The knock was firm, deliberate.
"Enter," I called, my voice steady though my pulse quickened.
Darius stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet finality. His eyes burned with intensity as he crossed the room, each step heavy with unspoken intent. He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that the air between us felt charged.
"I hope you're holding up well here," he said, his tone softer than I expected.
"This is just the first day," I replied. "I'm very much okay. And I appreciate this… I'll do anything to repay your kindness."
His lips curved into a smirk. "Anything to repay my kindness?"
I nodded, the weight of the promise hanging in the air.
He leaned closer, his hands wrapping around me, his touch both protective and possessive. "If you do as I say," he murmured, "I'll make you the lady of this house… and more."
His fingers brushed against my cheek, threading through my hair. For a moment, his fiery gaze softened, and he leaned in, pressing his lips toward mine. The room seemed to hold its breath.
But then—suddenly—he froze. A flicker of realization crossed his face. His body stiffened, and he pulled back, standing abruptly.
The silence was deafening. He looked at me, conflicted, as though battling something within himself. His jaw tightened, his eyes shadowed with regret.
Without another word, he turned away, leaving me with the echo of his mistake and the lingering question of what it truly meant.
The memory of Darius's tattoo lingered in the back of my mind, a half‑formed clue waiting for its moment. I tucked it away like a secret weapon as I pulled the blankets tighter around me that night.
Morning came with steel in my veins. Breakfast was quick, training with Andrey sharper than ever. His final words were simple but heavy: "Prepare for a mission."
I knew what it meant—this wasn't just about files. It was about trust. About proving myself.
Back in my room, I showered, the steam clearing my thoughts. I tied my auburn hair into a sleek style, leaving two strands to frame my face. Black lipstick, crop top, ripped Calvin Klein boyfriend jeans, Louis Vuitton sneakers—every choice deliberate, balancing style with movement. The glasses added a layer of anonymity, the handbag concealed two guns.
Andrey tossed me the keys. The G‑Wagon gleamed, but I looked at it with contempt. A symbol of excess, yet now my tool. I slid into the driver's seat, the ignition roaring to life, and drove toward the warehouse.
Security was tight, but I had rehearsed my deception. Parking the car, I stepped out, clutching my stomach, coughing weakly. The guards rushed forward.
"I need to go behind the warehouse, near the bin," I said, voice strained.
They escorted me, unaware of the calculation behind my request. The bin area was blind to CCTV—perfect. And there, tucked away, was the power box. My fingers worked quickly, hacking the system, setting a five‑minute delay before blackout.
I straightened, thanked the guards, and walked back inside as though nothing had happened.
The corridors smelled of dust and secrecy. My footsteps echoed softly as I counted doors. Room 18. Room 19. Then—Room 20.
I paused, hand hovering over the handle. My pulse quickened. This was the test. The files were inside, but so was the truth about whether I belonged in this world.
I pushed the door open.
The lock clicked softly, and I pushed the door open. Rows of bookshelves loomed in the dim light, their shadows stretching like silent sentinels. My eyes scanned the spines, searching for the file that documented a massive shipment from Hong Kong to Spain. Somewhere among these shelves was El Gran Envío—the biggest shipment ever.
But before I could find it, the lights died. The warehouse plunged into darkness. My pulse quickened, but I was ready. I pulled out my mini torch, its narrow beam cutting through the black.
I shifted my search, focusing on files marked Sindikatong Dragon. The beam caught a folder stamped with a dragon symbol, its pages filled with names and descriptions of those who bore the mark. My fingers itched to tear a sheet free, but I knew better—weekly inspections meant any missing paper would expose me.
The silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. I crouched in the corner, curling into myself, fists clenched, pretending to be overwhelmed by the dark. Anxiety was my disguise.
Moments later, the electricity surged back. The lights flickered on, cameras whirred to life.
Behind the monitors, Darius leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he studied me. Andrey's mocking voice cut through the tension.
"I didn't know she, of all people, had a psychological disorder. Or maybe she's just pretending."
Darius's gaze didn't waver. "I don't think so. Look at the fear in her eyes… the way she's clenching her fists while crouching."
The performance had worked. But now I knew—every move I made was being dissected, every gesture weighed. In this world, survival meant not just strength, but the art of deception.
The drive back to the mansion felt endless, the weight of the files pressing against me like a secret too heavy to bear. My disguise of weakness clung to me, but beneath it, exhaustion and nerves were real.
Darius and Andrey were waiting at the entrance, their eyes sharp, their presence commanding. I stepped forward, clutching the files, each breath shallow. As I extended them toward Darius, the world tilted. My vision blurred, and before I could steady myself, darkness swallowed me.
"Layla!" Andrey's voice cut through the haze as my body collapsed. Strong arms caught me before I hit the ground. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me in a bridal hold, his expression a mix of alarm and something unreadable.
The corridors blurred past until we reached his room. He laid me gently on the bed, his jaw tight, his eyes flicking toward Darius with unspoken tension. Moments later, a doctor arrived, his hands brisk and professional as he checked my pulse, my breathing, my eyes.
"This looks like a panic attack," the doctor said gravely. "Anxiety, exhaustion… perhaps both. She needs rest."
Andrey stood nearby, arms crossed, his silver hair catching the dim light. His gaze lingered on me, protective yet skeptical. Darius, however, remained at the doorway, his fiery eyes unreadable. He said nothing, but the silence was heavier than words.
