shift in his posture, but I caught it.

His grip on my arm didn't tighten, but it didn't loosen either.

For a split second, I thought he was going to ignore me. Maybe even keep walking and pretend none of this had happened. But then—

"You sure?" His voice was low, measured.

I kept my steps even, forcing myself not to react too quickly. "Yeah. I saw him. The night at the docks."

His jaw ticked, his hand subtly guiding me as we took another turn onto a quieter street. "And you're sure he's not just some guy?"

I shot him a look. "I'm not in the habit of tailing random men through alleys for fun."

His lips twitched slightly, but the amusement didn't reach his eyes. "Could've fooled me."

I ignored the dig. "He's getting away."

He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the street. The sniper was nowhere in sight, but that didn't mean he was gone. He was smart—I'd give him that. He'd noticed me trailing him before I even realized I'd been spotted. And now, he was either running or setting a trap.

"How do you want to play this?" he murmured.

I hesitated for half a second. "You tell me. You work for Vera. You're the professional here."

His smirk was lazy, but his eyes were sharp. "Cute. I didn't get a good look at him. Stay close ,"

I exhaled, my pulse hammering against my ribs. He was right. If we had any chance of tracking him down, I had to be the one leading the charge.

"Fine," I muttered. My fingers twitched at my side.

And with that, we were moving.

I followed Vera's guy through the crowd, my stomach tight, my fingers twitching. The sniper was ahead, moving like he wasn't in a rush. Like he didn't have a damn care in the world. Arrogant bastard.

"You sure it's him?" Vera's guy murmured without looking at me.

The memory of the gunshot, the burn of the bullet tearing through my shoulder—it all rushed back in a wave so strong I had to swallow hard to keep my face from betraying me.

"I'm sure," I muttered, my jaw clenching.

We moved in tandem, careful, keeping enough distance that the sniper wouldn't feel the net closing in. I was jittery, my nerves stretched thin, but I forced myself to stay steady. I didn't know what I was doing, not really. But I knew I couldn't let this guy slip through my fingers.

The sniper turned a corner, slipping into a side alley.

My gut lurched. This was it. I moved without thinking, picking up my pace, stepping into the alley—

A hard force yanked me back.

An arm clamped around my waist, dragging me against a firm chest. A hand clamped over my mouth before I could yelp.

I went rigid, my heart nearly bursting through my ribs.

"Not so fast, chica," the deep voice murmured in my ear. Vera's guy. His grip loosened just enough for me to breathe, but he didn't let go. "You walk in there like that, and you'll be the next body hitting the ground."

I jerked my head toward the alley, my voice muffled. "He's getting away!"

"He's expecting you to follow," he countered, low and sharp.

That stopped me cold.

He was right. I'd been so caught up in the chase, in the need to do something, that I hadn't even considered it. This guy wasn't just some lone gunman.

Vera's guy exhaled through his nose like he was debating whether or not I was worth explaining things to. Then, after a beat, he muttered, "Let me handle this."

I barely had time to nod before he moved.

Smooth. Controlled. A predator walking into his own territory.

I pressed my back against the wall, my breath tight, trying to keep my nerves from strangling me. I peeked around the corner just in time to see Vera's guy approach the sniper like he belonged there.

The sniper turned, his eyes sharp with suspicion.

"You lost?" he asked, his tone flat.

Vera's guy smirked. "Depends. You running?"

The sniper's stance shifted—just a fraction—but it was enough.

I didn't see the move happen. One second, they were standing there. The next, Vera's guy had him pinned, one arm twisted behind his back, his cheek mashed against the alley wall.

A short struggle, a muffled grunt, and a flick of movement. A gun clattered to the ground.

"Not very sharp for a sniper, huh?" Vera's guy muttered.

The sniper bucked, trying to break free, but the grip held firm.

"Get over here, chica," Vera's guy called.

I hesitated for a split second before forcing my feet to move.

