"A Shooting on Twenty-Seventh Avenue," Matt reports as we rush into the ambulance.

I roll my eyes and settle into my seat. It’s nothing unusual. Phoenix’s crime rate is relatively low compared to other cities of similar size and population. However, in recent years, prostitution, drug trafficking, and gang violence have surged around Twenty-Seventh Avenue. We get calls from that area every day. Stabbings and gunshot wounds are the most common.

It takes us less than five minutes to arrive. The police have already cordoned off the area. In front of a massive warehouse, two young men lie unconscious while several paramedics tend to them. One glance is enough to tell me they both have gunshot wounds.

"There are two more inside and one at the back of the warehouse," a police officer informs us.

I nod, and we head inside. The warehouse is enormous and completely empty. I ask George to follow us in with the ambulance—there’s enough space for him to maneuver. I spot the two bodies and immediately check the pulse of one while Matt does the same for the other. They're also young. Judging by their clothes and tattoos, they’re almost certainly members of a Latin gang.

"He’s dead," Matt announces.

"This one too."

"Should we start compressions?"

I'm about to say yes when I see two medics running toward us.

"They can take care of it. Let’s check on the one in the back."

"You think it was the Zeta Clan?"

"Not our problem. Let the police figure it out."

Matt nods, and we move quickly. We exit through the warehouse’s back door, and I instruct George to drive around the building to meet us.

I find the young man on the ground—he's conscious, with two police officers standing over him. They let me through, and I kneel beside him.

"Get the hell away from me, bitch!" he yells before I can even touch him.

I raise an eyebrow and study his face. He looks even younger than the others—he can’t be more than twenty.

"If you don’t let me examine you, you’ll bleed out," I say, pointing at his abdomen.

He’s clutching it with both hands, but the blood keeps pouring out, soaking his shirt and the ground beneath him.

"Want us to cuff him?" one of the officers asks.

I keep my eyes on the kid.

"I don’t think that’s necessary, officer. He looks smart enough to know that dying isn’t a great idea. Am I wrong?"

"It’s either death or prison," he mutters. "I don’t know which is worse."

"Live to find out," I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, and I see the fear in them. After a few seconds of hesitation, he removes his hands and nods.

I carefully lowered him to the ground and cut away his shirt to inspect the wound. As I expected, it’s a gunshot wound—not high caliber. I roll him slightly to check for an exit wound. The bullet went through. Given its location, closer to his side, it’s possible no vital organs were hit, but I won’t be sure until the bleeding stops. I press gauze against the wound while Matt inserts an IV into his arm. I notice a Z-shaped tattoo, confirming my suspicions—he’s a Zeta Clan member. The smartest move is to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible.

George brings the stretcher over, and we lift him onto it immediately. Once he’s secured inside the ambulance, the officers inform us they’ll escort us.

Then something unexpected happens.

I hear the screech of tires, and a massive black SUV comes to a stop beside us.

Four men step out.

The officers move to draw their weapons, but before they can, a bullet pierces each of their heads.

Matt ducks, frightened by the gunfire, but I don’t move an inch.

One of the armed men opens the back of the ambulance and grins from ear to ear.

"The son of a bitch is alive," he announces.

They all seem pleased before turning their attention to us. One of them—the only one without tattoos covering his neck and hands—aims a pistol at me.

"Who’s the medic?" he asks.

"I am," I answer after clearing my throat.

I know what’s coming before it happens.

Another man raises his gun and shoots Matt in the head. Then George.

Their bodies hit the ground, lifeless.

I know there’s nothing I can do for them. They’re dead.

"What a shame. I liked George."

"Good," the man with the gun says. "Looks like you just earned yourself a ride around the city."

He gestures toward the back of the ambulance and smirks.

"Get in. You’re gonna patch up my friend. After that, we’ll figure out what to do with you."

