A Don And His Donna

Mystic

I wake in pieces, like my mind is dragging itself through thick, lukewarm tar, and every time I get close to the surface something heavy tugs me right back under. By the time my eyes finally open, the world is a smear of dim shapes and blurred light, and it takes several long, stubborn blinks before anything sharpens enough for me to understand where I am.

The ceiling above me is plain, white, and really high. I try to shift, just to sit up, and a harsh metallic jerk yanks at my wrist. The cold bite of steel slams through the fog in my head. i look down at my hand. A cuff. A solid metal one, locked tight to the metal bedframe.

I inhale through my teeth, partly to steady myself, partly because the alternative is panic clawing up my throat. My body feels wrong—heavy in some places, numb in others—and when I try to turn, pain tears across my ribs in a hot, pulsing line. My vision frays at the edges, my skull feels packed with needles, and for a moment I can’t tell if the room is tilting or if it’s just me losing consciousness. Again.

Once my eyes finally cooperate, I take in the room: bare concrete walls, a single lamp throwing a pool of warm, yellow light, and a metal table lined with medical supplies. The air is sharp with alcohol, cold metal, and a faint echo of gunpowder, and that scent alone yanks the memories back with brutal clarity—the warehouse, the gun, the recoil rattling through my bones, and Marco looming over me like a nightmare.

If I’m alive now, bandaged, breathing, chained to a bed, then the answer is obvious and completely unacceptable.

He put me here.

And the question that slips through my mind is as sharp as the cuff cutting into my skin:

Why?

Why keep me alive when I fired at him? Why bother patching up someone who literally tried to blow a hole through his chest? People like Marco don’t spare enemies. They finish them. And yet here I am—breathing, bruised, and very much not dead.

The thought unsettles me more than the restraints.

I tug at the cuff again, slower this time, testing every angle for even the slightest weakness, but whoever locked me down did it with irritating expertise. My throat feels scraped raw, but I manage a quiet, hoarse “Hello?” just to see who’s listening.

Silence answers.

I lie still for a moment, breathing through the ache in my ribs, forcing my thoughts into something resembling order. I hate this helpless angle, hated being on my back, hated not seeing the door, hated knowing someone watched me bleed and decided I needed to stay alive for some reason I absolutely don’t like.

And beneath all that, sharp and steady, the anger simmers—hotter than the pain, louder than the fear, fierce enough to keep me conscious.

Where did things go wrong?

I run through the morning in my head, piece by piece, like I’m shaking a box for broken glass. I was careful. I followed the same routine I’ve drilled into myself—same path, same distance, same timing when checking on him. I knew his security’s rotation down to the breath.

The drone… yes, they must have seen it. But that shouldn’t have happened. Not unless someone adjusted the camera angle at the exact moment I passed overhead. I memorized their patterns for a month straight, and they never changed a thing.

So why now?

Why that moment?

The thought that slips into my mind is ugly and unwanted, but it doesn’t leave: someone must have known. Someone must have said something. Someone must have put the idea in their heads that an assassin was already in motion, which means someone either recognized me, tracked me, or had a reason to make sure I walked into a trap I didn’t see coming.

But who the hell would even know?

I didn’t tell anyone.

I didn’t take a partner.

I didn’t leave hints, footprints, or a trail for anyone to follow.

Everything about this job lived inside my head because that’s how I survive—by trusting no one and keeping every secret in my own hands.

And yet something leaked, or shifted, or cracked sideways beneath me, and the realisation settles over my skin like ice: either I was never as invisible as I thought I was… or someone else was watching me the entire time, waiting for the moment I stepped one inch out of place.

Footsteps cut through the quiet from the other side of the room.

Soon the door swings open, A woman enters, the one I saw this morning at the compound through the drone. Fabulous. Why is she even here? Who the hell is she?

Her high heels click against the concrete, in a short black dress clings perfectly, sculpting her figure without ever seeming staged, and her hair is pulled back with such precision that it looks effortless, though I know it isn’t. My eyes catch the slim silver knife strapped to her thigh, angled casually but deliberately. She is lethally beautiful.

Interesting.

