6. Tormenta
6
Tormenta
S ome things are better left unspoken. Last night happened, and it’s not something I care to repeat—or even dwell on. But damn, I get it now. I understand why Raph is always so calm, so damn unshakable. That release, that pure, unfiltered ecstasy, was unforgettable. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but hell, it felt good. Too good.
Now, I’m paying the price. Sitting at my desk, I stare blankly at the file in front of me. Another job. Another goddamn interruption. It’s two weeks before Halloween, and instead of planning a rare evening of fun, Marklov’s work has ruined that, too. I glance at the folder, and this one is different—black leather, sleek, with an ominous wax seal pressed into the center. My brow furrows.
Marklov never makes a spectacle out of these jobs. He’s straightforward: get the target, get it done, move on. So, what the hell is this?
Do I even want to know? The answer doesn’t matter. I know I don’t have a choice.
I break the seal and open the folder, the crack of wax echoing in the silent room. A flurry of photos spills onto the desk, along with the usual dossier: a list of targets, locations, and objectives. But this time, something catches my eye. Scrawled across the top of the first page in bold red letters: **KEEP ALIVE.**
My confusion deepens. Keep alive? That’s not how Marklov operates. His instructions are usually clear-cut: eliminate. Dispose. No loose ends. Why is this different? Why her?
I gather the photos, spreading them out across the desk. The subject is a woman, stunning in a way that feels almost unreal. Her skin glows with a sun-kissed warmth, and her hair falls in sleek, dark waves that beg to be touched. Her beauty is arresting, almost disarming, but her eyes stop me cold.
Deep, enigmatic, they pull at something primal inside me, like she’s daring me to figure her out, to uncover whatever secrets lie hidden in the depths of her gaze. The label stamped across the photos reads one word: **DANGEROUS.**
Dangerous? I scoff, though my pulse quickens. If she’s such a threat, why would Marklov want her alive? And why does her danger only make her more alluring? There’s a pull I can’t explain, a magnetic charge in those eyes that promises both ecstasy and destruction.
I shake my head, trying to break the spell, and glance at the details written below one of the photos:
- **Ex-Military**
- **Biker**
- **Killer**
- **Dangerous**
- **Known by Tormenta**
- **Wears a Ghostface Mask**
I read the list twice, letting the details sink in. Ex-military explains the discipline in her posture and the sharpness in her eyes. A biker? That tracks. There’s a roughness about her, an edge that makes her stand out from the usual targets. A killer, though? That’s where things get murky.
Marklov isn’t afraid of killers. Hell, most of the people I’ve been sent after are seasoned murderers. But the combination of everything—her background, her alias, her reputation—makes my stomach knot. Tormenta. The name rolls off my tongue like a challenge. A storm, wild and uncontrollable. Fitting.
Then there’s the Ghostface mask. My fingers graze the photo where she’s pictured wearing it, her body poised and ready for violence. The mask adds an air of mystery, hiding her identity and amplifying her danger.
She sounds like my kind of woman.
I lean back in my chair, staring at her pictures. I should feel dread—hell, even a little caution—but I can only think about how intrigued I am. What makes her so dangerous? What secrets does she carry that Marklov wants alive?
And why can’t I stop thinking about her?
Marklov always plays his cards close to his chest, but he’s made a mistake this time. He’s underestimated the effect this woman would have on me. She’s not just a job anymore. She’s something more. Something I need to understand.
I close the folder and run my fingers through my hair, trying to shake the feeling that is clawing at my chest. Tormenta. Dangerous, yes, but I can’t help but wonder… dangerous for who?
For Marklov?
Or for me?
The fall air bites sharper tonight, a clear warning that winter isn’t far off. The chill creeps in, settling deep in my bones. It is an odd time for Marklov to demand someone to be captured. He could’ve started with this job and skipped the tests and the games. But I get it. The man wanted to see me in action, to gauge whether I was worth trusting with whatever insanity he throws my way.
Still, this one feels different. It’s in my gut, a knot that tightens whenever I think about her, Tormenta . Something about this woman has me on edge; her presence is a riddle I can’t ignore. Her eyes haunt me—those dark, stormy depths that hold more pain than anyone should have to carry. It’s a pain I recognize, a reflection of my own.
I can’t sit still. I need to know more.
My bike stays parked tonight. The growl of the engine would be too loud and too obvious for what I need to do. She has a military background, so she’s got to be sharp and always on alert, and I can’t risk giving myself away. No, I’ll stick to the shadows, silent and unseen. My Audi will do the work just fine for me.
I’m following her every move, starting with the address listed on her file from one of Marklov’s workers, I’m assuming. It’s a dainty apartment. There’s not much going on around there.
