I trembled in fear for Reese's life, but then I snapped out of it and summoned the courage to say, "I will do anything you ask."
He chuckled darkly. "Be careful with what you say. Anything? Will you do anything I command?"
I knew what he meant, but I agreed. His eyes narrowed as he continued, "There is a man planning an ambush against me. I need you to get to him before he gets to me—even if it means ending him. I won't get involved personally; my reputation is at stake. I am a señor de la droga—a drug lord. I can't waste my time on small issues. You will get the job done. And as I said, I'll keep my end of the bargain."
I agreed, though in the back of my mind I thought maybe I could use this chance to escape.
But as if reading my thoughts, he warned coldly, "Don't even think of running away. I will find you. And before you attend to that mission, you'll go through intense training sessions."
A couple of weeks slipped by, and soon a month had passed. The days blurred together, marked by pain and control. Yet alongside the torment, I was forced into relentless training—taekwondo, kumdo, kung fu, tai chi, jujutsu, aikido, karate, judo, and chambara. Each discipline left my body aching, but also sharpened my instincts.
During one of my taekwondo lessons, a bold idea struck me.
"If we fight here and I win," I said to Axel, "you must grant me any wish I demand."
He agreed, pride flashing in his eyes—he couldn't afford to look weak or intimidated.
We fought relentlessly. I nearly had him, until he shifted into aikido. With that sudden change, he caught me off guard and won.
"You cheated," I protested.
"No, I didn't," he replied coldly. "There were no rules."
Without another word, he turned and left to answer a phone call. I clenched my fists, fury burning inside me.
It was evening, and I had grown accustomed to his controlling attitude—every move of mine dictated, every choice stripped away. He decided what food best suited me and what clothes I should wear. I had no choice.
The anger and pain made my heart ache, but those emotions stirred something deeper inside me. I needed to understand the root of this. Why was Axel treating me this way—cold and indifferent at times, yet strangely willing to help me or even act as though he liked me?
And why hadn't the CIA acted on what had transpired? Their silence gnawed at me, raising questions I could no longer ignore.
It was finally time for the mission to be handled. Axel showed me various documents, including pictures of a man and details about who he was. Axel explained that this man was easily drawn to beautiful, ambitious women—a notorious womanizer.
Then something caught my attention: the man bore a dragon tattoo on his hand, a mark shared by everyone in his syndicate. His name was Darius Veyron. He was known for being ruthless, hypersensitive to disrespect, and dangerously calculating. Axel deduced that this was the man I would have to confront.
But everyone had their limit. Axel's world seemed darker than usual, and this time the shadows felt heavier. Never had I ever killed someone — my shots were always precise, aimed at places that would disable but not destroy. I believed in justice, not execution. Yet staring at Darius Veyron, with that dragon tattoo burning like a brand of power, I knew this confrontation would test the very edge of my restraint.
In the three days that followed, everything was set. Avery was supposed to change her name to Layla and hide behind a disguise, but she refused.
Her voice was firm, almost defiant: "No. I want him to remember my face — even in death."
Something wild and dangerous was brewing inside me. I knew that if the smallest thing disturbed me, the crack would come, and nothing would end well for anyone.
So I was driven to a bar in the middle of nowhere. Isolated. Silent. The kind of place where shadows linger longer than they should. I wore a simple dress, my makeup understated. Axel had insisted I shouldn't overdo it — "Darius doesn't deserve a piece of your beauty," he had said. And he was right. This wasn't about allure. It was about confrontation.
I sat alone at the bar, drowning in my sorrows, a glass of brandy in hand. The burn in my throat matched the heaviness in my chest.
Then he appeared — a man in a black coat, eyes a piercing green, hair dark brown. Masculine. Deadly handsome. The kind of man who looked like a K‑pop idol, the type who could make a married woman abandon her vows without hesitation.
He sat at the center of the bar, speaking casually with a few men, sipping his drinks. Then he noticed me. Our eyes locked, and the air shifted. He rose, walked over, and leaned close.
"What's a beautiful young lady like you doing here, drinking brandy in a place like this?" he asked, his voice smooth, laced with a British accent.
I chuckled bitterly. "Drowning in my sorrows," I replied.
"Well, why so?" he pressed, calm but curious.
I sighed, the alcohol loosening my tongue. "I was recruited as a CIA agent. After a year of hard work, I was fired… because I fell in love with a superior," I admitted drunkenly.
He tilted his head, muttering, "Aah, shibal saekiya." -english translation ( fucking bastard)
I laughed. "Isn't that Korean?"
His lips curved into a grin. "Wow, I'm impressed."
Then, with a dangerous charm, he asked, "Would you like to come to my abode?"
I shook my head. "No, that's too much."
"You can leave anytime you want," he countered smoothly. "I can even offer you a job."
I hesitated, then murmured, "Mmmh… maybe this could work. I don't want to lose the opportunity and regret it later."
He laughed, eyes gleaming. "I love how charismatic you are."
He guided me toward the car with a calm authority that made my pulse quicken.
Before I could process what was happening, one of his men stepped forward.
Darkness swallowed my vision, sudden and absolute, leaving me with only the sound of footsteps and the thud of my own heartbeat.
