Page 31 of Watch Me Burn

CATERINA

M y army boots click against the rain-slicked pavement as I navigate through the shadows of the abandoned warehouse district.

Three days.

Who’s counting?

It’s been exactly that long since that night with Aaron, and every time I close my eyes, I can still feel him inside me. The memory burns like acid, all the more potent because the minute I had him, I haven’t stopped wanting more.

Thinking of Aaron before a kill is a stupid distraction.

I shake off the thought, disgust sliding like ice down my spine.

Focus .

I check my phone again, skimming the intel to ground myself. Warehouse 37. Northeast corner. Two guards at the entrance, three inside. Delgado would be in his makeshift office, counting cash, indulging in his own product. Just enough to dull his senses without impairing his paranoia.

The Beretta presses coldly into the small of my back, an anchor to reality as I slip deeper into the shadows.

My father thinks this is men’s work, but men are blunt instruments—loud, predictable.

He’s never understood that sometimes a woman in the right dress gets closer than any hired gun ever could.

Amusement flickers through me as I imagine Aaron’s face if he could see me now.

If he knew the entire truth and how I’ve been carving out the rot from this city, eliminating the worst offenders from my father’s organization.

One monster at a time. Would he be impressed, disgusted, or simply file it away as leverage?

Would Aaron hand me over to the mafia to free himself? It would be the smart move. He could have everything he wants, if only he realized it.

The warehouse looms ahead, grimy windows glowing faintly with interior light.

I slip into a side alley, finding the service entrance exactly where Marco said it would be.

The lock is child’s play. A quick twist of my picks and I’m inside, the musty scent of abandoned machinery and fresh chemicals fills my lungs.

I navigate through stacked crates and rusted equipment. Voices drift from around the corner. Two men speaking rapid Spanish, discussing a shipment coming in tomorrow. I remain perfectly still, controlling my breathing until they move on, then continue toward the makeshift office.

A chain-link partition cages off Delgado’s corner of the warehouse.

I stay crouched behind a stack of broken pallets, watching through the metal diamonds.

Delgado reclines lazily in an office chair, boots propped on a desk littered with rolls of cash and baggies of white powder.

Beside him kneels a girl—eighteen at most—vacant-eyed and trembling as she carves shaky lines onto a dirty mirror.

Fucking disgusting.

Men like Delgado don’t just sell poison; they devour lives, leaving behind nothing but shells—broken, addicted, hopeless.

This is why I do what I do.

Him and every other skid mark I’ve killed make this world feel just a tad safer once they’re gone.

Some might wonder how I sleep at night. The answer? Like a fucking teenager—out cold, without a care, straight through until noon.

Pulling my mask up, I slip a tiny canister from my pocket, no bigger than a tube of lipstick.

One push, then I roll it gently beneath the gap in the chain-link.

Three seconds pass, and a fine, odorless mist fills the air.

Three more, and the girl slumps forward, unconscious but breathing.

Delgado follows immediately, sagging awkwardly in his chair.

Fast-acting. Short duration.

Twenty minutes, tops.

I only need ten.

Bolt cutters snap through the chain-link fence, the sharp noise swallowed by the warehouse’s empty darkness. Nobody comes running since Delgado values his privacy when he’s indulging.

Inside the office, I drag the girl to a corner, positioning her comfortably against the wall. Track marks dot the crooks of her arms. Another victim. I place a business card in her pocket, a rehabilitation center funded anonymously through a network of shell companies.

My network.

Working quickly, I remove his weapons and tie him. Show time.

I slap Delgado sharply, his head snapping back. He jolts awake, sedative fading exactly as planned. His eyes flare wide, panic replacing confusion as he registers his situation: wrists zip-tied to the chair, mouth sealed with duct tape.

“Thomas Delgado,” I say softly, perching on the edge of his desk. “We need to discuss your business practices.”

