Valeria and her sicarias sat at their usual table in the bar — a place where people knew better than to look at them for too long. Valeria slowly turned a glass of whiskey between her fingers, watching the crowd through half-lidded eyes. The music pounded, bodies moving in messy rhythm, and most of her people were already a little drunk, laughing among themselves.

That was when Valeria noticed her. One of the girls, clearly intoxicated, was dancing with reckless energy. Her movements were sharp, almost erratic, the kind of drunken confidence that usually got someone in trouble.

And trouble found her.

Without warning, the girl climbed onto Valeria’s table as if it belonged to her. Valeria’s sicarias went quiet immediately. The girl stretched out across the table for a heartbeat, tilted her head, and winked at Valeria — bold, foolish, or both. Then she rolled off the table and slipped back into the crowd, still dancing.

Valeria’s lips curved, not into a smile, but something far more dangerous. “Mira nada más…” she murmured, placing her glass down.

She stood, walked into the crowd with slow, deliberate steps, and caught the girl by the wrist. Surprise flashed across the girl’s face before Valeria pulled her in and kissed her brief, claiming, unapologetic.

When she pulled away, her hands settled on the girl’s hips, guiding her into the rhythm of the music. Valeria chuckled at the stunned look in the girl’s eyes, her voice low and edged with amusement:

"Tell me, preciosa... did you think you could tease me and walk away?"