“I’m not the one you should be angry at. If anything, you should follow your boss’s orders instead of taking your frustration out on me.” I took a small step forward, careful not to provoke, but asserting my space.
“So please...” My voice softened just enough to be almost coaxing, though the steel underneath didn’t falter. “Take me to the ladies to get dressed, and maybe then I’ll know if this is real—or just a dream.”
His fist clenched so hard I heard it.
Bone grinding against bone.
A sharp, ugly crack that echoed in the small room like a warning shot.
Renzo’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding together audibly as he stared at me like I had just walked in and insulted his entire bloodline.
“I would not let this abomination happen,” he spat.
Every word came out like it tasted bitter in his mouth.
His hand dropped.
Then closed around the grip of his pistol.
“I’d rather put a bullet in you right here,” he continued, voice dropping lower, more dangerous, “than stand there and watch you destroy everything.”
His fingers curled tighter around the gun, testing its weight, readying himself.
“If Vincenzo walks away from Violet—” He spat the name like it carried sacred weight. “The Spanish girl... this entire arrangement blows up.”
He stepped closer, his presence pressing in, heavy and suffocating.
Every inch of him radiated controlled fury.
“A marriage between the Spanish and the Italian is long overdue,” he continued, his eyes locking on mine, burning through me. “And I will not let some random... puta... ruin it. Not today. Not this wedding.”
“Call me puta again,” I said quietly, “and we’ll see how fast you bleed before your boss walks back in.”
His face darkened instantly.
A flush rising beneath his skin, anger pushing through every line of restraint he barely had to begin with.
He drew his gun in one fluid motion, but before he could even blink, I kicked it out of his hand.
Shock flashed across his face as I moved, instinct taking over, guiding his fist, deflecting, striking—two punches here, a step back there—positioning myself to fight.
If only he knew what I’d spent the last five years of my life doing?
Evading dangerous men, fighting off trained killers, disarming and incapacitating those who dared touch me?
If he understood just how lethal I am in combat, he wouldn’t even think about threatening me with a gun.
I wasn’t whole.
My anger was a razor edge, ready to shred anything—or anyone—in its path.
Mentally, I was fractured, a tightrope walker over the chasm of my own shattered past, teetering on the edge of a darkness that could swallow me whole.
One wrong move, one spark, and I could spiral out of control—destroying everything in my path, just as I had destroyed pieces of myself years ago.
The trauma of the CIA mission still clung to me like a shadow I could never shake.
I remembered it all—the night we, the three surviving members of a twenty-one-person team sent to capture Al Chapo, realized the mission was a trap.
