Chapter 3 #3
“Listen,” I said, locking eyes with him, “this isn’t my fault. None of this is familiar to me, and I’m still trying to process it myself.”
I paused, letting the words settle between us.
My chest rose and fell, my pulse quickening as I held his gaze.
“I’m not the one you should be angry at. If anything, you should follow your boss’s orders instead of taking your frustration out on me.” I took a small step forward, careful not to provoke, but asserting my space.
“So please...” My voice softened just enough to be almost coaxing, though the steel underneath didn’t falter. “Take me to the ladies to get dressed, and maybe then I’ll know if this is real—or just a dream.”
His fist clenched so hard I heard it.
Bone grinding against bone.
A sharp, ugly crack that echoed in the small room like a warning shot.
Renzo’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding together audibly as he stared at me like I had just walked in and insulted his entire bloodline.
“I would not let this abomination happen,” he spat.
Every word came out like it tasted bitter in his mouth.
His hand dropped.
Then closed around the grip of his pistol.
“I’d rather put a bullet in you right here,” he continued, voice dropping lower, more dangerous, “than stand there and watch you destroy everything.”
His fingers curled tighter around the gun, testing its weight, readying himself.
“If Vincenzo walks away from Violet—” He spat the name like it carried sacred weight. “The Spanish girl... this entire arrangement blows up.”
He stepped closer, his presence pressing in, heavy and suffocating.
Every inch of him radiated controlled fury.
“A marriage between the Spanish and the Italian is long overdue,” he continued, his eyes locking on mine, burning through me. “And I will not let some random... puta... ruin it. Not today. Not this wedding.”
“Call me puta again,” I said quietly, “and we’ll see how fast you bleed before your boss walks back in.”
His face darkened instantly.
A flush rising beneath his skin, anger pushing through every line of restraint he barely had to begin with.
He drew his gun in one fluid motion, but before he could even blink, I kicked it out of his hand.
Shock flashed across his face as I moved, instinct taking over, guiding his fist, deflecting, striking—two punches here, a step back there—positioning myself to fight.
If only he knew what I’d spent the last five years of my life doing?
Evading dangerous men, fighting off trained killers, disarming and incapacitating those who dared touch me?
If he understood just how lethal I am in combat, he wouldn’t even think about threatening me with a gun.
I wasn’t whole.
My anger was a razor edge, ready to shred anything—or anyone—in its path.
Mentally, I was fractured, a tightrope walker over the chasm of my own shattered past, teetering on the edge of a darkness that could swallow me whole.
One wrong move, one spark, and I could spiral out of control—destroying everything in my path, just as I had destroyed pieces of myself years ago.
The trauma of the CIA mission still clung to me like a shadow I could never shake.
I remembered it all—the night we, the three surviving members of a twenty-one-person team sent to capture Al Chapo, realized the mission was a trap.
We had been kidnapped, and every instinct for survival turned against me.
I remembered the orders—given by our captor himself—and how they forced me to do the unthinkable.
I was the one who delivered the punches.
One hundred and fifteen precise, uncontrollable strikes landed on my best friend, Amy’s face, each one destroying what I loved most about her until she was unrecognizable, until life slipped from her eyes.
Every blow, every sickening thud, is still etched into my mind, a permanent scar on my soul, a reminder that I had become the instrument of horror.
I had been forced to kill my bestfriend, yet nothing in me felt like the same person afterward.
My mind had splintered, leaving me hyper-alert, restless, and prone to spirals of anger I could not always contain.
Every punch I threw, every move I made, carried the memory of that night.
It whispered through my veins, tightening my chest, clawing at my nerves.
The fear, the rage, the cold, mechanical precision—it was all still there, simmering beneath the surface, ready to ignite if provoked.
And now, here in this gilded dressing room, facing this short, furious man, I felt it.
The same old fire.
The same lethal instinct.
I could end him if I wanted.
I knew that.
But control... control was everything.
Losing it could destroy more than just him.
It could destroy me.
Yet my body was ready.
My mind was ready. And if he came at me... I would fight.
