Chapter 1 THURSDAY, 7 PM

𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑨 𝑷𝑶𝑽

I shoot him in the exact same spot I stabbed him seconds ago.

"Yo yoooou" He stammers, pointing at me as I watch life leave him

"For my parents"

The crack of the suppressed pistol reverberates through the lounge as I watch Carlos's blood pool on the tiled floor. The same way he decorated the walls of my home six years ago.

One last time, my bullet digs a hole on his forehead

"For my brother" his lifeless body splatters blood on my red Louboutin heels-the one I've been saving for this exact moment.

When I finally murder the Don of Viper Lane.

Not yet. But soon.

"Who taught you how to be this good, nena?"

Damien's voice pulls me out of the murderous daydream. Carlos's best friend and right hand questions me.

Instead, I smile at an accomplished mission seated eight feet away: Carlos

His gaze has been on me for twenty minutes now, observing as I dismantle one of his men at chess.

About to be two now.

"Checkmate"

Damien hisses as I kick down his king.

"You're bad for these men's pockets." Vera hands over my winnings.

"It has been a bad play"

Damien teases, gripping my hand with a smile that I return.

I hug the cash to my chest, playing up my victory while others clamor for one more round.

"Please one round Thalia"

"If you find a better player, you know where to find me." I yell to the room, releasing my hair from its bun, letting it fall around my shoulders.

His gaze still burns & I give in to look.

Legs wide apart, back against the cushions of a two-seater sofa, occupying space like he owns it. Cigarette smoke circles him like incense burned around an idol.

The murmurs and shuffling of the lounge fade out. All I feel is venom.

Anger hammers against my ribs. My nails dig crescents into my palms. Pain. Focus. Not yet. Not here. Not like this.

I take three steps toward the exit. Three steps toward fresh air and freedom, until a wall of muscle blocks my path.

Orio. One of Carlos's enforcers-useful for breaking bones and issuing threats when Greg, the primary bodyguard, isn't around. I've cataloged every one of Carlos's men I can identify. Orio ranks bottom for intelligence but top for blind obedience.

"Did I..." I blink thrice and let timidness creep into my voice, "forget something?"

Young and scared-that's what they expect from a young woman facing down a man quadruple her size.

"My boss wants to see you." His voice scrapes like gravel and cigarettes.

I raise my brows at him.

"NOW." He barks, squaring his shoulders.

On paper and to strangers, I look like a regular bratty girl. Tonight, I look the part. I might as well use it.

"If your boss wants to see me," I begin, gripping my purse tighter, feeling the weight of the scissors inside

"he should act like a man and approach me himself. Not send an underling."

Orio's nostrils flare. His hand twitches toward the gun I know he keeps in his waistband.

Come to me Carlos, I'm not like the men that stutter at your presence or the women that beg for your attention

"For the meantime, I'm uninterested." I duck under his outstretched arm.

"Play with me."

Three words. A direct command. No elaboration, no asking. Just the absolute expectation of obedience.

The voice is deep and smooth, like honeyed whiskey laced with boredom and authority. It makes every hair on my body stand at attention, sending ice racing through my veins.

I turn slowly, pulse pounding in my ears as I face him: Carlos Terrius, Don of Viper Lane.

Six years of preparation should have made this easier.

My heart slams against my ribs, trying to escape. Or warn me.

This is him. This is the man. All I need is for him to want me for a quick fuck in his home, his hotel, his office-anywhere I can plant the cameras buried in my bag. Learn his routine enough to destroy him

"MOVE."

Orio's order cuts through my thoughts.

I lift my head to properly look at Carlos.

He's more commanding in person than through my camera lenses. Six-foot-three of lean muscle and controlled violence in an impeccably tailored black suit. Dark hair falls across his forehead-longer than modern, shorter than rebellious.

But it's his eyes that pin me in place. Deep and dark beneath thick brows, set in clean-shaven olive skin. He must have shaved since I last captured him on film.

Dead eyes on a thirty-one-year-old face, fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach drop.

"So you're the incapable boss who sends others to do his work?"

The words escape before I can stop them. Sharp. Edged with the bitterness that belongs to the seventeen-year-old girl he destroyed, not the calculated weapon I've become.

His eyes narrow.

"Excuse me?"

And this is where I die. Two of his men approach me with steps that promise bloodshed

"You heard me." I commit to the grave I'm digging. Take me to the dungeon you punish me. Get me into your world.

Carlos raises one hand. They freeze instantly.

"Well-trained dogs," I mutter.

His jaw ticks. He heard me.

Carlos doesn't explode as expected. Instead, he bows his head, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he twirls an archaic-looking silver ring on his index finger.

A dry chuckle escapes him, and my throat goes dry.

"I was hoping I misheard," he murmurs to the floor, the ring catching the dim light of the lounge.

"Something a coward would do."

I retort, and he draws in a breath.

When he looks up, his eyes are pure darkness. Amusement vanished from his expression

Hands in pocket, He moves. Three strides of purposeful, predatory rage

"What a very brave way to invite a deep painful death."