I’ve managed to stop the bleeding. I shift uncomfortably and huff in frustration as I feel the barrel of the gun pressed against my lower back. One of the men is driving the ambulance, the one with the tattoos on his neck is upfront with him, and the other one, the one they called Oscar, is in the back with me, keeping his eyes locked on me.

"Can you move the gun a few inches away? I’m trying to save your friend’s life, and having that thing pointed at me isn’t helping."

I think I hear a low chuckle, and then the pressure of the gun against my back disappears.

I keep working mechanically while trying to stay aware of my surroundings. We’ve been traveling at a normal speed, heading east for over twenty minutes. Maybe we’re going to Paradise Valley. They say some criminal gang leaders live there, deep in the rocky desert, in massive luxury mansions.

The injured boy screams in pain as I start removing the gauze from inside the wound.

"What the hell are you doing?! That hurts!" Oscar yells from behind me.

"I can’t give him painkillers without neglecting the wound," I say, exhaling in frustration. "If you hadn’t killed the paramedic, this would be a lot easier."

"No kidding…" I glance over my shoulder for a second and see that he’s smiling. His eyes are light blue, and he has a sharp line shaved from his eyebrow to the side of his head. It’s not a scar—just a stylistic choice. The injured boy has the same line, though not as pronounced.

"Why aren’t you nervous? We kidnapped you and killed your colleagues, and you don’t seem affected at all."

"There’s nothing."

I don’t respond. I keep working in silence. I’ve been in worse situations, and this isn’t the first time someone’s pointed a gun at me. Right now, the only thing that matters is saving the boy’s life.

"What’s your name?" I ask him.

The boy winces in pain and looks at his friend over my shoulder.

"What the hell does that matter?" the guy behind me hisses.

"I wasn’t talking to you," I reply. "What’s your name, kid?"

He glances over my shoulder again and huffs, his face contorted in pain.

"Go ahead, answer. It’s not like she’ll live long enough to tell anyone," Oscar says in Spanish.

I guess he thinks I can’t understand him, but he’s wrong. Many of my fellow soldiers in the Army were Latino. I’m fluent in Spanish, though that’s not something I plan on revealing. I’d rather let them believe I have no idea what they’re saying.

"Beni," the boy mutters through gritted teeth.

"Alright, Beni. I need you to take a deep breath and stay still so I can release the wound and give you a sedative. It won’t put you to sleep completely, but it’ll help with the pain. Can you do that for me?"

He nods, and I count to three before pulling my hands away. The blood doesn’t immediately gush from the hole, so I move quickly, grab a syringe, and fill it before injecting it into his IV bag.

I return to his side, ready to continue my work, when the ambulance suddenly comes to a screeching halt.

I curse under my breath as I realize the exit wound on his back has started bleeding again.

"End of the line. You’re going to continue inside the house," the man behind me says, pressing the gun against my head once again.

"I need a sterile environment and the surgical equipment in the ambulance."

"You’ll have it. The guys will bring everything inside. Now, get out."

I do as I’m told, silently and without protest. Once outside, I realize that night has already fallen. I glance around. I wasn’t far off—I was right. We’re in Paradise Valley, on what appears to be private property. The place Oscar called a house is actually a massive mansion made of glass, steel, and stone cladding, surrounded by dimly lit gardens and a cascading waterfall in the center. The entrance door is over three meters tall and made of solid light-colored wood. The structure is enormous, two stories tall, and U-shaped—at least from what I can see from this angle. Looking up, I spot a balcony along the facade and, further in the distance, a pool with glass walls.

"Keep moving," the tattooed man orders, pressing the gun against my side.

We step inside, and I hear them speaking in Spanish. The man with the tattoos—whom I finally hear being called Gambo—orders them to clear the game room and keeps pushing me forward. I quickly scan my surroundings and count at least a dozen armed men. Most of them seem like low-level soldiers. Oscar and this Gambo guy are the ones giving orders, and the others obey without question.