But my eyes are immediately pulled to the man who walks in behind her, the one who doesn’t need to speak or gesture to take over the entire room, and the moment I see him—really see him—I feel a rush of heat crawl up my neck. I track my gaze down his torso, searching for blood, torn fabric, anything that proves I didn’t completely screw up, and my stomach twists when I find nothing. Not a mark. Not a scratch.

He’s perfectly intact.

Did I f*****g miss?

God f*****g damnit.

How do I miss a shot like that? Sure, I was collapsing, bleeding out, fighting to stay conscious—but still. A miss is a miss, and the humiliation of it burns hotter than the pain in my ribs.

He tilts his head slightly, his brown eyes locking onto mine with that same unsettling calm.

“Miss me?” he asks.

“You wish,” I snap, and the words taste sharp in my mouth even as my ribs scream with every breath.

He smirks, stepping past the woman with a confidence that makes my jaw clench, moving closer to the edge of the bed. “I thought you never missed a shot,” he says, his tone wicked like the edge of a blade.

My anger spikes, and I grit my teeth against the pain that flares across my torso. “Wanna test that again?” I snap.

His expression shifts, the playful amusement vanishing like smoke. “You won’t raise your gun at me again,” he says, and now there’s no coyness, no teasing, only the terrifying certainty that whoever I was before is gone, replaced by someone who decides the rules, someone who makes the danger in the room feel absolute.

The woman moves forward effortlessly, stepping into the space between us with a casual confidence that makes my stomach twist, and her voice drifts over like smoke: “I’m sure she won’t, Marco,” she drawls.

I snap upright, muscles coiling, ready to defend myself, only to remember with a cold jolt that my gun isn’t in my hands and my wrists are cuffed to the bed, leaving me utterly exposed and helpless, and the reality of it sends a rush of panic through my chest that tastes like iron.

God, I’m skittish, twitching like some trapped rabbit, but I can’t stop it; I hate the way both of them are watching me, analyzing me, and I can feel it—some current is building between them, and I’m going to be caught in the middle makes my ribs ache even harder as I force myself to hold my ground.

I ignore her completely—purely out of spite, because if there’s one thing I hate more than being trapped, it’s being taunted.

So I turn my attention to the devil incarnate instead.

“Well?” I rasp, meeting Marco’s eyes like I’m not one wrong move away from passing out. “Why don’t you enlighten me on why I’m still breathing?”

“You’re in no position to ask questions, Ms. Vanya Marquez.” The woman lifts her chin as she says it—just enough to demand attention. Attention seeking cunt!

But my blood goes cold.

She said my name.

My full name.

What the actual hell?

She keeps talking, leaning over me, and I have to actively fight the urge to grab her hair and introduce her skull to the wall.

“That’s you,” she says, lips curving like this is gossip hour. “Vanya Marquez. Ex‑assassin for Nicolás’ crew.”

My stomach drops.

They shouldn’t know that.

No one should know that.

My pulse spikes, more from fury than fear.

“Funny,” I say, voice flat, “I don’t remember sending out a résumé.”

The woman’s smile widens, amused in that irritating, I‑know‑more‑than‑you way. Marco just watches—silent, unreadable, hands in his pockets like this is a casual Tuesday and not my worst nightmare.

“Information travels,” she purrs. “Especially when someone from a dying crew starts playing lone wolf.”

“Bold of you to assume I play with anyone,” I mutter, eyes sliding back to Marco. “So what now? You two going to trade fun facts about me until one of you gets bored and kills me?”

Marco finally moves—just his head, tilting a fraction. “Kill you?” he repeats, like the idea is mildly entertaining but not on today’s schedule.

The woman answers before he can.

“Oh, no. We didn’t drag you out of a pool of your own blood to waste you.”

My jaw tenses.

“So enlighten me,” I snap. “What do you want from me?”

Marco steps just a bit closer—not enough to crowd me, just enough to remind me he could.

“That,” he says quietly, “is the first good question you’ve asked.”

“Who sent you?” the woman asks, and I give her a flat look. Did she actually expect me to answer that?

