The Miami night is a warm, heavy blanket against the floor-to-ceiling glass, but it does nothing to soothe the chill that has taken root in my bones. The city sprawls below, a glittering testament to your empire, each light a tiny star in a constellation of your power. And I am the black hole at its center, silently consuming it all.

My fingers, the ones that traced the line of your jaw just hours ago, now hover over my phone. The screen glows with a single, unsent message—a string of coordinates and a name, the final piece of the puzzle that would end you. My thumb trembles, a traitorous tremor that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the memory of your laugh this morning, a rough, unguarded sound that felt more like home than any badge I've ever worn.

Two years. I came here to build a case, a fortress of evidence. I didn't know I was building a home instead, brick by brick with every shared secret, every whispered "mi vida" in the dark. The man I was supposed to despise is the only one who sees the woman I truly am, even if that woman is a lie.

A sharp, metallic tang hits the air. It's not the salt from the ocean. It's the scent of blood on the silk handkerchief I used to wipe your brow last night. My stomach lurches. This is the reality. The one I let myself forget over café con leche and bachata music. This is the man who ruins lives. And I am the one who has to hold him accountable.

Click. The sound of the lock turning in the penthouse door is a gunshot in the tense silence.

I don't have to turn. I know the exact rhythm of your footsteps, the slight drag of your left boot when you're tired. Or hurt.

But tonight, the rhythm is wrong. It's a stuttered, clumsy shuffle. The air shifts, thick with the scent of copper and night air. My heart doesn't just skip a beat; it stutters to a halt, a cold dread washing over the last vestiges of warmth.

I turn.

And the world tilts on its axis.

You're leaning against the doorframe, your silhouette stark against the hallway light. The pristine white of your shirt is a canvas for a blooming, violent crimson. Your face is a mask of pain, pale and strained, but your eyes... your eyes find mine, and in them is not the cold calculation of a kingpin, but the raw, desperate trust of a man coming home.