Recognition bleeds into fear. Everyone in my father’s circle knows Caterina Mortelle—the untouchable daughter, the obedient princess, the woman never meant to dirty her hands with family business.

I rip the tape from his mouth. He hisses in pain. “Fuck! Was that necessary?”

“No but it was fun.”

“Your father will?—”

“My father doesn’t know I’m here.” I pluck a bag of heroin from his desk, inspecting it beneath the harsh fluorescent glare. “And he won’t find out. This is between us.”

“What do you want?” Sweat beads on Delgado’s upper lip. “Money? A cut of the profits? I can make you richer than your father ever could.”

“I’m already rich, Tom. I want you to stop selling this particular product.” I hold up the bag. “Sixteen dead teenagers last month. You’re killing children.”

He sneers, arrogance returning. “Business is business. If they’re stupid enough to buy?—”

My hand flies out, knuckles connecting hard enough to split skin. Blood trickles from his mouth, a satisfying smear of crimson. “You’re a piece of shit.”

“Think you’re better than us? Look around. You’re standing in your father’s supply chain. Don’t pretend your hands are clean.”

“My father doesn’t sell to children or rape women.”

Delgado smirks bitterly. “Are you sure about that, sweetheart?”

A cold, sick weight sinks through my chest. He’s baiting me, desperate to derail. But he’s right and I’m not naive. One day I’ll run out of monsters and face the one at home. But today isn’t that day.

Drawing my Beretta, I screw the silencer into place smoothly, the motion practiced and precise. “Last chance, Delgado. Tell me you’ll stop, and I’ll walk away.”

“You won’t kill me. Your father?—”

“—will assume one of your countless enemies finally caught up with you,” I finish for him, pressing the barrel firmly against his knee. “I don’t have to kill you. I just need to ensure you can’t do business anymore.”

“You don’t have it in you.”

I squeeze the trigger. The silencer muffles the shot, but Delgado’s scream reverberates through the warehouse, his leg blooming scarlet as he writhes.

“Still think I’m bluffing? The next bullet goes through your other knee. After that, your elbows. Plenty of time to reconsider your stance.”

“You crazy bitch. You’re dead. You hear me? Dead!”

I sigh, adjusting my aim to his other knee. “Wish you wouldn’t make this so hard.”

“Put the gun down, Caterina.”

I spin instantly, weapon raised, aiming straight between the intruder’s eyes?—

Aaron.

His gun stays fixed on my chest. “Don’t.”

I hesitate for just a heartbeat before lowering my weapon. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You almost shot me.” His aim never wavers.

I arch an eyebrow, irritation flaring as precious seconds tick by. “Are you going to lower your gun and help, or not?”

Movement flickers in my periphery—the girl, crawling toward the exit on trembling limbs. I step forward, but Aaron’s grip tightens on his gun.

“Explain why you’re torturing someone over drugs. Isn’t trafficking your family’s whole business?”

“It’s bigger than that. We don’t have time for?—”

He looks between Delgado and me. “Looks like an execution.”

Seeing him again after three days crumples something deep in my chest. Every hard angle, every ounce of controlled fury is trained solely on me, and everything we shared feels suddenly meaningless. The absence of trust stings more than I expected.

“If I wanted him dead, he’d already be dead,” I snap, voice colder than intended.

“Then tell me, Caterina. What did he do to cross the Mortelle family? I thought you didn’t handle your father’s dirty work.”

“This isn’t my father’s business.”

“Enlighten me.” He closes the distance until the muzzle nearly touches my forehead.

If Aaron insists on knowing the truth, fine. Let him bear the weight of it.

“Ask Delgado about the sixteen teenagers who died last month from his special batch.” My voice quakes with barely contained rage. “Ask him about the fourteen-year-old girl they found in an alley, a needle in her arm, his poison in her veins, and his DNA all over her body.”

He turns sharply toward Delgado. “Is that true?”

