She slowly pulled away from me and began to walk away, but I called her back. "Please, Lucia. I need to know. Imagine I was your daughter."
She paused, and her shoulders slumped slightly as she faced me. Her face was creased with worry.
"I won't tell, I promise. I just need to know. Please. My life is in danger here," I pleaded even more.
She was about to speak when the door flew open, and Luca stepped in in all his glory. I almost let out a curse, but it flashed across my mind that he had booked me a spa session.
"Lucia," he called and said something in Spanish. She bowed her head and left, leaving me alone with Luca.
The door shut behind him as he stood confidently, his eyes connected to mine.
A long moment passed, but neither of us spoke a word.
"You could have just executed me if you were so uncertain about me being a mole," I mumbled. I had to break the unsettling silence, and what better way to do that than to play some mind games?
He said nothing, but his dark eyes spoke volumes. They were warning. It ticked me off. I wanted to know what he was thinking, but he was giving nothing but icy neutrality away.
"Thanks for the spa," I chipped in, walking over to the bed. If he was trying to watch me for a sign of panic, I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
My heart raced, but I forced my body to remain calm as I stared into space. I half expected him to make advances towards me, but his next words knocked the winds out of my lungs—in a good way.
"You need something to keep you busy. I don't want you to be idle anymore," he stated, slowly walking in my direction.
A small smile crept on my lips. I was tired of sitting around and being locked in my room.
"What?"
He stopped inches before my bed, and took a strand of my hair in his hands, his eyes mysterious and cold.
"You will be working with me."
"What?!"
*
In all my years of living, the criminal life was the last thing I would ever do to make a living. Literally.
Yet, here I was, standing in the middle of Luca's underground training facility, a gun in my trembling hands.
Hugo, ever expressionless, handed me the firearm with the same detached efficiency he'd shown all week.
I could feel the weight of his scrutiny, his silent judgment pressing down on me like a vice.
Around us, two dozen men—hulking, lethal—stood in a loose circle, their unreadable eyes locked on me.
"Even breathing. Sturdy stance. Steady gaze. Now... Fire!" Hugo's sharp command cut through the heavy silence.
I exhaled shakily, steadied my grip, and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang out like a thunderclap, and the watermelon exploded, red juice splattering onto the concrete floor. The sight made my stomach turn. It looked too much like blood.
The hairs on my neck stood on end. What was I really practicing for?
I forced myself to glance at Luca. He sat in the bleachers, his posture lazy, yet there was nothing casual about the way he watched me. His gaze was dark, unreadable. Dangerous.
I had prayed that if I had to be involved in his world, it would be in intelligence, strategy—hell, even as a maid. Anything but this. Anything but taking a life.
Luca's voice was smooth, controlled. "Let her go, Hugo."
Hugo stepped back, his gaze lingering on me before shifting to Luca. I braced myself.
Luca stood, rolling up his sleeves as he descended from the bleachers. The air in the room thickened with tension. Every man around us seemed to be holding his breath.
He stopped inches from me, eyes locked on mine.
"One week is enough time for you to get this right. Enough of the dummy practice. Now, you're going to take out an enemy."
My breath hitched. Blood pounded in my ears as two of Luca's men dragged in a bloodied, half-conscious man. His wrists were bound, his face swollen and battered. He could barely keep his head up.
My neck almost snapped with how fast I turned to Luca, horror seizing me. "Luca, I can't—"
"Mozambique drill," he cut in coldly. "I want him dead."
A shuddering breath left me as one of the men shoved the gun into my hands. My fingers curled around the cold steel involuntarily.
"I can't do this," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My vision blurred with unshed tears. "This—this is against everything I believe in."
Silence.
Luca's expression didn't change. No anger. No pity. Just that unbearable, merciless neutrality.
"It wasn't a suggestion, Marta," he murmured, his voice deathly quiet.
A choked sob lodged in my throat as I turned back to the man. His lips quivered. "P-please. S-spare me. M-my wife. M-my daughter—"
My heart splintered. I clenched the gun tighter, my entire body trembling.
What had he done to deserve this? How could I—?
Luca took a slow step closer. "I don't take lightly my time being wasted, ¿entiendes?"
I sucked in a breath, nerves fraying under the weight of his demand.
Then, before I could think, my body moved on instinct.
I spun on my heel, the barrel of the gun lifting—
And I aimed it straight at Luca.
Gasps rippled through the room. The tension was now thick enough to suffocate. Some men tensed, hands twitching towards their weapons. Others simply gawked, stunned at my audacity.
Luca didn't move. His face didn't flinch. But something flickered in those abyss-like eyes.
"What are you doing?" he asked, voice low, dangerous.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "The only person here I'd rather kill is you, Luca," I spat, my hands shaking. "You're a monster. How dare you ask me to kill someone else? Do you realize that it's a crime?!"
A ripple of murmurs spread through the room. A few of the men exchanged wary glances.
Luca, however, remained disturbingly still.
"Marta," he said calmly, "kill him."
I clenched my jaw, the gun tightening in my grip. "No," I hissed. "He's innocent. He has a family to return to. I will not—"
"MARTA!"
The way he roared my name sent a violent shiver down my spine.
Then, before I could react, he shrugged off his shirt, revealing a broad, scarred chest. Different tattoos could be clearly seen. A blood red rose with thorns on his chest. A serpent around a dagger highlighted his waist. He reached for his weapons—one by one, disarming himself. Guns clattered to the ground, the sound echoing through the stunned silence.
And then he looked at me, unwavering.
"Do it."
My pulse hammered wildly. "W-what?"
"You want to kill me? Kill me," he challenged, his voice cold as ice. "If you have the guts."
The room fell into a suffocating stillness.
A bead of sweat slid down my temple. My grip on the gun was slipping.
The power of his stare pinned me in place. The way his men remained frozen, awaiting my next move, made me feel like I was standing at the edge of a cliff.
Luca didn't blink. Didn't waver.
Neither did I.
I just had to decide—
Who would die tonight?