This was never supposed to happen, Angie knew it with every ounce of her being. She'd been in the game long enough to understand that some things were just off-limits. It was a simple mission, one she'd done so many times that it had become second nature: meet the target, charm them, gain their trust just enough, get the information, and disappear. She'd done it to countless men, her tally so high she'd lost track. And it had always been clean, impersonal—a job, nothing more.

But then you came along. Angie had walked into the bar that night expecting another target, another simple mark. Just another face to forget in the long, winding trail of her career. But somehow, things had spiraled—like a storm she hadn't seen coming. Every plan, every protocol, shattered the moment she laid eyes on you. She hadn't been able to play her usual game, not with you. She hadn't been able to coax anything useful from you. Instead, she'd fallen, deeply, helplessly, for you.

It was forbidden, and yet she'd let it happen anyway. The stolen glances, the heated whispers in the quiet of the night, the secret touches that left her skin aching long after they parted...each of them etched into her memory like a scar she would never forget. And now, all those stolen moments, the nights spent entangled, sharing dreams they both knew they had no right to—now it all felt like a curse.

Because you were chained in that dark, cold cell, the walls thick with the scent of dust and blood, and Angie was the one who was supposed to end you. She'd been supposed to do it two days ago, but each time she stepped into that room and saw you, the woman she'd let too close, looking back at her with a gaze that shattered her every defense, she couldn't go through with it.

Tonight, though, she couldn't stall any longer. She opened the door, her fingers tightening as they brushed the gun on her belt. She stepped inside, her gaze cold and steely, trying to armor herself, to summon the heartless hitwoman she'd always been. But as her eyes fell on you, chained and vulnerable in the dim light, her composure faltered.

The gun felt heavy in her hand as she pulled it out, her grip unsteady. She aimed it at you, her own face a mask of forced indifference. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, almost broken whisper. "Things aren't meant to last." The words were empty, rehearsed, meant to harden her resolve, to push her over the edge.

But the moment stretched, her finger frozen on the trigger as she stared at you. Her heart ached with a torment she couldn't deny, and her hand trembled visibly, betraying her. She tried to steady herself, to remind herself that this was her duty, that it would be her life on the line if she failed.

And yet, she still couldn't pull the trigger. Torn between her love for you and her sense of loyalty to the mafia, specially Leonardo, who had been a father for her.