“She’s lying. The bitch just wants my territory.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Right, because my goal in life is to corner the heroin market.” I nod toward the desk. “Open the drawer, Aaron. You’ll find his new batch—twice as potent, designed specifically to hook users fast and kill them even faster.”

Aaron hesitates, then steps forward, his gun still aimed in my direction as he yanks the drawer open.

“Also check his maps. They’re marked around schools. Lower-income communities. Targeting kids. Vulnerable families. This isn’t normal cartel business.”

He pulls out the packets, scanning the labels. “How did you find out about this?”

“Weeks. I’ve been tracking his every move.”

He glances up, skepticism clear. “And your angle? Since when do the Mortelles give a shit about civic duty?”

The insinuation lands hard, but I keep my expression cool. By now, he should know I’m nothing like my father. “Maybe I’m more than my last name.”

“Or maybe you’re using vigilante justice as a cover for another power grab.”

I lower my weapon slightly, meeting his gaze head-on. “Believe what you want, Aaron, but Delgado won’t stop unless someone forces him. Men like him never do.”

“Jesus Christ, Caterina.” Aaron drags a hand roughly through his hair, gun wavering just a fraction. “You’re in over your head. One wrong step and you’re done.”

“Better than standing by and letting this happen.”

“You think I don’t care about justice? We’re not cops. And last time I checked you’re not a fucking judge.”

“I think you play by rules designed to let men like him walk free. How many times has Delgado been arrested, posted bail, and walked straight back to business?”

“So your solution is becoming judge, jury, and executioner?”

“My solution,” I bite out, stepping closer, “is doing whatever the hell it takes.” I glance at Delgado, who seems quite calm. “One less predator makes the world safer.”

“And when your father realizes his daughter is dismantling his network?” Aaron asks darkly. “What then?”

“He won’t find out. Unless you tell him.”

He studies me, suspicion warring. Before he responds, his attention shifts back to the drawer, fingers sifting swiftly through the contents when suddenly his entire body goes rigid.

“What is it?” I ask, tension spiking at his sudden stillness.

Aaron straightens, gripping a file as if it’s burned him. He turns it toward me, voice tight with shock.

“It says Lorenzo.”

I blink. “What?”

“Right here. Shipment manifests. Distribution routes. Most of them initialed by L.Z.”

I cross the room in three long strides, snatching the paper from his hand.

No .

It’s all right here. My father’s crest stamped at the top. Lorenzo’s handwriting scrawled across the page, and every other page in the folder.

My breath stutters.

No .

My father’s most trusted advisor. His right hand. His shadow. The man who swore to protect the integrity of the family name. The man who taught me to shoot. Who whispered warnings about betrayal. Who claimed to be disgusted by the rot infecting this city.

A cold nausea grips my gut.

Lorenzo never acts without my father’s approval. Which means?—

No .

“You didn’t know.”

I meet Aaron’s gaze, vision blurred at the edges. My silence is answer enough.

This is why my father’s been obsessed with the killings, hunting the phantom dismantling his empire from within.

He isn’t trying to stop the violence.

He’s trying to stop me .

Because I’m threatening his allies. His business.

His power.

“You okay?” Aaron asks cautiously, his voice slicing through the haze.

“No.”

But I will be.

Because if Lorenzo’s behind this—he’s mine.

A sudden movement snaps my attention, adrenaline spiking. We’ve been careless and distracted. In that split second of vulnerability, Delgado takes his chance.

I whip around, muscles firing on instinct as the chair crashes to the ground.

Delgado lunges forward, one hand freed, eyes wild with desperation, his gun already aimed at my chest.

The muzzle flashes, a blinding spark in the darkness.

A deafening crack fills the air.

Too close. Too late.

I twist sideways, but it feels like I’m moving underwater.

The bullet hits, tearing through flesh like lightning, and the world contracts violently to a single, searing point of agony. As everything fades away, one thing continues to echo deep in my bones:

I don’t want to leave him. Not yet.