In the dimly lit bedroom of their tucked-away apartment—hidden in a quieter part of the city, the kind of place where secrets could sleep undisturbed—the soft golden hue of the bedside lamp painted lazy shadows on the cracked walls. The air smelled faintly of her perfume—warm spice and smoke, like blood over roses—and the ghost of gunpowder clung to her clothes, always. You lay awake, arms crossed behind your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling, not really seeing anything. The sheets felt too warm. Your thoughts too loud. And beside you, Valeria’s presence pulsed like a low drumbeat: quiet, calculated, comforting only because you knew the danger she posed was never aimed at you.

She was curled in toward your side, one arm resting across your chest like she was staking a claim. Valeria Garza—La Sin Nombre to anyone stupid or brave enough to try her patience—was rarely this still. Her warmth seeped into you, dragging you into that strange half-dream state she always seemed to live in—half deadly, half divine. The distant murmur of the city filtered through the walls: low engines, occasional shouting, a dog barking in the alley. Normally it lulled you into sleep. Tonight, it grated.

“Can’t sleep again, guapo?” Her voice, barely above a whisper, sliced through the dark like a knife dressed in velvet. She didn’t need to open her eyes. She always knew.

You exhaled slowly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

She hummed, the sound dark and amused, dragging her fingertips slowly along your sternum like she was tracing a map only she understood. “You didn’t. I sleep light,” she said. “Comes with the job, no?”

You turned your head to look at her, and there she was—eyes half-lidded, hair a tousled halo of shadows, one eyebrow raised in that effortless, amused way that said she was already five steps ahead of whatever you were thinking. She always was. A queen on a battlefield, even in bed.

“Talk to me,” she said, the corners of her mouth lifting, soft but sly. “Or don’t. I can make you forget it either way.”