I search for a weak point—some oversight or breach in security that I could use to escape. I need to get out before they decide I’m no longer useful and I end up like my two colleagues. I know they’re going to try to kill me—that much is clear. What I don’t know is how I’m going to stop them or if I’m willing to break my promise to survive.

Zeldric

I pace back and forth in my office, taking long drags from the cigar between my fingers. It’s been over an hour since the guys brought Beni in. I know the doctor they kidnapped is treating him, but no one is giving me any updates, and I can’t bring myself to go into the game room on my own. That would be a disaster. My men can’t find out about one of my greatest weaknesses, or they’d lose respect for me.

"Relax, Zeldric. If anything had happened, Oscar would already be here. He’s a good dog," Luna singsongs from the L-shaped sofa in the corner of the room.

I stop pacing and lock eyes with Lagos, my right-hand man and the only person I trust besides myself.

"Go check on my brother," I order.

As usual, he doesn’t argue and does exactly as I say. He steps out of the office and closes the door behind him.

"Speaking of loyal dogs…" Luna smirks. She gets up and walks toward me, swaying her hips. Wrapping her arms around my neck, she starts massaging the nape of my neck with her fingers.

"I know exactly what you need to relax, baby," she whispers seductively.

I push her hands away and let out an irritated breath as I take a step back.

"My brother got shot. What I need right now is for him to recover, not to have a fucking quickie," I hiss through clenched teeth.

Realizing she’s not going to get anything from me, she plops back down on the couch with a sulky look, pretending to be angry.

I still don’t know why I keep her around. She’s hot, and she gives insane blowjobs, but other than that… She’s one of us, I remind myself, exhaling heavily. Besides, her hacking skills come in handy more often than not. She’s not just a pretty face—she’s smart, even if she doesn’t always seem like it.

Ten minutes later, I’m even more on edge.

I told Beni not to take risks, but he never listened. He’s obsessed with proving his bravery, and all he’s going to do is get himself killed.

The door suddenly swings open, and Lagos enters, smiling.

"Relax, he’s fine. The medic says he’ll recover."

I released all the air I didn’t even realize I’d been holding and nodded.

"Make sure everything is cleaned up."

"Already done," Lagos replies. Not surprising. Aside from Beni, he’s the only one who knows about my weakness.

Without saying another word, I rush out of the office, cutting across the house until I reach the game room door. I grab the handle and push it open, my eyes widening at the scene before me.

Lying on the pool table is my brother. He looks asleep or unconscious, his abdomen wrapped in bandages.

But that’s not what catches my attention.

A woman is aiming a gun at my men.

There’s something about her stance, the way she holds the weapon… Police? No… Military, maybe?

She takes a step back, her heel slightly lifted, and I settle on the second option.

"Let me go, and no one gets hurt," she says firmly, her voice unwavering.

She doesn’t seem the least bit scared despite being surrounded by five armed men. And she hasn’t even seen me yet—I’m standing behind her.

One of my men steps forward, and I instantly realize that was a mistake.

She shoots him in the hand.

A cry of pain fills the room as his gun clatters to the floor.

Two more shots ring out.

One bullet hits another guy in the shoulder, the last one embeds itself in someone else’s thigh.

Oscar and Gambo stare at her in shock. The latter starts to move, and I have no choice but to step in before she kills him.

"Lower the gun," I say.

In less than the time it takes to blink, she spins around and points the weapon at my head.

Holy Christ, she’s gorgeous.

I lock eyes with her honey-colored ones.

Her chestnut hair is tied up high, and her face… Those features should be illegal.

She looks like an angel—fair-skinned and smooth, with soft, rosy lips that beg to be kissed.

I tilt my head slightly, letting my gaze trail down her body.

Even though she’s wearing dark blue cargo pants with reflective stripes and a simple matching t-shirt, I can tell she has a slender, curvy frame.

"I asked nicely," I murmur. "Don’t make me take it from you by force."

