Page 26 of All's Fair In Love & War

But I didn’t. Not because I lacked the skill, not because I questioned whether or not he deserved it, and definitely not because I had a soft spot for him. I didn’t kill him because I couldn’t afford for my brothers to know what I was capable of.

If I had pulled the trigger, it wouldn’t have been just another body added to the war. It would’ve been a revelation, a crack in the carefully crafted illusion I had spent years perfecting. To them, I was reckless, impulsive, a woman too wild to be trusted with real responsibility, but if they ever found out what I truly was—that I was just as much of a killer as the men they put on the front lines, everything would change.

They wouldn’t see me as their sister anymore. They’d see me as a tool to be used when it suited them. I couldn’t allow that. It was bad enough that, at any moment, I could be forced into a marriage I didn’t want, all in the name of family. I refused to give them another chain to bind me with.

So, I had let him live.

Not out of mercy, not out of hesitation, but out of self-preservation because keeping my secret was more important than vengeance. At least it was for now.

The mention of my brothers made my stomach churn. If they knew I was standing here, entertaining Dallas and his antics, all hell would break loose.

“Let me make this simple. Keep your distance or next time, I won’t hesitate,” I said, my voice icier than before.

Dallas smirked again, and for the first time, it pissed me off how calm he was under threat.

“You’re sexy as hell when you lie, but I’ll let you have your space—for now,” he replied, his voice so deep it almost sounded like he growled.

With that, he pressed a soft kiss to my cheek—light and fleeting, yet it burned like fire on my skin. It sent an electric jolt through me, flooding my senses with confusion and desire. My heart raced as he lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his presence enveloping me in a haze of temptation.

“Dallas…” I moaned his name as if he’d entered me, but he didn’t reply.

Instead, he took a deliberate step back and shoved his hands in his pockets, but I didn’t lower the gun until he turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the shadows.

When the tension finally ebbed, I leaned against my car, my breath coming in shallow bursts. I holstered my Glock and wiped my palms on my jacket, though they still felt damp.

As I replayed the encounter in my head, I couldn’t shake the feeling that letting him walk away had just made everything more complicated. My family would never forgive me if they knew. Hell, I wasn’t sure I could forgive myself, but something about the way Dallas looked at me and the way he spoke to me intrigued me.

As I slid into the driver’s seat, my mind burned with thoughts of Dallas. I cranked the ignition, and the engine roared to life, but it did nothing to drown out the confusion swirling within me. The streets were thrumming with energy, but all I could think about was that kiss on my cheek. It was an innocent gesture that set my heart racing.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly as I navigated through the city. The neon lights blurred past my vision, mirroring my tumultuous emotions. Naeem and Kahlil would never understand. They saw the world in black and white while I dwelled in a murky gray.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled into a parking lot behind Tap That, one of Khalil’s upscale bars. It was a place frequented by those who knew how to keep secrets. 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 felt against my skin.

The thought of him knowing I was an assassin—one of the best, might I add, was my biggest issue. I thought I had kept my identity a secret, but I hadn’t hidden it well enough.

I didn’t stumble into being an assassin. I claimed it, piece by piece, like it was always meant to be mine. Growing up as the youngest Bulgari sibling meant living in the shadow of my brothers. The men in the cartel were born to dominate and lead. Meanwhile, I was supposed to stay in my lane, play the role of the dutiful sister, and leave the family business to them. However, I had never been good at staying in anyone’s lane but my own.

I’d always been fascinated with guns. Not just for the power they represent but for their beauty. The precision, the mechanics, and the way they respond to your touch. I remember sneaking into my father’s arsenal when I was sixteen, running my hands over the cold steel of his prized collection. I’d spendhours taking them apart, cleaning them, and putting them back together until it felt like second nature. Guns weren’t just weapons to me. They were an art form I wanted to master, and luckily for me, I had help with that along the way.

The first time I saw El Fantasma, I was nine years old.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. My father’s study was strictly off-limits during his meetings. That was a rule he enforced with an iron fist. However, curiosity had always been my closest companion. It was my quiet rebellion against the life dictated by Alejandro Bulgari and my brothers.

That night, I crept down the grand staircase, keeping to the shadows and trying to make myself small enough to remain unnoticed. The heavy oak door to the study was slightly ajar, and I crouched low, peeking through the crack.

Inside, my father sat in his oversized chair with a cigar balanced between his fingers, the smoke curling in lazy spirals. Across from him stood a figure dressed entirely in black, their posture relaxed yet commanding. Their voice was low and tinged with a faint accent I couldn’t quite place. They spoke about strategy, clean exits, and the artistry of a perfect kill as though describing a masterpiece.

El Fantasma.

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.

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