Serina Montiel
The man was already dead. He just didn't know it yet. I watched him sweat through his cheap suit, mouth moving too fast, eyes darting like maybe—just maybe—he could find an exit. There wasn't one. Not with me sitting here.
"You lost my shipment," I said. "And then you lied about it."
"I—I can fix it, I swear. Just give me—"
"Time?" I tilted my head, slow and deliberate. "You've had plenty."
He glanced at the door. Foolish. Kade was already there, pistol steady, face unreadable.
"No—please, Serina—"
One soft shot. Barely a whisper. The man crumpled at Kade's feet, a mess on my marble floor.
I rose, adjusting my black silk dress. Not a single drop dared touch me. "Burn everything he touched," I said without looking back. "Make sure the rats know." Kade nodded, dragging the body away.
Montiel used to be a name for promises and bloodlines. Now it's a threat. The kind that rots men's guts just hearing it. They thought I would be their princess. Their pawn. Instead, I gave them fire. My father's last words weren't prayers—they were screams. My brothers never got a chance to beg. And Mother? She never said a word anyway.
I built my empire out of the wreckage they left behind and made sure no one could touch it without bleeding. They call me La Reina now. The Queen. Not out of respect. Out of fear.
Kade's voice pulled me back to the present, low and steady behind me. "There's been movement on the Eastside docks."
I didn't break stride. "There's always movement."
"This one's different," he said. "A man. Keeps coming around. Quiet. Doesn't talk. Doesn't take bribes. Won't even look twice at the girls we sent."
That made me slow. Just a step. I turned my head slightly. "And?"
Kade hesitated. He knew better than to bring me noise without substance.
"He's not one of ours. Not the Colombians either. Name came through a wiretap."
I turned fully now, facing him. "Who is he?"
The pause told me everything before Kade even spoke. "Nico Sloane."
The name settled in the air between us. Not one of mine. Not anyone's. Outsiders don't survive long in my city. They get chewed up and spat out, left to rot in gutters nobody bothers to clean.
I tipped my glass back, tasting the last bitter swallow. If Nico Sloane thought he could walk through my world untouched, he was about to learn the hard way. Curiosity kills. And darling, I'm very curious.