"I’ll kill you before you take a single step," the woman says without even blinking.

I glance over her shoulder. Gambo and Oscar have their guns aimed at her.

"That’s possible, but either way, you’re not getting out of here alive."

I wait a few seconds, and my jaw nearly drops when I see her shrug and flash a small smile.

Why isn’t she shaking with fear?

Anyone else in her position would be shitting their pants, but this woman looks at me with defiance, as if I’m nothing more than an inconvenience she can get rid of with the flick of her hand.

"I can either die alone or take a damn criminal off the streets. Not a hard choice," she replies, and I know she’s ready to pull that trigger at any moment.

"Alright, you win." I slowly raise both hands and glance over her shoulder again. "Guys, lower your guns. Let’s all calm down and find a solution that doesn’t involve bloodshed."

Oscar and Gambo hesitate for a few seconds but eventually do as I say. Then, I turn my attention back to the woman.

"You’re not fooling me. The moment I lower my weapon, one of your men will put a bullet in the back of my head."

"They won’t. You have my word."

"The word of a criminal doesn’t mean much," she retorts.

"But mine does," I state firmly. And I mean it. I never break my promises. "Lower the gun, and no one will lay a hand on you."

She stares at me with such intensity that I have to take a deep breath to steady myself.

There isn’t a single trace of fear in her eyes.

Except for a small tic in her jaw, she looks completely unbothered.

Several seconds pass before she finally lowers her hands, loosening her grip on the gun until it drops to the floor with a dull thud.

"Bitch," Ramiro hisses, his wounded hand trembling.

I see him step toward her, ready to hit her, and I don’t hesitate for even a second.

I pull the gun from the back of my waistband and shoot him in the head.

I gave my word. If he can’t follow orders, I don’t want him in my ranks.

Once again, the woman doesn’t even flinch at the gunshot, though she does seem surprised.

"No one is going to hurt you. What’s your name?"

She takes a deep breath through her nose and raises her chin defiantly. My eyes drift to her neck—long and slender—and I can’t help but imagine sinking my teeth into it.

The thought sends a ripple through my body, leading to an immediate, painful erection.

"Jenkins," she replies, her tone just as firm, still completely unshaken.

I step closer, stopping just inches from her face, tilting my head slightly as I study her with a mischievous smirk.

"Who are you, Jenkins?" I whisper.

Her chin lifts even higher, and her back straightens.

She’s standing her ground, the little—

My cock throbs even harder in response.

"I’m the one who saved your friend’s life and now expects to return to her own. I don’t want trouble with you, much less with the police. I’ll go home and say nothing about what I’ve seen here."

My smirk widens as I take a deep breath.

A fruity scent—something citrusy—fills my lungs, and a shiver runs down my spine.

"I’m going to fuck this woman. Whoever she is, I want her for myself."

"I suppose I should thank you for what you did for my brother."

Her eyes widen slightly in surprise.

"Unfortunately, what you’re asking isn’t possible. Consider the fact that I’m letting you live as my way of returning the favor."

"Shit, I’m getting dizzy!" Pablo—the one I shot in the thigh—suddenly exclaims.

Jenkins whips around, frowning, muttering a curse under her breath before rushing toward him.

"Damn it, I missed the shot," she grumbles, pressing both hands firmly against the wound.

My expression of surprise must match that of Gambo and Oscar, who stare at her in shock.

She starts barking orders, demanding someone clear the pool table so she can tend to the injured man.

I don’t understand.

Why is she helping him if she was the one who shot him?

My two most trusted men, the ones I consider my brothers, silently ask me for answers.

"Give her whatever she needs," I instruct. "And after she’s done, take her to one of the guest rooms."

I turn to Oscar, pointing at him.

"She’s your responsibility. I don’t want anyone else getting near her, understood?"

He nods.

"And you better keep yourself under control. No accidents."

"Yes, Zeldric," he responds.

