Chapter 2 Estella
Being an independent woman, traveling the world and taking lives to blow off steam is the best job I could have imagined.
Exciting, well-paid, and endlessly engaging, it’s work that never bored me and never frustrated me.
Yet even this life has moments that make me question everything.
One of those moments came when I found myself locked in one of the worst prisons in Mexico, trapped for a week instead of just a couple of days, all because of the reason I’m about to uncover.
Getting close and killing the snitch wasn’t hard—not like rotting in my cell, with no air conditioning, surrounded by four walls that smelled of piss, blood, and something I’d rather not name out loud.
Cane never allowed anything like that to happen. He was always anything but the kind of person who failed a mission or changed the rules mid-game. A part of me even started to wonder if the bastard wanted to get rid of me.
But that theory didn’t last. It never would have made sense anyway. I’m the best of the best, and Cane trusts me—loves me, even. Sure, he can be a rare douchebag at times, but that’s just the way men are, and I try not to let it pierce my overly sentimental heart.
A crack forms in the thick fog of my thoughts, a deliciously low voice drifting into my ears from behind me.
The man sent after me has to be the most awkward person I’ve ever met.
At first, I could think of nothing but carving a fresh pattern into his perfect face, ruining something so annoyingly gorgeous.
Funny how everything he did before didn’t affect me at all. As a person who works for The Order, he’s pretty unimpressive—sloppy and distracted, as if always flying in his own little world. But if he’s here, that means he plays a particular role.
I ignore whatever he’s saying and slam my palm against the right door.
The grit and grime smear across my skin instantly, but I barely register it—dust and mud can’t make me any filthier than I already am.
My clothes cling to me, soaked with sweat, the stench seeping through the thin, cheap fabric.
The neckerchief does nothing to mask my greasy hair, and with every passing second, the irritation crawling up my spine grows sharper, tighter, and fucking unbearable.
I’ve always had to stand out—my appearance, my presence, every little detail a statement. Otherwise, nothing I do matters. But right now, I’m far from hitting that mark. I blend into the gray, unremarkable crowd, invisible in a way that makes my blood boil.
I step into the rundown apartment, pressing my lips into a thin line as my eyes track the cockroaches scuttling mere inches from my boots.
The walls and ceiling shed peeling paint like brittle skin, and the rotten wood groans and creaks beneath each careful step we take, as if warning us that it could give way at any moment.
“You could’ve chosen something a bit more impressive,” I say mockingly, not even waiting for him to show his face. I have a knack for feeling this man’s energy from a long distance.
Cane steps out from the other room, his arms splayed to the sides, a barely detectable grin on his face. My bottom lip trembles, and I have to suppress the squeal threatening to break through.
“I wanted to match your appearance today,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. With his teeth showing, the little wrinkles near his eyes bloom, giving his explanation a sharper edge.
Asshole.
Without a single word, I launch myself from the spot, my legs pumping as I close the distance in a heartbeat.
In the next instant, I collide with him, my arms wrapping around his shoulders with a sharp, resonant smack.
He staggers back, caught off guard, before instinctively wrapping his own arms around me, grunting with the effort as our bodies lock together in the sudden impact.
No matter what he does, I can’t hold onto anger toward Cane.
He’s the one who’s been by my side through every low and every high, the one who found me when I was unraveling, and painstakingly shaped me into the woman I’ve become today.
He did everything to ensure I survived in this unforgiving world, stripping away my naivety and flimsier moments of weakness, molding me into someone capable of navigating a life as merciless as ours.
“I thought you’d left me there,” I whisper, drawing back slightly as my fingers dig into his shoulders.
My gaze locks onto his, and, as always, I’m captivated by the depth of his eyes—dark brown, almost black, like an endless void that nothing could ever fill.
Shadows cling to the contours of his face, the lines beneath his eyes almost as deep as their color, while a faint layer of stubble traces the strong angles of his jaw.
It’s a relief to see that he hasn’t been enjoying himself while I was trapped there. That’s one of the reasons I love Cane—he feels alongside me, and my pain, my struggle, every moment I endured, has left a mark on him too.
