(Lina pov)

  I kicked a loose rock down the street, watching it scrape and bounce across the concrete.

  Each step I took felt heavier than the st.

  "Fucking bitch... doesn't even invite me," I muttered under my breath. "After everything I've done for her."

  The thought kept repying in my head, over and over, until it started to throb behind my eyes. Everyone else got invited. Everyone else got the call.

  Just not me.

  I kicked the rock again, harder this time, sending it skittering into the gutter.

  "Ever since she got that little boy toy of hers, she's switched up..." I scoffed bitterly. "Unbelievable."

  I lowered myself onto the edge of the sidewalk, elbows resting on my knees as I stared at the pavement.

  The anger was loud—but underneath it was something quieter. Something worse.

  Memories.

  Late nights ughing over cheap drinks. Long talks about pns, about loyalty, about sticking together no matter what. The way she used to look at me like I was part of her inner circle.

  Like I mattered.

  Now I was just... outside.

  Repced.

  I clenched my jaw, trying to convince myself I was just mad. That was easier than admitting it stung.

  But sitting there on the curb, watching cars pass like I was invisible, I couldn't ignore the truth.

  It wasn't just anger.

  It was being left behind.

  "Now I'm supposed to fight your war for you, huh?" I muttered bitterly to the empty street. "Yeah. Good luck with that."

  My voice sounded hollow, even to me.

  The conversation from earlier crept back into my head—the CJNG lieutenant, calm, composed, offering me a way out. A deal. An opportunity.

  At the time, it felt reckless.

  Now?

  It felt practical.

  With every second that passed, the offer seemed less like betrayal... and more like survival. Why should I bleed for someone who couldn't even spare me an invitation? Why should I stay loyal to someone doesn't like me anymore.

  The memory of her ugh with that boy toy burned in my chest.

  I exhaled sharply and pulled my phone from my pocket. My thumb hovered over the number for a long moment.

  This was a line you couldn't uncross.

  But maybe I'd already crossed it the moment I started resenting her.

  I pressed dial.

  It rang once.

  Twice.

  A click.

  "...Sí?"

  I swallowed, forcing the hesitation out of my voice.

  "I'm in."

  ——

  (Car pov

  "Fully in?" I asked, my voice low and edged with impatience. "Took longer than I expected. I never did feel safe having her running the pza. Never trusted that snake smile of hers." I let out a slow breath. "Oh well. If you see her, it's on sight. Engage. That's an order."

  I ended the call with a sharp jab of my thumb, the screen going dark.

  For a moment I just sat there, rubbing slow circles into my forehead with the heel of my palm, the familiar ache of too many decisions pressing behind my eyes.

  The room felt too quiet now, the kind of quiet that made every small sound—the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant thump of bass from somewhere down the hall—feel louder than it should.

  "I guess I'll just have her repced," I muttered, mostly to the empty space in front of me. The words tasted final, like closing a door I'd left cracked open too long.

  My right hand moved on instinct, reaching toward the corner of the desk where the small velvet jewel box always sat—the one packed tight with clean, glittering snow. My fingers closed on nothing but cool wood.

  "Nope..." I said softly, drawing the hand back as if I'd touched something hot. I stared at the empty spot for a beat, then let both hands settle in my p.

  "Get used to it, Car," I told myself, voice quieter now, almost gentle. "You've got a life to live. A real one. With the love of your life."

  The words hung there, fragile and unfamiliar, like something borrowed from someone else's story. I let them settle anyway, breathing them in until they didn't feel quite so strange anymore.

  "Two weeks and only five deaths..." I muttered, the words slipping out like smoke, low and ced with disgust. I blew out the air trapped in my lungs in one long, frustrated huff, watching it fog the edge of my vision for a split second.

  The chair swiveled smoothly beneath me, leather whispering against itself as I turned toward the wide window.

  There they were—the green hills rolling out in soft, endless waves, bathed in the golden snt of te sun, every bde of grass catching light like it had no idea what violence simmered just beyond their borders.

  "Should be less..." I muttered again, quieter this time, the frustration twisting deeper into my chest.

  God, the itch was unbearable—how badly I wanted to gear up, slip out into the night myself, and start racking up bodies. Just me, the familiar kick of recoil, picking off every st one of those pigs strutting around with CJNG patches stitched on their vests like badges of honor.

  Their faces fshed in my mind: cocky grins, sweat-slicked under streetlights, thinking they owned the streets.

  "If they keep dragging like this two weeks from now," I said to the empty room, voice dropping to a cold, matter-of-fact edge, "I'll have to get the army involved." The idea nded light, almost effortless.

  One order, one signature, and the head of government would be on her knees in an instant—pleading, bargaining, whatever scraps she could cw together to keep her world from colpsing.

  "Yucky..." I whispered, a sour twist pulling at my lips. Just remember those pictures.

  The ones that leaked years back, grainy but damning: the president ughing too close to Jessie Epstein—that dead-eyed monster—framed together like old friends at some elite gathering. Smiles too easy, proximity too intimate.

  Weirdo. I still don't know how I haven't put a round through her skull yet.

  The hills stayed serene outside the gss, indifferent to the storm building inside me.

  Patience was wearing thin, and the quiet up here only made the urge louder.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the soft click of the door opening behind me.

  "Hi love," Miguel's voice came warm and easy, cutting through the tension like sunlight through blinds. "I made you the sandwich you asked for."

  He crossed the room with that quiet, sure stride of his, the one that always made the space feel smaller, peaceful.

  In his hands was the sub roll wrapped in crisp white paper—still warm. He set it gently on the desk in front of me, unfolding the wrapper just enough to reveal the perfect cross-section: yers of thinly sliced prosciutto, capico, mortadel, sharp provolone melting slightly against crisp lettuce, bright tomatoes, red onion slivers, a generous smear of spicy mayo, and the faint tang of banana peppers peeking through.

  I leaned forward, inhaling the mingled scents of cured meat, fresh bread, and that faint oregano kick. "This looks amazing," I said, already reaching for it.

  The first bite was everything—crunch giving way to salt, cream, heat, the bread soft but sturdy enough to hold it all together. A low, involuntary hum escaped my throat as the fvors hit.

  I swallowed, licked a trace of mayo from the corner of my lip, and looked up at him through my shes. "You know what would be the cherry on top?" I asked, voice dropping low, one eyebrow arching slow and deliberate.

  Miguel's cheeks flushed that pretty shade of pink I loved—the one that started at his ears and crept down his neck. He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. The hint nded exactly where I wanted it.

  His eyes flicked to the desk, then back to mine, dark and knowing. Without a word he stepped closer, dropped smoothly to his knees, and disappeared beneath the wide sb of dark wood.

  The chair rolled back just enough to give him room. I felt the heat of his hands first—warm palms sliding up the outsides of my thighs, gentle but sure—then the brush of his breath against skin.

  I set the sandwich down carefully, half-eaten, forgotten for the moment.

  "Good boy," I murmured, threading my fingers into his hair, guiding him exactly where I wanted him.

  The hills outside the window kept their silent watch, green and indifferent, while the room filled with softer sounds: the rustle of fabric, a quiet inhale, and the low thrum of satisfaction building between us.

  ——