Page 15 of All’s Fair In Love & War (The Bulgari Cartel #2)

The stories about them had always seemed larger than life. Everyone thought of them as a ghost who killed with precision so sharp it left no trace. My brothers idolized them in secret. Their hushed conversations dripped with awe and a hint of fear whenever they spoke about them.

However, seeing them in the flesh was something else entirely. They weren’t loud or brash like the men who worked for my father. They didn’t have to be. Their power was in the way they carried themselves, quiet and unshakable, commanding attention without raising their voice.

As I watched, completely mesmerized, the figure’s head tilted slightly, and their gaze flicked to the door.

“I see you,” they mouthed over their shoulder before returning their attention to my father.

The words were soft, almost teasing, but they shot through me like lightning.

I froze, and my breath caught in my throat.

How had they noticed me? I’d been careful, hadn’t I?

Apparently not, but they didn’t call attention to me beyond that.

My father didn’t even glance toward the door, too engrossed in their conversation.

However, as El Fantasma’s gaze lingered on the shadows where I hid, I felt like I had been seen in a way I never had before.

It wasn’t until months later that I saw them again.

I was playing in the garden, climbing one of the old oak trees lining the estate’s perimeter. My brothers had wandered off, leaving me to entertain myself, and I took comfort in the quiet.

That’s when I felt it—a presence.

“You’re quick, but not quick enough,” a familiar voice said from below.

Startled, I nearly lost my grip on the branch. Peering down, I saw them standing at the base of the tree, their arms crossed, a faint smile curving their lips.

“How did you—?”

“You’re not as invisible as you think, nina.” Their tone was amused but carried an edge of challenge, like they were daring me to try harder next time.

And then, just like that, they disappeared.

However, that wasn’t the last time I saw them. Over the next few years, they began to appear more frequently, always at the edges of my world. They would catch me sneaking through the halls, shadowing my brothers, or eavesdropping on my father’s meetings.

At first, they teased me. Their comments were always sharp but never unkind. Then the lessons began.

It started with minor corrections, such as a quick adjustment on how I held a blade or a warning about how to move without being seen.

One day, when I was thirteen, something shifted.

“You think death is a game, don’t you?” they asked, their voice cutting through the quiet as we stood in the empty training room inside my home.

I turned to respond, and for the first time, their hood was down.

El Fantasma wasn’t a faceless figure anymore.

They were a woman—a beautiful woman. Her skin was the color of caramel, her sharp almond-shaped eyes framed by thick lashes, her full lips set in a knowing smirk. Her curls were pulled back into a loose bun, and I noticed the faint freckles dusting her cheekbones.

She looked like me.

“Stop staring,” she said, but there was a hint of a smile in her tone.

“You’re…” I faltered, unsure of what to say.

“Like you?” she finished, raising a brow. “Sí, nina. You could say that.”

I later learned that she was half-Mexican, half-Black, just like me, and that she was my aunt. My grandfather stepped out on his wife, and thus, she was born. That undeniable connection made her lessons feel even more personal.

From that day on, she didn’t hold back.

“You want to survive in this world?” she said one night as she taught me how to move silently through the estate. “Then you need to understand people. You need to learn how they think and how they see. Or don’t see.”

She taught me to read people, to spot their tells, their fears, and their weaknesses. She showed me how to wield my femininity like a weapon, to disarm with a smile while hiding a blade behind my back.

“El peligro no está en la pistola, nina. Está en la mente,” she told me once, holding a handgun.

(The danger isn’t in the gun. It’s in the mind.) “Always play it smart. Only tell people what they need to hear, never anything more. Lie if you must, hide if you need to, but never hand over your power for the sake of being seen in any light but yours. The world isn’t kind, and life isn’t fair.

It’s all a game. Learn to play it, or you’ll get played. ”

She didn’t just teach me how to kill. She taught me how to make it an art form.

As I grew older, our training sessions became more intense and more deliberate. By sixteen, I wasn’t just learning. I was executing. She took me on my first job, guiding me every step of the way.

Her methods were meticulous, and her kills were flawless. However, there was always something about them that was uniquely hers. A signature that turned her work into art, if you will.

It was then that I realized she wasn’t just training me. She was grooming me to become her successor.

And I loved it.

I loved the precision, the control, the way the world sharpened in those moments. I loved the dance between life and death, the power of being unseen and unstoppable.

When she disappeared, I didn’t ask why. In our world, people like her didn’t retire. They faded into legend, but her legacy lived on in me.

Every job I took and every life I ended was a tribute to the woman who saw me in the shadows and taught me how to own them.

What I love most about this life is the freedom it gave me.

When I was on the job, I wasn’t Sophia Bulgari, the girl who was grossly underestimated.

I was whoever I needed to be--a shadow, a ghost, an apex predator.

I could slip in and out of places no one else could.

I disappeared without a trace and left a trail of whispers behind.

It was the kind of power that didn’t come with being born into a powerful family. It was the kind I took for myself.

And yeah, I played the part around my family.

To them, I was the reckless little sister who was constantly pushing boundaries and making trouble.

They don’t know the half of it. They thought my late nights and disappearing acts were just me being irresponsible, and I let them believe that.

The truth was mine, and I wasn’t about to share it with anyone until I was ready.

When I was alone with my weapons, though?

That was when I could really be myself. There was something almost meditative about the process: the weight of the gun in my hands, the sound of a magazine clicking into place, the smell of gun oil.

It was the one thing in my life that felt completely mine.

It was untainted by anyone else’s expectations or rules.

This life wasn’t for everyone, but for me, it was perfect. The thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of a flawless kill, the knowledge that I was the best at what I did, it was addictive, and I didn’t feel guilty about it. Not one bit. That was who I was, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I parked and stepped out, my heels clicking against the asphalt, echoing the turmoil brewing inside me. I’d come here to clear my head, not to think about Dallas or the way his lips almost brushed against my skin.

As I approached the entrance, I spotted Khalil leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and eyes fixed on me. His presence loomed large and was a constant reminder of our family’s legacy.

“Where have you been?” he asked, his tone sharp. “You’re late.”

“I had some business to take care of,” I replied coolly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

His brow furrowed, and skepticism was apparent in his gaze. “Let me find out you’re up to your old bullshit.”

I waved him off. “Whatever. I need a drink and some dick. Let’s get this meeting over with so I can get out of here,” I replied as I pushed past him into the bar.