I lay there, half‑conscious, aware of the fragile balance between them. My fainting had exposed something—weakness, humanity, or perhaps a vulnerability they could exploit. In the mafia's world, even panic could become a weapon.
The faint touch on my forehead had startled me awake, Andrey's silver hair catching the dim light as he pulled back. His eyes locked onto mine, unyielding, as though he was peeling away every mask I wore. For a moment, the room was heavy with silence, his gaze pressing into my soul.
Then the door swung open. Darius entered, his presence filling the space like fire.
"Well, too bad you won't have enough rest," he said, voice sharp. "We need your assistance. There's a man—Mr. Gonzalez. Filipino firearm investor. Hard to reach. We've tried before, but maybe with you, we'll have a chance."
I sat up, steadying my breath. "Sure thing. Just give me the details."
Andrey's jaw tightened, fury flashing in his eyes. He rose abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, and stormed out without a word. The tension he left behind was palpable.
Darius smirked faintly, his fiery gaze softening just enough to say, "Quick recovery." Then he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
I stood, my body steady now, the act of weakness having served its purpose. The fainting had been believable, convincing enough to buy me trust. But as I moved toward the door, voices drifted from the hallway—low, heated, unmistakably Darius and Andrey.
Their argument was sharp, words clipped and dangerous. Though I couldn't catch every phrase, I knew the subject: me. My mission. My weakness. My usefulness.
It didn't matter. Whether they fought over loyalty, suspicion, or control, I understood one thing clearly: I was no longer just a recruit. I was the spark between two men whose rivalry could shape the future of this house.
And now, another mission awaited.
The files lay scattered across the desk, their pages whispering of Mr. Gonzalez—Filipino firearm investor, elusive, hard to reach. My task was clear: make him agree to invest. But in the mafia's world, persuasion was never just about words. It was about presence.
That night, I stepped into the shower, letting the steam wash away the day's tension. When I emerged, I blow‑dried my hair until it fell in long, sleek waves down my shoulders. I slipped in blue contacts, the color sharp and arresting, a subtle shift that made my gaze more piercing. Black lipstick followed, bold and defiant, a statement of power.
The dress was the centerpiece: a long blue off‑shoulder gown, its fitted bodice sculpting confidence, its slit daring yet calculated. Silver high heels clicked against the floor, each step a promise of control. A necklace glimmered at my throat, catching the light like a weapon disguised as elegance.
I studied my reflection. This wasn't vanity—it was strategy. Every detail was chosen to unsettle, to intrigue, to make Mr. Gonzalez see not just a negotiator, but a woman who could command a room and bend its energy to her will.
The files were tucked into my bag, but the real weapon was the persona I had crafted. Tonight, I wasn't just Layla. I was the embodiment of allure and danger, a mask designed to win trust and seal deals in a world where hesitation meant death.
I fastened the mask over my face, its sleek design concealing just enough to make me untouchable. The blue contacts glimmered behind it, sharp and otherworldly, while the black lipstick beneath gave my smile a dangerous edge.
The mansion's air still clung to me as I descended the staircase, but Andrey was already waiting. His blue suit was sharp, his hair slicked back with precision, every detail calculated. His eyes scanned me from head to toe, lingering just long enough to make me feel the weight of his gaze.
Without a word, he reached for my hand. His grip was firm, steady, and he led me toward the waiting car. The convoy followed—black silhouettes of vehicles trailing like shadows of the mafia itself.
Inside the Mercedes , silence ruled. Andrey sat beside me, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. Yet every so often, I caught him stealing glances, quick and subtle, as though he was trying to memorize the mask I wore, the persona I had crafted.
The city lights blurred past the windows until the car slowed before a towering hotel. Andrey stepped out first, then opened my door with a gesture that was both gentlemanly and commanding. His eyes flicked toward mine, unreadable, before he guided me inside.
The lobby gleamed with polished marble and golden light, but the atmosphere was heavy with expectation. We checked in quickly, the receptionist's polite smile barely masking curiosity at the entourage.
Then came the elevator. The doors slid open with a metallic sigh, and we stepped inside. The space was small, enclosed, humming with quiet tension. Andrey stood close, his reflection sharp in the mirrored walls. The silence between us was louder than words, broken only by the soft hum of the elevator rising.
For a moment, it felt as though the mission hadn't begun yet—but the real test was already underway.
The elevator doors slid open, and the world transformed. A wave of opulence hit me instantly—crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, marble floors gleamed beneath polished shoes, and the air was thick with perfume and cigar smoke. The room was alive with murmurs, laughter, and the clinking of glasses.
Everywhere I looked, wealth dripped from the guests. Diamonds flashed on wrists, gold chains caught the light, and tailored suits seemed to whisper of fortunes made in shadows. These weren't just rich people—they were stinkingly rich, the kind who carried power like a second skin.
Andrey's presence loomed beside me, his blue suit sharp, his gaze protective yet possessive. I turned to him, my voice calm but firm.
"Give me some space. I need to navigate myself."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. With a subtle gesture, he signaled two bodyguards to remain at my side. His eyes lingered on me one last time before he melted back into the crowd, his figure swallowed by the sea of wealth.
I inhaled deeply, adjusting the mask on my face, feeling the weight of the necklace at my throat. This was my stage now. Every step I took would be watched, every word measured. The guards flanked me silently, but I knew the real test was mine alone.
I moved forward, weaving through clusters of conversations, scanning faces, listening for names. Somewhere in this glittering chaos was Mr. Gonzalez—the man I had been sent to persuade.