I inhaled slowly, pressing down the nerves crawling under my skin. The sniper wasn't some random hired gun—he had a purpose. A mission. And he worked for Leo.

And now?

He belonged to Vera.



Vera's POV

Gabriel stepped into the room, his expression unreadable, but I caught the flicker of something behind his eyes—something he found amusing.

"Claire's here," he said.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly through my nose. A smirk curled at the corner of my lips. So predictable.

She lasted a week before coming back. No reaction to the flowers, no playful response, no show of gratitude. But I knew she was thinking about me. I knew I had her. And now? She was here. Just like I expected.

I rose, stretching my arms over my head before rolling my shoulders, keeping my expression carefully controlled. "Send her in."

Gabriel shot me a look—something between exasperation and amusement—but he didn't argue. He stepped aside, and then there she was.

Claire.

She walked in with the same cocky confidence she always wore, but I wasn't fooled. There was something underneath it—a tightness in her shoulders, a flicker of something raw in her eyes.

Still, I smirked, letting the silence hang heavy between us. Letting her feel the weight of stepping into my space. "Missed me already?" I drawled.

She didn't take the bait. Instead, she held my gaze steady, then tilted her head slightly. "Thanks for the flowers," she said casually. "But I got you a better gift."

That was when Antonio stepped in.

The moment shifted.

The room, once mine, suddenly wasn't.

My smirk froze.

Antonio shoved the man forward, making him stumble before landing on his knees. "While I was watching Claire, I saw her tailing this guy," Antonio explained, his voice calm, but edged with something sharp. "She didn't notice she had eyes on her. This asshole almost put a bullet in her head. I had to step in before she got herself killed." He glanced at Claire, then back at me. "That's when she told me who he was. The sniper"

I felt the shift in my chest—something sharp, something unfamiliar.

Claire.

Again.

I clenched my jaw, the smirk finally slipping from my lips as I processed the scene in front of me.

The sniper the one who had disappeared without a trace, the one I had wasted time and resources trying to find—was standing there, his hands bound, blood trailing from a cut along his cheek.

She had handed me the man I'd been hunting for days—the one who nearly ended me. She had succeeded where my men had failed. That was a victory, wasn't it?

It should have been.

But all I could see was her—chasing a man she had no business following, stepping into danger like it meant nothing. Like her life didn't matter.

I forced myself to breathe evenly, to keep my expression locked in place. But something burned under my ribs—something uncomfortable, something raw.

Claire, meanwhile, had the audacity to grin. "I take it you like the gift?"

My fists curled at my sides. I wasn't sure if I wanted to laugh or slam her against the wall until she understood the weight of what she had done.

"You went after him?" My voice was dangerously low.

Her smirk didn't waver. "More like followed."

I took a step forward, my presence pressing against hers, suffocating the space between us. "Do you have a death wish, Pastelito ? Or are you just naturally stupid?"

Antonio cleared his throat like he wanted to remind me he was still in the room, but I ignored him.

Claire's smirk twitched, but it didn't fully disappear. "Well," she mused, "I figured since I already took a bullet for you, I might as well finish the job."

Something snapped.

Heat curled through me, sharp and sudden, and I caught myself before I reacted—before I grabbed her, before I let my hands close around her arms just to shake some damn sense into her.

Instead, I let out a slow, measured breath, forcing my body back under control. I turned my attention to the sniper kneeling before me, barely conscious but still breathing. My hands twitched. This should've been a win.

It didn't feel like one.

"You almost got yourself killed again," I muttered, more to myself than to her.

Claire shrugged, and that was when my control almost broke.

"Dios mío," I hissed under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair. "Tell me, Claire, what exactly do you think you're doing?" I gestured sharply at the sniper. "You think you're helping me? That this is some game?"

Her expression faltered for just a second—just long enough for me to see it. Then, she lifted her chin. "You're welcome."

The words dug under my skin like glass.

Gabriel came to my side and whispered in my ear. "I told you," he said lazily. "She's not stupid."

