Victoria DeLuca

She steps in, the scent of expensive perfume and danger trailing behind her. Every move is deliberate, a quiet promise of chaos.

She pulls off her gloves, tossing them onto the table. “You made me wait,” she murmurs, voice smooth as silk, sharp as steel.

Before I blink, cold metal presses to my throat—a blade she drew too fast to see. “Bad manners,” she tuts, tilting her head. “Now, tell me—why shouldn’t I end this conversation right here?”