Missions Beyond

Marisol POV

The Dance Begins

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

The question hammered in my mind as I stood in the middle of the stage, the spotlight burning down on me, a thousand eyes watching my every move. The nightclub was a den of sin, and I was its newest attraction, a pawn dressed in sequins and shadow.

The music throbbed, slow and sultry, and I let it guide me. My body moved like it had a mind of its own, swaying, twisting, demanding attention. This wasn’t just a performance. It was a declaration: Look at me. Desire me. Underestimate me.

And there he was, Rafael Montoya, seated in the VIP section like a god among mortals. His dark eyes followed my every move, piercing and predatory, his lips curling into a smirk that screamed, I own you.

But I wasn’t dancing for him. I was dancing for the men who thought they’d broken me. For the bastards who had taken everything and left me bleeding in the dark. I was still here, alive, and they would pay.

As the final note hung in the air, I struck my last pose, heart pounding, body trembling not from exertion, but from the sheer force of my rage. The applause erupted like thunder, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heartbeat.

In the shadows of the stage, I whispered to myself, “This is just the beginning.”

Later that night, I stood in front of the mirror, wiping off the layers of makeup that masked the scars. Each swipe revealed the truth, the jagged lines on my arms, the faint one across my collarbone. They told the story of the night my family was slaughtered.

I’d been helpless then, lying in a pool of blood, the screams of my parents and siblings echoing in my ears. But now, I wasn’t helpless. I was something else entirely.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Rafael’s voice broke through my thoughts.

I turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair falling over his forehead in a way that made my stomach tighten.

“What do you want?” I snapped, refusing to let him see the storm brewing inside me.

He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. “You did well tonight.”

“Spare me the compliments,” I said, crossing my arms. “I know I’m not here for my dancing skills.”

His smirk deepened, but his eyes were unreadable. “No, you’re here because you’re dangerous. And I like dangerous women.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Is that why you saved me? Because you thought I’d be useful?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the scar on my arm. The touch was electric, sending a jolt of heat through me.

“I saved you,” he said finally, his voice low, “because you were worth saving. But don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. You owe me, Marisol. And I always collect.”

“You want me to do what?”

Rafael’s smirk was infuriating. “It’s a simple reconnaissance mission. Go in, get the intel, and get out. Think of it as a test.”

“A test for what?” I asked, my arms crossed.

“To see if you’re as good as I think you are.”

I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but I bit my tongue. I needed this. I needed him. For now.

The nightclub was a front for something much darker, and Rafael had sent me to one of his competitor’s establishments, a seedy dive that reeked of sweat and desperation. My job was to get close to a man named Hector Ramirez, a low-level thug with ties to Rafael’s enemies.

It didn’t take long to find him. He was seated at the bar, nursing a drink and leering at the waitress. I slipped onto the stool next to him, letting the hem of my dress ride up just enough to catch his attention.

“Buy me a drink?” I asked, my voice dripping with false sweetness.

He turned to me, his eyes taking over my body. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

I leaned in, letting my lips curve into a seductive smile. “Looking for trouble.”

The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Hector was drunk and arrogant, spilling secrets like water. But as I pressed for more, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Someone was watching me.

I turned my head slightly, my heart skipping a beat when I spotted a man with a scar running down his cheek. His eyes met mine, and I felt a wave of cold wash over me.

It was him.

What the fuck?

I froze, my mind racing. It couldn’t be him. But it was. The man with the scar. One of the men who had killed my family.

I forced myself to stay calm, to keep my focus on Hector, but my hands trembled as I clutched my glass. My heart pounded in my chest, a deafening drumbeat that drowned out everything else.

“Excuse me,” I murmured, slipping off the stool.

I moved toward the exit, my steps quick but measured. The scarred man followed, his gaze boring into my back. My mind screamed at me to run, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

Outside, the air was cool and sharp, but it did nothing to calm the fire raging inside me. I turned to face him, my fists clenched at my sides.

“Do I know you?” he asked, his voice rough and mocking.

I wanted to scream, to lash out, to make him pay for what he’d done. But I couldn’t blow my cover. Not yet.

“No,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “I don’t think so.”

He smirked, stepping closer. “Funny. You look familiar.”

I forced myself to smile, even as my blood boiled. “I get that a lot.”

He studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp and calculating. “Maybe I’ll remember later.”

As he turned and walked away, I felt a surge of rage and fear. He was here, in Rafael’s world. Did Rafael know who he was? Did he know what he’d done?

The questions swirled in my mind, but one thing was clear: I couldn’t wait any longer. My vengeance was no longer a distant goal. It was here, staring me in the face.

And I would make him pay.

Back at the nightclub, I confronted Rafael, my voice shaking with barely contained fury. “Who is he?”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Who?”

“The man with the scar,” I snapped. “He was at the bar tonight. Do you know him?”

Rafael’s gaze darkened, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition. But then he shrugged, his smirk returning. “You’ll have to be more specific, querida. There are a lot of men with scars in this business.”

I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but I bit my tongue. I couldn’t let him see how much this meant to me. Not yet.

But as I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.

“Be careful, Marisol,” he said, his tone laced with something I couldn’t quite place. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Because if I did, he’d see the truth.

That I wasn’t playing a game. I was preparing for war.