The woman—Jenkins—snaps her head toward me like a whip.

I wait for her reaction.

Now she knows who I am.

And yet, she still doesn’t seem fazed.

She clicks her tongue and curses under her breath before turning back to her patient.

"Can someone help me, for fuck’s sake?! If I don’t stop the bleeding, he’ll be dead in two minutes!"

I smile. She’s an odd woman. Maybe I should let her go, but I need to know more about her. My curiosity is killing me.

I leave the room and head back to my office. Halfway there, Lagos intercepts me—somehow, he already knows what happened. I guess he saw it through the security cameras in the game room.

"What do you want to do with her? She looks like a cop."

"No, I think she’s military. She says her name is Jenkins, but I think that’s her last name or maybe just a nickname. Find out everything you can about her—yesterday."

"Why not just kill her and be done with it? If she’s got military training, she could be a problem."

"I gave my word," I explain, adjusting the collar of my shirt.

Lagos nods. He knows what that means.

"I’m on it. I’ll have Beni moved to his room and take care of Ramiro’s body."

"That idiot had been disobeying my orders for a while, and that’s something I can’t tolerate."

"I know. He had it coming."

"Talk to his family. Make sure they don’t suffer too much."

Lagos nods again, and I continue on my way.

When I reach my office, I’m pleased to see that Luna is gone.

I sigh as I sit behind my desk and glance at the computer screen.

The feed from the game room is still up.

Two of my men are moving Beni, and immediately, Jenkins says something to Oscar.

Gambo and Oscar lift the injured guy onto the pool table, and the woman gets to work on his wound.

She looks so relaxed it’s unsettling.

Who in their right mind would dare stand up to the leader of a criminal gang without even a hint of fear?

She’s either crazy… or maybe just too damn sane.

I take a deep breath, dragging my fingers over the bulge in my pants.

Whatever it is, she’s got my attention.

I want her.

And I will have her—whether she likes it or not.

Jenkins

I pace nervously back and forth across the room. It’s been over four hours since they locked me in here, and I haven’t seen any of Zeldric’s men since—much less him. Who would’ve thought… I couldn’t be kidnapped by just any criminal gang, no. I had to end up with the most violent one.

The Z Clan has been operating in the city for years, and the only thing known about them is that they leave a trail of blood and death wherever they go.

Well, now I know something more.

Where they live, the names of several of their key members—who, from what I’ve gathered, seem to be the most important ones—and the most interesting part: I know what Zeldric looks like. And I have to admit, I never would’ve imagined him like that.

When I think of the leader of a criminal organization, what comes to mind is a middle-aged man with a prominent belly, wearing a flat-brimmed hat to hide his receding hairline. Never, not even in my most twisted dreams, did I imagine that Zeldric would be this attractive.

I don’t know if it’s his black hair matching his dark eyes or the tattoos peeking from under his shirt up to the side of his neck. They also cover his forearms. Or maybe it’s the short beard. It gives him a rugged, reckless look, along with the hoop earring in his left ear and the thick chain around his neck. I’m not sure if it’s any one thing in particular or the entire package, but what I do know is that with that face and that body, he could turn even the most devout woman into a sinner.

I sit on the edge of the bed and yawn. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see that dawn isn’t far off—I feel exhausted.

At least I managed to wash my hands in the en-suite bathroom, and I also got rid of my blood-soaked shirt. Now I’m only wearing a tank top and my pants. I let my hair down and massage my scalp to relieve some tension.

I have to find a way out of here before that criminal changes his mind and decides to put a bullet in my head.

The door to the room opens, and just as I was thinking about him, the man himself steps inside. He’s still wearing the same clothes and carrying a folder in his hands. He stops in the center of the bedroom, right over the thick, light-colored wool rug, and fixes his gaze on me. He tilts his head slightly, and the smirk that curls his lips is one that invites all kinds of sinful thoughts.

"Mía Jenkins," he murmurs after opening the folder.