My glare snapped toward him, but he wasn't wrong. Claire wasn't stupid.

She was worse. She was reckless. And that? That was dangerous.

Antonio shifted beside me. "Vera, we should—"

I lifted a hand to silence him. This wasn't about the sniper anymore.

It was about her.

I turned to Antonio, my pulse still tight from everything that had just unfolded. My patience, already stretched thin, snapped into something sharp, something lethal.

"What was your order?" My voice was steady, but the weight behind it pressed into the air like a loaded gun.

Antonio hesitated. Wrong move.

Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my knife from my belt, the metal catching the dim light. I stepped forward, pressing the blade just under his jaw, feeling his pulse hammer against the steel.

"What was your order, Antonio?" I repeated, my tone like ice cracking under pressure.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Follow her," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Keep her out of Leo's hands."

My grip on the knife didn't loosen. If anything, it tightened. "And tell me, pendejo, what part of letting her chase one of Leo's men kept her out of Leo's hands?" I leaned in, my voice dropping into something lethal. "You think he was alone?"

Antonio's breath hitched, his pupils shrinking.

Behind him, the sniper—bloodied, bound—had the audacity to smirk.

My patience snapped.

The handle of my knife slammed into Antonio's face, and he staggered back with a pained grunt. Before I could drive the lesson home, Claire moved.

She stepped between us—reckless, bold, and so goddamn stupid.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" My voice came sharp, slicing through the space between us.

Claire didn't flinch. "It was my idea," she shot back, chin tilting up defiantly. "He didn't do anything wrong."

The room tensed.

For a second, I felt my control slip—not because of Claire's words, but because of the way the eyes in the room turned to me. My men. My crew. Watching. Waiting.

Watching me.

I clenched my jaw. I couldn't afford to look weak—not in front of them, not with Claire challenging me like this.

My gaze flicked to Gabriel. A silent order.

Gabriel moved fast, his grip iron-tight around Claire's arm as he yanked her out of the way.

The scream tore from her before she could swallow it.

My gaze snapped to her.

Her hand clutched her injured shoulder, her body curling around the pain, her breath ragged.

For the smallest fraction of a second, something in me faltered.

Then, I caught Gabriel's eye, the silent warning clear—gentler.

His grip loosened, but the damage was done.

Claire, through gritted teeth, still had the nerve to glare at me. "You done proving a point?" she spat.

I stepped closer, letting her feel the weight of my presence. "You want to see how it works in my world, Pastelito ?" My voice was low, lethal, humming with something dangerous. "When someone fucks up—they get punished."

Then, without another word, I turned on Antonio and swung.

My fist connected with his ribs, the sharp crack echoing through the room. He gasped, crumpling slightly, but I didn't stop. I struck again—his stomach, his jaw—pain replacing hesitation.

Claire struggled against Gabriel's grip. "Vera, stop!"

I ignored her.

Another punch.

Antonio hit the ground, coughing, his hands shaking as he tried to push himself up.

Claire wrenched herself forward, her breath ragged with fury. "Vera!"

I turned to her—my breath heaving, my knuckles burning, my control hanging by a thread.

She wasn't scared.

She wasn't backing down.

Her eyes—fierce, raw, something I didn't want to name—held mine, unwavering. "This isn't about him," she said, her voice shaking, but steady. "This is about me."

The words hit. Hard.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. My hands curled into fists. My chest ached, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

She was right. Fucking hell. She was right.

I exhaled sharply, the fire still burning, but it wasn't directed at Antonio anymore.

It was at her.

I took a slow step forward, invading her space until she had to tilt her chin to look up at me. My voice, low and edged with something I didn't want to admit, came quiet but firm.

"You think you understand this world?" My breath ghosted against her cheek. "You don't."

Her lips parted slightly, her pulse flickering at her throat.

I smirked—slow, dark. "But you will."

Then, I turned sharply, walking away—because if I didn't, I wasn't sure what I'd do.

And that? That was exactly the problem.