“Left you?” he repeats, his tattooed hand reaching out to brush something from the side of my head. “Never. Not even when you smell like expired Cheetos.”
I pull a mock-offended grimace and give him a sharp smack on the shoulder, earning a laugh from him.
Behind me, the man who rescued me clears his throat loudly, demanding our attention.
Cane leans slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of him over my shoulder, but I pivot just enough, stepping to the side and blocking his view, guarding the space between them.
“I’m incredibly mad at you,” I admit. “I wouldn’t be smelling like expired Cheetos if I had been there for just a few days, like you promised.”
“You misbehaved again,” he answers casually, as if that could justify it. “I had my ass whooped for what you did to those women.”
I narrow my eyes. “Which ones?”
His head cocks to the side, lips parting as if startled by an invisible jolt. “You killed more?”
“I was bored,” I admit, stretching the word as long as I can, each syllable dragging against the weight pressing on me. My body aches from exhaustion, my mind frayed at the edges, and speaking feels like siphoning the last drops of energy I have left. “And you know what happens when I’m bored.”
He shakes his head, a silent judgment that makes my chest tighten and my heart skip a beat.
There’s a pang of guilt that cuts through me—I feel as though I’ve disappointed him in a way I’ll never be able to fix.
I hide it, carefully masking the worry, but sometimes it claws through my defenses, leaving me second-guessing every choice, regretting the smallest of actions.
“Estella,” he says, his voice steady but edged with warning. “Just because you’re bored doesn’t give you the right to kill… more than you should. Promise me you won’t ever do something like that again.”
Reluctantly, I lower my gaze, letting my lips curve into a guilty, puppy-like expression. “I promise,” I murmur, the words tasting heavier than I expected.
He traces a slow, reassuring circle on my arm before finally turning to face the man. And then—without the slightest warning—the bastard explodes into maniacal laughter. It doesn’t build or creep in gradually; it detonates, raw and jagged, like a pipe bursting under pressure.
I glance at the man, his confusion mirroring mine, perhaps even surpassing it.
His brows draw together in a tight frown, one hand rubbing the back of his neck in a futile attempt at comfort.
Every inch of him radiates unease, his anxiety so thick and potent that I can almost taste its acrid tang in the air around us.
“Mustache wasn’t necessary,” Cane mutters, his words rough and raspy, strained against the laughter tearing through him. His face flushes crimson, the color spreading like fire as he fights to regain control over his amusement.
“What do you mean, not necessary?” he demands, each word sharp and edged with disbelief.
“Oh, Dante… It’s a good thing you do everything I say, but this? This is fucking priceless.”
Dante. The name strikes me like a punch of unexpected color in a gray room.
Unusual. Distinct. I can’t recall ever meeting a man named Dante—and I’ve crossed paths with plenty of men in my life.
A sly smirk creeps across my lips as I pivot toward him, eyes locking with a gleam of mischief.
My fingers dart toward the fake mustache awkwardly plastered to his face, and in one fluid motion, I strip it away.
He groans, a sharp sting radiating from the reddened skin above his upper lip as he clutches at it helplessly.
I shoot a quick glance at Cane, then press the fake mustache to my own face, exaggerating a playful wink. “Do I look like you now?” I tease. Before he can even form a reply, I raise a single finger, halting him mid-word. “Uh-uh. Don’t even try. I already know the answer.”
He lets out a long, weary sigh, shoulders slumping ever so slightly, yet his eyes betray a gentle softness. “I don’t have a mustache, Estella.”
“You did when we first met!” I protest.
He shrugs, a brief shadow of annoyance flickering across his features.
I catch the subtle tightening of his jaw, knowing how much he despises reminders of his former self—and that only makes the situation more amusing.
“When I was a bit younger,” he mutters, voice low and almost reluctant, “I thought it suited me.”
Cane clasps his hands together, the subtle tension in his fingers betraying the calmness in his tone.
His dark eyes flick behind me, sharp and assessing.
“I think we’ve wasted enough time,” he says evenly.
He inclines his head toward Dante. “And I haven’t even had a chance to talk to you about your future. ”