Isabela had spent her entire life proving that she belonged to the Del Castillos. Tonight, they would make her prove it again.

The order had been clear. The assignment simple. A warning needed to be sent. A line needed to be drawn. She was the one expected to make it happen.

She sat in the back of the car as it wound through the city streets, the familiar hum of the engine vibrating beneath her fingers. The paper with the name and address sat folded in her pocket, but it felt heavier than it should.

This wasn’t the first time she had been sent to handle a situation. She knew the rhythm of it—the way fear worked its way into people’s eyes, the way the city swallowed secrets without question.

But this time was different.

Because this time, the target wasn’t just another outsider.

This time, it was Leon.

Her parents knew. Somehow, they had seen the shift, the distraction, the cracks forming in her obedience. They had traced her footsteps, uncovered the detour she had taken. And now, they were reminding her where her loyalties belonged.

A lesson. A correction. A test.

The car rolled to a stop a block away from the bookstore. Isabela stepped out, heart hammering, thoughts tangled.

She told herself she could do this.

She told herself that the world did not forgive weakness, that she had been raised for this, that she had survived worse.

And yet, as she approached the door, as she looked through the window and saw him—leaning against the counter, flipping absently through a book, completely unaware—her body resisted.

Leon looked up as she entered.

“You’re late,” he teased, placing a bookmark between the pages of the novel he had been reading.

Isabela couldn’t speak.

“You okay?” he asked, brow furrowing slightly. He noticed things—small shifts in expression, the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes flicked to the door and back to him.

She should have pulled the gun. Should have let the warning leave her lips like a blade. Should have done what was expected.

Instead, she said the only thing that mattered.

“You have to go.”

Leon stilled. “Go?”

“They know about you.”

Silence filled the space between them, thick with unspoken words. The lights above hummed softly, casting pools of warmth onto the wooden floor. Outside, the city moved as it always did—unaware that, inside this bookstore, something was unraveling.

Leon’s gaze sharpened, not with fear, but with understanding. “And you?”

Isabela swallowed. She didn’t know.

She was Del Castillo. She was raised in shadows. She was never meant to doubt this life.

And yet—she did.

Leon stepped closer. “What do you want?”

The question shattered something inside her. Because she had never been allowed to ask herself that.

What did she want?

To prove her loyalty? Or to finally break free?

The weight of the answer burned through her ribs.

Outside, she could already hear the distant sound of footsteps—her father’s men, coming to ensure the warning was sent.

She had seconds.

Isabela turned to Leon. “Run.”

For a moment, he didn’t move.

“Leon,” she hissed, urgency clawing at her voice.

Still, he searched her face, as if looking for proof—proof that this mattered, proof that she wasn’t just warning him because she was following an impulse, but because it was real.

Then, finally, he grabbed his bag from beneath the counter, shoving his book inside before turning toward the back exit.

Isabela exhaled sharply, relief mixing with dread.

But relief came too soon.

The door to the bookstore swung open.

Her father’s men had arrived.