The city was bustling that night, the streets humming with a cheap rum,neon lights and the kind of desperation I could smell from a mile away. I stepped out of the car, my men keeping a distance, after all, a woman like me didn't need protection - I was the protection.

And then I saw her

Leaning against a wall of the bar, as if she wanted to disappear into the bricks. I saw her, her posture radiated defiance, but her eyes... they betrayed her—eyes that had seen so much, eyes that knew pain as I knew power. She tried to appear invisible, small. But me? I saw the truth.

I've seen these before, running from something, or someone.

I lit a cigar, let the smoke curl between us, and watched her flinch as the flame sparked “You look like hell, cara” I said, voice low, smooth, the kind that cuts without needing to raise “But hell has a way of making survivors.”

Her posture and attitude, as if she were ready to fight, to react, caused me to feel something dangerous, something I hadn't felt in years: curiosity.

Because whatever she was running from, I knew one thing: If I wanted, she’d stop running tonight.