Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The most strategic choice one needs to make before wrecking bloodbath is deciding on an outfit.

First, it needs to be impractical enough, no one would suspect a woman with wires lining her chest to pounce. Second, it needs to be alluring, but not blatant— after all, it's better to avoid looking like a proper lady of the night when attending an event filled with men who think of themselves as if they're in possession of defined taste. Third, if it fails to safely conceal a weapon, it needs to emphasize it like an unsuspected piece of fine jewelry.

Or maybe I'm just this extra.

But here is where I fit like a cherry on a six tier cake- a sliver of dark, glossy reds amongst unlit corners, rare art pieces in gold-dusted frames and expanses of mahogany furniture. High ceiling of this office room makes it breathable even through everpresent cigar smoke that has long soaked through my gown. Everything around me seems to be unnecessarily big and shiny, yet somehow tastefully humble, still seeming like a fairly quiet statement of wealth.

Unlike the narco I'm facing.

"León," I sigh, shooting the man half-hidden in the shadows a daring glance. My voice is barely louder than echoes of the intimate gathering outside the door that is now slowly breeching into rowdy territory, "come on. Don't make me grovel for it."

He sits back in the chair with a heavy sigh, legs sprawled out under the desk, looking at me like he's tempted to agree while also desperate to dangle the prize above my head for a little while longer. It's in the hesitant curl of his mouth, in the way Earl Grey dark eyes drop to his lap to hide a glimmer of thrill.

This is the last act of Hard to get play, where both parties already know one caved but not voicing his defeat is the last tease of the game.

Pushing off of the bookcase, I say: "The last trade in Monachium went as smooth as a dream. Vasco even threw in a coin for pairing him with such a pretty courier. Which I divided between us, like a good business acquaintance would." The words come out in perfect Spanish, just slightly tinged with the harsher, dirtier accent of cartels and small criminals. I wink tauntingly as the heels of my shoes click against the hardwood, closer to the narco, "Not that you are equal to me in the pretty department."

At that, the corner of León's mouth pulls into a wider smirk, "No, I am not."

Which isn't exactly the truth. With his golden skin and typical— if slightly tawdry, in my humble opinion— narcos elegance, León certainly makes many women with questionable taste do double takes. He keeps his charcoal hair cropped neatly close to his scalp, optically sharpening his jaw. And that silently simmering, secretive aura that clings to the air around him was pulling at my alarm strings the second I laid my eyes on him for the first time, which unfortunately means he must be awfully alluring to the rest of the fair sex. Irresistible, possibly.

But secrecy on people like León Cuervo Santos have always made me feel like reading a bad, one-star rated mystery novel with a tacky romance subplot. His body language is reserved but still blaringly obvious in my eyes. León spreads his legs a little wider under the table, but swallows tickly at the same time; rolls his shoulders deliberately slow, aiming at casualness, but the corner of his left eye feathers. I want you badly, since I've fucking met you. But not badly enough to let you assert dominance. He could shout the message from the rooftop of this mansion and the effect would be the same.

Nearing the edge of the desk, I will my own body language to change. The muscles of my shoulders shift from determined business to unwinding intentions. My gait slows just enough for his eyes to flicker down to the sway of my hips. The changes are not discernable, but they are felt, like I'm a magician with a remote that brings the temperature around us up a few notches, a switch that breaks the threads of previous thoughts and plants other ones.

His Adam's apple bobs and it's almost adorable how strongly he battles the effects I spur on him, "You didn't come here for a job."

I lean on the counter, half-sitting on the edge; perfect picture of a clawless, lounging housecat drawn to its owner's proximity, "Oh, but I did."

León's hand drops from where he's been rubbing his jaw absently and I watch the way he swipes it down his jean-clad thigh. The movement is slow, intended to make my eyes drop to his lap, but jerky enough to let me know he's losing control, "You're fresh, muñeca. And this time, I have something bigger on my hands." I can feel him looking at me so I take my time meeting his gaze in a move I named The Catch- slow glance up, pause on his mouth as I let my own lips part slightly, before seizing his eyes with mine.

His pupils widen in real time.

My eyebrow quirk, "Something bigger than over three thousand firearms in seafood containers?"

León chuckles and the strain in the sound is audible, almost harshly attractive, "Yeah, niña. Much, much bigger."

"Hm." The sound is barely more than a purr as I tip sideways, sprawling over his desk with little to no regard for the laptop under my elbow and sheets of illegal shipments documents crumpling beside my hip, "Don't tell me what it is, then. Just tell me where to be. When to be." I reach for his hand, bringing it to my lips. I press an imprint of wine-coloured lips into the inside of his wrist and the shiver that lulls his vigilance is the foretaste of my reward, "Might even enjoy a bit of bossing around."

The words taste vividly like cyanide as I say them, spreading like the microdoses I force down my throat twice a year.

Utterly, incredibly vile. But they work.

León pushes off the desk with about as much grace a man this unproportionately bulky would typically possess, which is pretty much none. He leans one hand against the surface of the desk and the move brings his belt buckle to my eye level. I make sure he sees the carnal, delighted smile stretching my lips.

"You should have led with that." he says, his native Spanish stained with primal possession now, "I like my people useful and my toys obedient. I can see you being both."

