The woman whimpers as she cowers on the ground. Neither are aware they have company. Big Joe spits at her in disdain, instantly making my temper flare. I watch as he raises his foot and brings it back, ready to kick her.
Like fuck.
With a swift flick of my wrist, I send my dagger sailing through the air, its sleek blade glinting momentarily in the dim light before it finds its mark. The sharp point embeds itself deep into the man’s thigh.
A scream of shock and pain tears from his mouth, raw and desperate, as he staggers back, clutching at his leg. His eyes widen in disbelief, the arrogance he displayed moments ago now replaced with terror. The young woman scrambles away, her body trembling, eyes darting between him and me.
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of my lips as the sound of his agony reaches my ears. It’s a sound I’ve grown accustomed to—a scream that signals the start of justice, the beginning of the end for those who prey on the innocent. He tries to pull the dagger out, his fingers slipping on the hilt as blood seeps from the wound, staining the ground beneath him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“Fuck!” he yells, his desperate eyes scanning the alley until they land on me. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Tsk. Tsk. You really should treat people better,” I chastise. “You never know who might stab you.”
“You. You fucking stabbed me.”
“And I’ll do worse,” I respond, another dagger appearing in my hand.
I smirk, and with a flick of my wrist, it sails through the air, this time hitting him in the shoulder. Big Joe lets out another piercing howl, but he remains standing.
Good effort, dickhead.
I come to a stop beside the woman huddled on the ground and glance down at her with a blank expression. She’s trembling, her body curled in on itself, and the bruise on her cheek is hard to miss—a dark mark against her pale skin, contrasting with the streaks of mascara running down her face. She doesn’t meet my gaze, too shaken to lift her head. I gently pry into her head and see flashes of memories, an older woman in a hospital bed calling her name.
I step closer to her, making her attention lift to me.
“You can leave, Maria,” I say, my voice low but firm. She gasps in surprise, and I can tell she’s shocked that I know her name. “And I suggest you steer clear of this asshole and all his associates.”
She flinches slightly at my words, but I press on, keeping my tone steady, hoping she’ll hear the urgency beneath the surface. “Find somewhere safe. Or better yet, get out of the city altogether.”
Her eyes finally flicker upward, a glimmer of hope fighting through the fear. I take a step back, giving her room, silently praying she’ll take the chance.
The woman blinks in confusion before scrambling to her feet. “Thank you,” she whispers, staggering on her heels before quickly making her way down the alley without looking back.
“You fucking bitch. Who do you think you are?!” Big Joe shouts, spittle flying everywhere.
I shrug, tossing some of my long midnight-black hair over my shoulder. “Your worst nightmare, probably.”
“Do you have any idea who I am?” The veins in his forehead are visibly pulsing. Gross. “Do you?” he snarls.
I let out a heavy sigh and motion for him to tell me. I’ll let him get this off his chest because if he doesn’t give me what I came here for, he’s as good as dead.
“I’m Joe Cino. Of the Ramada house. And I will have your head for this.”
“Ahh, yes. The notorious Ramada drug cartel,” I reply, flipping another dagger in my hand, the blade deftly twirling around.
“W-w-what was that? H-how?” he stammers, his beady eyes focusing on the dagger.
“Look, I haven’t got all night. There’s a wedding reception I’m already late for.”
I move with the speed and grace of the wind, my steps barely making a sound as I close the distance between us. In one fluid motion, I position myself behind him, aiming a precise kick at the backs of his knees. His legs buckle under the force, and he crumples to the ground with a heavy, resounding thud. The impact sends a shiver through the air, leaving him stunned and vulnerable at my feet.
Leaning over him, I grip his hair tightly, forcing his head back, then place my dagger against his throat. “Now tell me, where is the shipment that came over the border last night?”
“How . . . do you know about that?” he blurts, and I love the terror lining the edge of his words.
“I have my ways. Now where is it?”