I don’t even know what kind of power she holds in this hierarchy, but it’s obvious she has some authority—otherwise, she wouldn’t be standing beside Marco, interrogating me as if my life were a trivial puzzle.

“Thought so,” she mutters, stepping back with deliberate grace, retrieving a small key from her purse and holding it up between us. The key to my cuffs. Hm. Hm.

“You do realize what you’ve gotten yourself into, right?” she drawls, like she’s savoring the tension in the air.

I shift my gaze to Marco, letting my eyes linger on him just long enough to show I’m done tolerating the chatter. “She talks too much,” I mutter, voice low, deliberately bored, as if the interrogation is nothing more than background noise.

Marco looks down at me in that quite dominance then back at the woman, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’s both amused and approving of my insolence.

“Leave, Natasha,” Marco says.

Natasha glares down at me, fists tight around the key as if she’s ready to hurl it at my face. Then, with a sharp flick of her wrist, she lets it drop to the floor, the metallic clink echoing in the room. She storms toward the door, shooting Marco one last withering look before disappearing, leaving only the faint trace of her perfume behind.

I exhale slowly, though the tension doesn’t leave me, every rib still burning, every nerve still taut, and I let my gaze snap back to Marco, the one who decided this room.

“I thought you’d bring someone sensible to interrogate me,” I quip, letting my voice drift lazily over the tension in the room. “Like your head of security. Matteo.”

I lean back against the pillow, wincing slightly as my ribs protest the movement, and smirk at Marco. “He’s… hot,” I add.

Marco’s dark eyes flick to mine, expression unreadable, a faint curl tugging at the corner of his mouth—but it’s not amusement I see. It's emptiness.

“Hot, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, threaded with that dangerous calm that makes my skin crawl. “I’ll remember that. Matteo might not appreciate it, though.”

I raise a brow, letting the smirk linger. “Oh, I doubt he’d even know. Besides, I’m not exactly looking for his approval.”

Marco steps closer. “Bold,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “and reckless. Just like your reputation.”

I grit my teeth, glaring up at him. “Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I? I must be doing something right.”

He lets that hang for a moment, letting the silence thicken around us, before finally speaking again, “Alive, yes. But not for long if you keep testing me.”

My hand twitches toward the cuffs, a useless gesture, but the motion alone makes me feel like I’m still fighting. “Testing you?” I hiss, voice tight. “You think I’d be dumb enough to walk into your little trap without a plan?”

I don't have any plan, but he doesn't know that.

Marco tilts his head again, eyes darkening with a calm amusement that’s far more unsettling than any shout or threat. “A plan?” he repeats softly. “You’ve been playing games for a month, sneaking, watching, hiding, and yet you’re here—bound, bruised, and at my mercy. That’s your plan?”

I grind my teeth, fighting the wave of nausea that rises with the pain in my side. “I’m not done,” I snap. “And you’re not the only one in this room with a few tricks up their sleeve.”

He takes a step closer, enough that I can feel the heat from his body even across the bed, and his voice drops, low and deliberate, like every word is measured to cut through the haze in my mind. “Perhaps. But let’s be clear—right now, I decide how this ends.”

My chest aches at the reminder, my head spins, but my eyes stay locked on his. Defiance tastes bitter, but I hold it anyway.

“What do you want, Marco?” I ask, the words dry on my tongue. Not brave—just tired of pretending he hasn’t already decided everything for me.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he bends and retrieves the key Natasha threw, the metal glinting between his fingers as he straightens. The movement pulls him into my space, close enough that I catch the faint scent of smoke and something colder underneath. His eyes flick to the cuffs around my wrist, then back to my face.

“You should be asking,” he says quietly, “what I don’t want.”

He steps closer to the bed, resting the key against the metal cuff. My pulse jumps, but I keep my expression flat.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“It means,” he says, “you tried to put a bullet in me. And now you’re here. Breathing. Which should tell you exactly how interested I am.”

He taps the cuff once with the key—My throat feels tight, but the words come anyway.

“Interested in what?”

His gaze drops, briefly, to the bandages wrapped around my torso. When he looks back up, his expression hasn’t changed, but the air between is lethal.

“In you,” he says simply.