My entire soul revolts at the words, but luckily it has been firmly separated from my body for years now. 

I will a gasp to form on my tongue as León grabs and tugs at my body until I'm seated on the desk and his thick thighs can fill the space between my parted legs, his abdomen pressing against my ribcage, "Tell me, Fatima," he growls into my ear, fingers dragging up my upper legs until the velvety fabric of my dress is bunched around my hips, "Will you be useful and obedient for me? You'll do as I say, yeah?"

"Yes."

It's not the first lie I told tonight, but it's the most spectacular one. It comes out as a breathy whisper of anticipation, paired with the slight bow to my spine that presses the front of my corset to his chest. Leóns' breathing is already laboured, nostrils flaring around an inhale, before the thin thread I kept on pulling finally snaps.

He shoves my back against the desk with roughness that confuses my instincts for only a broken second; then, before my muscles manage to coil and form a strike, his bulk is right there, humming low against the skin of my neck, "You're going to take it." Click. Another click. There is no confusion this time- even though the first sound might've been similar to a safety coming out on a Glock, the following clambering clears things out. Poor man is just fumbling with his belt buckle, "I'm going to make you feel so good, Fatima. So fucking good."

I highly doubt that. But I shudder and arch into him all the same, tugging at the buttons of his shirt with impatience worth stages of the best West End theaters, "Business first, cariño." I breathe, nipping at his earlobe. Two buttons come undone, third pops clean off of its stitching. "Pleasure second. Tell me when—" another sharp tug of my teeth on his flesh, "—and where."

The exhale that whooshes out of him is half-arousal, half-irritation as his damned belt finally yields and comes undone, "The Eastern Marina," he pants, pushing away just enough to bunch the layers of my dress up around my navel. Cold air hits the apex of my thighs, "Last two docks on the embankment are ours. The container ships tomorrow at 4 in the morning. Look out for a green one with white markings."

Jackpot.

Mister Eager Boy broke so fast I let him have three more seconds as a reward for making my job cleaner than expected. He doesn't use them wisely though, staring hungrily at the flimsy lace covering me with the type of hunger that dances on the line between a rabid dog and a severely underexperienced teenager. So, bringing him closer, I wrap my legs around his waist.

León likes that very much. I can feel his erection through far less layers of fabric I'd like there to be between our bodies. His hands close around my hips, and suddenly the mercenary whom I watched nonchalantly gut his trusted ally earlier this week is too occupied with grinding against my pelvis to notice as a blade materializes in my palm. All it takes is a smooth tug at the unassuming, decorative pin sticking out from my hair and it transforms from just a piece of pearly jewelry into a weapon. My hair unwind from being a temporary sheath before León finishes mouthing what he believes is my name into my neck.

The magic of being a crafty woman, I think, wrapping my fingers around the adorned handle of the dagger—

A soft thud.

León stiffens. I swiftly push the knife under newly released storm of hair before he manages to spot the glint of a blade.

"Raul?" my would-be victim calls out towards the door where the sound rattled just a moment ago. Straightening back up, he tries again, "Jimenez!"

Nothing.

And the nothing is too distinctive for my liking.

Only now am I noticing that the silence coming from outside León's office is truly deafening. When I slithered inside the office half an hour ago, the business event was turning into a full-blown party downstairs, spreading all around the estate, fanning out the scent of expensive Cuban rum and sweat of a hot, Mexican night. Now, the noise died down to a mere hum of active A/C, and while León definitely does not notice anything more concerning than the one, dull sound just outside the door, I do.

I always do.

León jerks back fully, the sharpness of his movements painted with more anxiety than irritation. If I were here out on my own, true volition, seeking abandon with a dark fantasy of a cartel menace, that unsteadiness of his caused by only a hint of rather questionable threat lurking outside would make me reconsider my choice with a cringe.

"Puta—" he fumbles with his belt again, "—can't leave those children alone for a minute."

Then he's heading for the door. If his right hand, Jimenez, really did get into a testosterone driven brawl with one of their executors, I won't see León again tonight, possibly not at all before tomorrow's shipment. If there truly is a problem with another one of his allies, he might even want to speed up the transaction.

Which is not ideal.

What is ideal, is the position of his back turned towards the desk he leaves me half-sprawled, half-naked on. Soundlessly, I let my heels slip from my feet so when I jump back to my feet, there is no click to my steps. There are also a couple less inches of me, unless I'm counting eight inches of a blade clutched in my palm.

Then it all happens in a flash.

I step onto my toes only a breath away from him, my left arm banding around his front, making him stumble half a step before his fingers even manage to graze the doorknob. León sucks in a breath and only one, startled "Wha—" whooshes out, chest gustily expanding under my forearm before I bring the dagger to his throat.

There are no last words. No villainous, film-like taunt grazes my lips. There is also no hesitation.

One, smooth slash— just long enough to pierce the right carotid, spilling syrupy warm blood over his shirt— and then, to be quick about it, I angle the blade deeper to sever his trachea on the same cut.

I try to ease him onto the floor, but— either it's my exhausting amounts of luck or the bastards' last manifest of dominance— Leóns’ blood spills down my arm as his body goes limp instantly, not granting me the standard two seconds of damage control. He slumps forward instead of back into me.

His forehead meets the hardwood. 

In the same instant the door creaks open.