It’s about a twenty-five-minute ride on my bike to her place. I learn her routes to avoid unwanted attention. I see how her face lights up at the sight of her favorite beverage and freshly made pastry from a shop just up the road from her place. Her routine rarely changes. The head bopping to the music she listens to. She always seems to have a book in her bag. She stays away from anyone trying to communicate with her, especially men.
Knowing she keeps to herself, her solitude is almost comforting. I notice she prefers the quiet corners of cafes, where she can read undisturbed. Her expressions while she reads are a window to her soul—the slight furrow of her brows when she’s engrossed, the soft smile when something amuses her. Her aura of mystery draws me in, making me want to know more about her to understand the stories behind those guarded eyes.
Evenings are spent in a small park nearby, where she often sits on the same bench, lost in thought or scribbling in a journal. The world seems to fade away for her in those moments, and I can’t help but feel a pang of longing. She’s so close, yet so far, living in a world of her own making, a world I desperately want to be more aware of. I shake my head, focusing on the task at hand and why I am even here to begin with.
It’s a bit much, if I am being honest. I can’t fucking shake it. Something inside of me is screaming at me, telling me she needs my protection more than I need to deliver her to a man I don’t even know. Esmé, Sasha, Raph, the club. They need me. “Stick to the plan, don’t be fucking dumb, G,” I say lowly.
I don’t know what the fuck is coming over me. I smack myself. “Snap out of it, man, fuck.”
As the days stretch on, filled with the slow burn of watching her every move, the urgency of my situation grows. I need to make a plan, something solid and foolproof, before Marklov’s demands choke out what little autonomy I have left. He insists I check in with him constantly, every detail dissected and analyzed as though her existence alone is his most precious obsession. It’s maddening. The way he speaks about her, the way his voice lowers when he asks for updates—it’s like she’s about to become his most prized possession, his trophy.
But who is she really? The name on her file is nothing more than an alias, a hollow shell that tells me nothing about the person beneath. What’s her real name? Is it something sacred, something she guards fiercely like a secret? I need to know. Not because Marklov demands it, but because it’s becoming an obsession of my own. She’s unraveling me in ways I didn’t expect. Every time I catch a glimpse of her—a fleeting smile, the way she brushes her hair back—I’m pulled deeper.
Halloween is just around the corner, and I’ve pieced together a rough outline of her routine. It’s nothing special on the surface, but to me, it’s a thread to follow, a way to predict her next move. My biggest fear, though, is Marklov. If he doesn’t ease off soon, he might decide I’m taking too long and send his men to interfere. That would ruin everything. The precision, the groundwork I’ve laid—it would all go up in smoke the second his goons barge in with their heavy hands and blunt-force tactics.
I can’t let that happen. Not when I’m this close to completing this bullshit work for him. Every detail I’ve collected, every ounce of patience I’ve poured into this job—it all has to pay off. I’ve spent weeks trying to stay ahead of Marklov, trying to keep him satisfied without giving away just how tangled I’m getting in my own web. But now, things are slipping out of control. Not when I’m starting to want her for myself, something I swore I’d never let happen.
Marklov will have my fucking neck for this. He’s not the kind of man to forgive a betrayal, let alone one fueled by weakness. And that’s what this is, isn’t it? Weakness. I’ve allowed myself to feel something for her—this woman I’m supposed to be monitoring, the woman I’m supposed to deliver to him like some kind of sacrificial lamb. It’s sick. Twisted. Yet, I can’t stop the pull she has over me.
If Marklov finds out—if he even suspects—he won’t just come after me. He’ll hurt the ones I love. It doesn’t matter how careful I’ve been to shield them from my life, from him. Marklov has ways of finding people, of making them pay for sins they didn’t commit. I can already picture it: the wreckage he’d leave behind just to make a point, to remind me what happens when someone crosses him.
Fuck! The thought alone makes my chest tighten. How did I let it come to this? Feeling something for a woman who, for all I know, is just as deranged as the men I work for. She could be a liar, a manipulator, someone with blood on her hands. And yet, none of that seems to matter. I’ve been watching her for days, and the more I see, the more I need to know. Every move of hers, every fleeting moment, adds fuel to a fire I’m no longer sure I can put out. She is so blind of how close the fire in her world is closing in even more.
If Marklov finds out about these feelings—this ridiculous, dangerous attraction—it’s over before it even begins. He’ll rip me apart piece by piece. Torture me. He may destroy her too, just to prove a point. And maybe that’s what scares me the most. Because as much as I try to deny it, I don’t want her hurt. Not by him. Not by anyone. But wanting to protect her is just as foolish as falling for her in the first place.
In this world, attachments are a death sentence, and I’ve already tied the noose around my own neck.