Valentina Cruz
I never thought I'd wear a bulletproof vest under a silk dress.
But hey — here I was. Thursday night, armed and anxious, at a charity gala hosted by arms dealers in Versace tuxedos.
Rafael said it was "just a public appearance."
I said he was full of crap.
He didn't disagree.
⸻
"Smile," he whispered in my ear as we walked past a chandelier made of bones and God knows what.
"Why?" I asked.
"So they underestimate you."
I gave him a sugary grin.
"Oh good," he said. "Now you look like a serial killer in stilettos."
⸻
The room was dripping with money and menace.
Every man in here had blood on his hands.
And I was pretending to be one of their wives — all glitter, giggles, and silent suffering.
Except this wife had a knife strapped to her thigh.
And a plan.
⸻
About halfway through Rafael's conversation with a slick bastard named Viktor Kolesnikov — who smiled like he'd skinned kittens as a child — I felt it.
A shift.
A look exchanged behind a champagne flute.
A whisper passed too quickly.
I tugged Rafael's hand. "Something's wrong."
His eyes flicked to mine. "What did you see?"
"That guy in the red tie just slipped a message to the waiter."
He blinked. Just once.
Then all hell broke loose.
⸻
Gunshots cracked like fireworks.
The lights went out.
Screams sliced through the air like blades.
"Stay down!" Rafael shouted, pushing me behind a table just as bullets shattered the vase above our heads.
My ears rang. My heart pounded. My heels were useless.
So I kicked them off, pulled the knife from my thigh, and crawled through the chaos.
Someone grabbed my hair.
Bad move.
I spun, drove the blade into his leg, and kept moving.
Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.
⸻
By the time I found Rafael again, he had one arm bleeding and the other aiming a gun like a damned action hero.
"Hey," I called.
He turned. Relief flickered in his face — quickly masked by fury.
"Why the hell are you standing? Get down!"
I ducked beside him.
"We're surrounded," he said, reloading. "Kolesnikov double-crossed us."
I smirked. "Told you that smile meant kitten-murder."
He actually snorted.
"Valentina, I swear to God—"
"Save it for after we survive."
⸻
We fought side by side.
My first real kill?
Ugly. Bloody. Honest.
And disturbingly satisfying.
The man lunged at Rafael from behind, and I didn't think — I just acted.
Steel met flesh.
He fell.
I didn't.
⸻
Later, when the police sirens finally wailed in the distance, and the enemy was either dead or gone, Rafael turned to me.
His jaw was tight. His shirt stained with blood.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I killed someone," I said.
"I saw."
He reached out and gently took the knife from my hand, setting it aside like a parent with a dangerous toy.
"You didn't flinch," he added.
"I'll flinch later."
He looked at me.
Long and hard.
And then, quietly, with something dangerously close to pride:
"Brava, mia belva."
I didn't know what it meant.
But it sounded like the kind of thing you only said to someone who survived fire and came out sharpened.