I stand up, inhaling deeply before exhaling slowly.

I suppose he took so long to come because he was gathering information about me.

I could’ve given him a fake name when he asked. Anyone else would have.

In situations like this, our greatest weakness is always our loved ones. People tend to obey orders out of fear of putting their families in danger.

Well, I am alone, so there’s nothing he can use to blackmail me.

"All this time, and that’s all you’ve managed to find out? I’m disappointed," I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

I don’t miss the way Zeldric’s gaze drops straight to my cleavage.

It lasts only a few seconds before he looks back at my face.

"I know a few other things," he continues walking until there’s barely a meter of space between us, then stops to keep reading. "Sergeant Mía Jenkins, thirty-two years old. Served as a combat medic in the Army. Deployed twice to Afghanistan. In total, six years and three days on the front lines. You left a couple of years ago, right after the President himself awarded you the Medal of Honor for saving the lives of seven of your comrades."

He looks at me again, smirking.

"You single-handedly took down over twenty armed enemies and got your unit members to safety."

"Only the ones who were still alive," I add, just to irritate him, lifting my chin in defiance.

Zeldric narrows his eyes at me.

"Are you thinking about ways to kill me, Mía?" he asks, dragging out my name.

I drop my arms and shrug.

"Jenkins," I correct him.

He ignores me and takes another step forward.

My instincts tell me to move back, but I decide to stay put and face him.

If he’s going to kill me, he’ll do it anyway.

"I think we can save the part about your father, the general, for another time, don’t you?" He closes the folder and tucks it under his arm.

For the first time, I notice his left wrist. He wears some kind of rosary as a bracelet.

Immediately, I lift my gaze and catch him smirking again.

"What’s going to happen to me?" I ask.

"I’ve been asking myself that same question for the past few hours, Mía."

I grit my teeth, but this time, I don’t correct him. He’ll keep calling me whatever the hell he wants.

Zeldric is one of those men—men who don’t accept a "no" for an answer.

"I gave you my word, so I can’t kill you. But letting you go isn’t an option either. Tell me, what do you think I should do with you?"

"I don’t know, but if I were you, I’d make a decision soon. I’m running out of patience being locked up in here."

He flashes another smile, and I don’t even flinch when he takes another step toward me.

His nose is so close to mine that with the slightest movement, they could touch.

Zeldric tilts his head and fixes his gaze on my lips before inhaling deeply through his nose.

"You smell delicious, Mía. Too delicious for your own good."

I force myself to swallow without breaking my composure.

I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me nervous, but I cannot let it show—that would be my downfall.

"And that’s after not showering since yesterday," I mutter, clicking my tongue in mock disdain.

Zeldric chuckles quietly and steps back a couple of paces, his gaze never leaving me.

"My men are pissed about that little stunt you pulled in the game room with the gun. So I suggest you don’t leave this room for now. Gambo and Oscar will be the only ones allowed access. One of them will bring you food and clean clothes soon."

He tugs at the collar of his white shirt.

"You can shower and get some rest for a few hours. By mid-morning, they’ll come to get you so you can check on my brother and the other injured men."

"So I am a prisoner?" I hiss through clenched teeth.

Zeldric glances around the bedroom and shrugs.

"I’ve seen worse cells than this, but if that’s how you want to see it, I won’t argue," he says before turning to leave.

"Sweet dreams, Mía," he murmurs before stepping out of the room.

I take a deep breath at the sound of the lock turning from the other side.

Sitting back down on the edge of the bed, I close my eyes and run my hands over my face.

I’m so fucked.

I don’t expect anyone to find me here.

The ambulance has a GPS system, but I’m not naive enough to think they haven’t already gotten rid of it.

If I want to get out of here alive, I’ll probably have to break my promise.

"You won’t kill again," the words echo in my head.

I try, I really do.

But that infuriatingly attractive crime lord isn’t making it easy.