The Devil’s Mercy

Chapter 3

Zeldric

I pace back and forth in my office, inhaling the cigar smoke until my throat burns. It’s been more than an hour since they brought Beni and there’s still no reliable news. The doctor we kidnapped is treating him, they tell me, but no one gives me details. I can’t go into the game room alone; if my men find out what weakens me, all my respect would collapse.

“Relax, Zeldric,” Luna sings from the L-shaped sofa. “If anything had happened, Marcos would already be here. He’s a loyal dog.”

I stop and lock my gaze on Lagos, my number two and the only person I really trust.

“Go check on my brother,” I order.

He doesn’t protest. He gets up, leaves, and shuts the door. Luna gets up, sashays over, and wraps her hands around my neck. She starts rubbing my nape with her fingers, a provocation I try to ignore.

“I know exactly what you need to calm down, baby,” she whispers, with the voice of a beast in heat.

I shove her away with a snort.

“My brother got shot. What I need right now is not a quick fuck.”

She scowls, plays offended, and collapses back onto the couch. Despite everything—stupid as it sounds—I don’t know why I keep her close. She’s beautiful, she does her job, and she knows how to move keyboards and firewalls like few can. Useful, even if annoying.

Ten minutes later, I’m even more tense. I told Beni not to do stupid things and he ignored me. He thinks he’s brave and he’s only risking getting himself killed.

The door slams open. Lagos comes in smiling.

“Relax, he’s fine. The doctor says he’s going to recover.”

I release the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and nod. “Get everything cleaned up.”

“It’s already done,” Lagos answers.

I cross the house toward the game room. I push the door with my hand and stop dead.

Beni lies on the pool table, his belly bandaged, breathing shallowly. He looks unconscious, but alive. For a second, everything else blurs... and then I see him.

Héctor is nearby, watching. Marcos too. But the woman isn’t there.

“Where’s the doctor?” I ask, without raising my voice, but with enough edge to cut the air.

Héctor shifts uncomfortably. “She asked to go to the bathroom,” he says. “Ramiro went with her.”

I frown. Ramiro is crude, impulsive and easily manipulated. And as if my thoughts summoned it, the side door bursts open.

Ramiro staggers in, his forehead split and blood running down his face. Lip busted, breathing ragged, and what matters most—no gun. He leans against the wall as if the world is moving under his feet.

“What the f**k happened?” I snarl.

Ramiro tries to speak, but only a guttural sound comes out. He points down the hall with a trembling hand before collapsing to his knees, nearly passing out. Héctor curses; Marcos already has his weapon out.

“The b***h attacked him,” one of my men spits. “She robbed him of his gun.”

The silence that falls is heavy as a corpse. She was here. Now she’s loose. In my house. With a gun. Not knowing the layout and with no clear exit. That only means one thing: she’s still inside.

“Seal all exits,” I ordered, cold as a knife. “Shut the place down. Check every hallway, every bathroom, every f*****g corner.”

My men move immediately, shouting orders, running like ants gone mad. I, however, don’t get swept into the chaos. She’s not fleeing blindly. Not after what she did. It wasn’t panic. It was a calculation. And that makes her ten times more dangerous.

I turn and go back to my office. I need to watch the cameras. I need to know what kind of woman I’ve got loose on my turf. I close the door behind me and go straight to the monitor. I type fast, search for the bathroom corridor. There’s the recording: Ramiro opening the door for her, and her going in. And seconds later, she comes out alone, calm, with his gun in her hand. She kicks him in the head as she leaves. Dry. Precise. Without hesitation.

Her full route after that isn’t visible; there are blind spots in the system. But her movements aren’t those of someone lost. This isn’t instinct. It’s training.

I’m about to keep reviewing when something in the monitor’s reflection changes: a shadow behind the curtain, barely a fold that wasn’t there before. My neck tightens. I don’t turn. I don’t breathe. And then I feel the cold metal of the barrel pressed into the back of my head.

“Don’t trigger the alarm,” she murmurs, firm, without trembling. “And no one dies.”

Pure instinct: my breath shortens for a second, my hands search for the desk without making a sound.

“Let me go and no one will get hurt,” a voice says by my ear, steady, without hesitation.

I turn slowly, expecting maybe a hooded guy, an improvised male medic, or one of my men with a bloodied face. Not her. Not a woman who has a gun planted against my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I see her face and the world fractures for a moment: fair skin, honey-colored eyes that don’t blink, brown hair tied high in a bun. The features are right—hard and yet delicate—jaw with a slight tic that gives her character. She wears dark cargo pants and a simple tee, but the way she stands makes her look like an elegant threat. An absurd, rapid desire cuts through me, and I admit it without shame: I want her. I think it so clearly it scares me.

“Lower the gun,” I command, archaic and calm, trying to force some sense into the scene.

She doesn’t flinch. She takes a step back with her heel lifted; her stance confirms my immediate suspicion: not a cop; military, or at least trained like one. She holds the pistol steady, no noise, no drama.

“Drop the weapon,” I insist, because short orders sound better in rooms like these.

“You don’t fool me,” she replies, her gaze fixed on mine. “When I lower my gun, one of your men will put a bullet in the back of my head. I’m no use to them anymore.”

Her voice shakes a millimeter, nothing more. No fear—only calculation. And in that absence of fear, the truest threat reads: she isn’t here to play.

“They won’t,” I say, and there’s truth in my voice. “I give you my word. No one will touch you.”

I don’t speak out of kindness. I speak because promises are sometimes the only things that hold order in my world. I say it and feel it: I don’t lie when I make a promise.

She studies me with the intensity of someone weighing whether to believe. She shrugs a minimal gesture. Finally, she lets the gun fall; the pistol hits the floor with a dull sound that makes me think of decisions with no turning back.

At that moment, Ramiro, wounded and enraged, lunges. I stop him before he reaches her: the first signs of insubordination are paid for in full. I shoot without hesitation; the impact to Ramiro’s leg drops him and he howls on the floor. I gave my word and I kept it; anyone who challenges my order has no place here.

She doesn’t react to the shot with surprise; she seems more annoyed by the interruption. Still, without wasting time, she turns to the wounded man and begins to work with quick, efficient hands, ripping his pants and pressing a tourniquet, since the bullet has passed through. I find it intriguing and dangerous.

“Who are you?” I finally ask, curiosity stronger than anger.

“Jenkins,” she answers, without taking her eyes off the injured man. “Jenkins. And this man needs care, not questions.”

Her answer is dry and clear. I step closer, unabashed; a citrus scent follows her and stirs the back of my neck again. I can’t help it: attraction explains it all. I want her.

“Consider that I let you live as payment for what you did for my brother,” I say, half joking, half a controlled threat.

She lifts her chin a few millimeters, finishes tightening the bandage on the man, and looks at me with the same calm. She’s not submissive. She’s not afraid. After treating him, I ordered Héctor to take her to a guest room.

Lagos appears at the doorway, and I give a quick order: “Find out who Jenkins is; if she has a record, give me everything.” Lagos nods and leaves without questions. From my desk, I watch her on the security screen: I see her move with sure, precise hands, as if what just happened was barely an inconvenience.

I sit behind my desk and, without any shame, slip my hand over the bulge in my pants. Whatever it is, I think, I want her. And I will have her, whether she wants it or not.