The car jolted to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires. My heart thudded against my ribs as the black bag was tugged from my head, the stale fabric leaving behind the faint scent of sweat and dust.
Blinking against the dim floodlights, I took in the sight before me. The house—if it could be called that—rose like a fortress at the edge of the night. Its walls were scarred, patched with steel plates and iron bars, a grotesque blend of decay and defiance. A rusted gate loomed behind us, already shut, sealing me inside.
Men lingered in the yard, their suits sharp but their eyes sharper. Some smoked cigars, the glowing embers flaring like watchful eyes in the dark. Others leaned against the walls, casually cradling weapons as though they were extensions of their bodies. Their laughter was low, dangerous, the kind that made my skin prickle.
Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the metallic tang of oil. Faded wallpaper peeled at the edges, but the walls were adorned with stolen art—paintings that didn't belong here, flaunting wealth amidst ruin. A chandelier hung overhead, its crystals dulled by dust, casting fractured light across leather couches and a long oak table.
I swallowed hard, forcing my steps to remain steady. Every detail screamed contradiction: opulence built on crime, luxury balanced precariously on menace. My mind raced—was this opportunity worth the risk? Or was I walking straight into a trap I'd never escape?
His voice cut through my thoughts, smooth and commanding.
"Welcome," he said, his grin widening as though he'd brought me home.
And in that moment, I realized: this wasn't a house. It was a stage. A stage where power, danger, and temptation played their endless game—and I had just been cast into the performance.
The staircase creaked beneath our steps, each sound echoing like a warning. Darius led me to a secluded room on the upper floor, its door heavy, its silence thicker than the smoke-filled halls below. He turned to me, his grin sharp.
"You clearly can see this is the mafia," he said, voice low but commanding. "I want you to work for me as an agent. But first, you'll go through training. And you'll do whatever I tell you to do."
I nodded, the weight of his words pressing against my chest. He left without another glance, the door shutting with a finality that made the room feel like both sanctuary and prison.
Minutes later, a knock broke the silence. I hesitated, then called out, "Enter."
The door opened to reveal a man with silver hair and gleaming eyes. He carried himself with the calm menace of someone who had seen too much.
"I'm Andrey," he said, his tone smooth but edged. "I heard Darius picked you."
"Yeah," I replied. "He brought me here when I had nowhere else to go. I appreciate him for that."
But even as I spoke, my mind was calculating. I knew the first few days would be crucial—every move watched, every word weighed.
Andrey's lips curled into a smirk. "Don't trust him."
I narrowed my eyes. "Thanks for the advice. But I'm old enough not to be told who to trust and who not to trust."
His smirk deepened. "You're new to the mafia. The mafia is no CIA."
I tilted my head, my voice steady. "True. But who said the mafia is the CIA?"
The tension thickened. I rose from the bed, closing the distance between us until our eyes locked. His gaze was unflinching, piercing, as though he was peeling back the layers of my soul.
"Let's fight," I said quietly. "Isn't that why you're here?"
"Oh, yeah," he replied, almost amused.
We descended to the backyard, the night air sharp against my skin. The ground was hard, the shadows deep, and the silence broken only by the anticipation of violence.
We fought—hard. Each strike echoed with intent, each movement a test of strength and will. My training carried me through, and at last, I stood victorious.
Andrey wiped blood from his lips, chuckling. "Wow. I'm impressed. I didn't know the CIA could train such a skilled taekwondo artist."
I smiled faintly, my breath steady. "And I didn't know the mafia trained a weak man like you."
His laughter rang out, low and dangerous. "I was just being lenient with you."
The dining room had been tense. Darius skipped the meal, his eyes flicking toward me every few seconds, skeptical, calculating. I could feel the weight of his suspicion pressing against me like a shadow.
Later that night, after finishing his dealings, Darius returned to the hideout. He pushed open the door to his room and froze. A woman sat waiting on his bed, dressed to entice, her smile sharp as a blade.
"Like what you see?" she teased.
"I do," he replied, excitement flickering in his eyes.
She leaned forward, voice dripping with seduction. "I've been waiting for you all day."
He softened, apologetic. "I'm sorry, my love. Next time I'll hurry." He shut the door tight, removing his jacket, the air thick with anticipation.
But beneath the flirtation, there was something else—an undercurrent of danger. Darius's grin carried no warmth, only calculation. He bound her to the bed with ropes, his tone commanding, his presence overwhelming. She smiled, mistaking control for passion.
"I want this to be the best you've ever had," he said.
"Anything for you," she whispered.
He stepped into the shower, leaving her alone. The room fell silent—until the chandelier above began to creak. At first, she ignored it. Then it swayed, metal groaning, shadows shifting across the walls. Her smile faltered.
"Darius!" she cried, panic rising. "Darius!"
The chandelier tore free, crashing down with a thunderous crack. The room erupted in chaos, shards and blood splattering across the floor.
Darius emerged from the shower, water dripping from his hair. He looked at the broken body on his bed, his expression cold, unfazed.
"She deserved it," he muttered. "No one who betrays me is left alive."
Without hesitation, he stepped into the hall, calling for his guards. "Clean the mess."