~~Liach POV ~~
Some girls dream of love. Of gentle hands, warm smiles, promises made beneath stars.
But I? I dream of screams. The kind that echoes from pain, and from pain that I inflicted.
I dream of blood on my knuckles. Of silence that follows the final breath of a dying person.
I was born wrong, I think, or maybe Papa broke me wrongly. But somewhere in my wiring, the part that craves affection was twisted into something darker.
That's why I don't mind when my Papa sends me out again.
Today's message came in at midnight, encrypted and cold.
"Cleanup required. Full disposal. No traces. Use creativity."
And It makes me happy, because by creativity. That means papa 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 and paranoid. But his not paranoid enough.
I was already inside the building before he knew anyone was coming. Black gloves. Compact knife. A bag of supplies that would make a coroner weep.
I knocked once. No answer.
Then I knocked again, still no answer.
But before I could knock the third time, he peeks through the chain lock. I catch his eye.
"Delivery," I shouted, even though I'm not holding anything.
He hesitated for a moment, but eventually opened the door. Which was a very big mistake.
Why did they keep falling for this delivery stuff, every single time? Or is it that they truly ordered something?
I slammed my blade into his face before he could close the door again. 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.
"Why did you not answer the door at the first knock? Or don't you know what manner is?"
" I'm sorry. P.. please don't kill me."
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.
"I didn't mean to… They threatened my family—" he said sobbing.
"Wrong answer." I slap him across the face. Not hard. Just enough to remind him who's in control.
"And my Papa won't? Plus your fucking sobs are annoying" I said shoving a towel into his mouth.
I don't really know why. But I just want to watch the light leave his eyes.
First I started with his fingers. 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.
And the sounds he was making between the towel? Is exquisite.
Time flew far, as I indulge myself into my masterpiece. That I didn't know it was almost morning.
When he finally dies, it wasn't not with a scream—but a whimper. I cleaned my knifes, wipe my gloves, and scatter bleach across every surface.
It's now perfect. Untraceable.
Brutal enough that it'll send a message through the streets.
Don't cross the Ciscos.
And don't fuck with Gabriel.
I step outside, pulling my hoodie, as the cold air 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 slut from last night.
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 to be watching.
"Morning Sir De Luna," 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 on my lips, then to my eyes.
"Depends on what you were doing last night."
"Sleeping." Lie. But my voice is even. smooth. With ten years worth of practice who would know.
He hums. "Shame."
"Mr De Luna, didn't you sleep well last night?" I asked feigning a concerned face.
"I did." He said with a tone flat.
" But you don't look like it."
With that he walks into his office, not giving me more of his time.
He's testing me now—with words dropped like knives.
I wonder how many times I can let him cut me before I cut back.
Moment Later, while I was organizing some files.
The sounds of heels came disrupting my solace.
Too loud and too arrogant not to be noticed
The kind of sound only a desperate woman makes when she wants everyone to know she's arrived.
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.
"Hey, is Sinveer in?"
Who is this bitch and why is she talking as if I work for her?
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 the morning and face too ugly to look at.
"You listening?" You could see the fury in her eyes.
She marches across the De Luna headquarters like she owns it. Like she belongs here.
Wrong.
I know who she is. Everyone does.
Marla.
Sinveer's little side toy. She's the kind of woman who thinks after she spreads her legs, earns her power. The kind who confuses being used with being wanted.
"You're Liach the new assistant? Ain't you?" 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, so don't give me that attitude."
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. Trying to think where she got that idea from.
A hush falls in the hall. Even Marek is watching from the corner.
I smile.
Why does she talks as she saw us fucking. Shit. She is getting on my nerves.
Then I stood up, moved past my desk, towards her at the other side of the desk.
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, stepping backwards a little.
"I don't chase men. I don't need to."
I step even closer, forcing her back a fraction.
"And I don't know where you get the idea that there's something between me and my boss!? But it doesn't matter. Because if I wanted to fuck him, it would have been a long time ago and you— you would have been dead."
"So 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 slapped 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 and brutal.
She collapses to the floor, coughing profusely.
"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 again.
I catch her wrist midair and twist it, slow but painful.
She screams. Sobbing that I should let her go.
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.