I tried to warn him not to make a move—to make him understand that I was far more dangerous than he thought—but before I could get a single word out, he moved.
Fast. Precise.
His hand slipped into the hidden sheath in his boot, and in one swift motion, he drew a dagger and hurled it straight at me.
I barely reacted in time, guiding the blade with the flat of my hand, letting it glance past me.
It missed—but only just. Close enough that if I’d been a fraction slower, it could have found my forehead.
“Please... don’t make me do this,” I said, my voice low as I steadied myself, lowering into a guarded stance as every muscle coiled, ready to defend. “I won’t be able to stop.”
He ignored my warnings and came at me again—no hesitation this time.
Just raw intent.
His fist cut through the air, fast and reckless.
I caught his wrist, twisted, redirected—but he followed through with a knee aimed for my ribs.
It clipped me hard enough to steal half a breath, and something inside me... slipped.
I staggered back a step.
Renzo surged forward, sensing it.
He fought like a man with nothing to lose—wild, brutal, relentless.
His shoulder slammed into me, driving me back, forcing me to pivot to keep my balance.
My heel scraped against the polished floor, barely catching myself before I went down.
“You’re not making it to that altar alive,” he growled, already swinging again. “I’ll kill you, puta, and feed your bones to the dogs.”
I blocked—but slower now.
His knuckles grazed my cheek, snapping my head sideways.
Pain flared, sharp and grounding—and then something darker answered it.
A crack beneath my skin.
My control.
Gone.
The world narrowed.
Sounds dulled. My heartbeat roared louder than anything else, pounding against my skull like a war drum.
The room—this wedding hall, these walls, this moment—bled into something else entirely.
Memories clawed at me.
Amy, my best friend.
The night in enemy territory when I had ended her life with a hundred and fifteen punches.
The precision, the force, the cold calculation.
It had changed me then—and now, as I blocked and guided this man’s attacks, that same dark, lethal part of me threatened to rise.
Some of his strikes began landing.
My stomach grunted under the impact.
My shoulder stung.
My hand throbbed.
Panic started creeping in.
I could feel myself spiraling, the storm in my mind whispering that once I lost control, there would be no coming back.
“Stop... please, stop,” I begged, my voice trembling but firm.
But he didn’t.
His boot slammed into my ribs, a shockwave of pain ripping through me.
I was lifted off my feet and hurled into the window—the glass shattering around me as my spine collided with the frame with a deafening thud.
Pain erupted across my back and head as I tumbled onto the pavement outside.
Stars danced in my vision, and my lungs screamed for air that wouldn’t come.
I crumpled on impact, clutching my side, each breath a stabbing, blinding agony.
Before I could fully gather myself, I saw him jumping after me, aiming to land on top of me.
My body reacted instinctively—I rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the impact, and sprang to my feet.
My heart pounded.
Adrenaline surged.
I could no longer see the man as himself.
All I saw was red.
Rage. Pure, unfiltered aggression that burned hotter than fear or pain.
I charged like a woman possessed, every step fueled by years of trauma and everything I’d been forced to endure.
I didn’t think. I struck. Hard.
First to the groin—he buckled instantly, a guttural roar ripping from his chest.
I didn’t hesitate.
My fists hunted the soft, vulnerable spots a trained fighter depended on: the solar plexus, the throat, the knees.
Each strike was precise, deliberate, fueled by instinct and raw desperation.
His body flailed violently under the onslaught, each blow cracking against bone and muscle.
Pain exploded across him like wildfire.
Blood spurted from his mouth, his throat convulsing with ragged, choking gasps.
His knees wobbled, shoulders heaving as the shock of it stole his balance.
Then my hands found his face.
Again and again, I struck, releasing everything I had bottled inside for five long years—the fear, the hunger, the anger, the trauma.
Each punch was memory made flesh.
Each strike carried the echoes of Amy, the mission, the captivity, the endless nights of running and surviving.
Even after he fell to the floor, I didn’t stop.
My arms moved on their own, powered by instinct and rage, striking until my body trembled and my knuckles burned.
Suddenly, a strong grip yanked me away.