Some women cry when they're betrayed.
Some run.
Some beg to be loved back.
She didn't do any of that.
She lit a cigarette with the last letter he wrote her, swallowed every ounce of heartbreak with cheap whiskey, and never mentioned his name again.
It wasn't about revenge.
It was about never being weak again.
The first time she held a gun, it didn't tremble in her hands.
The first time she saw a body drop, she didn't blink.
Blood stopped being shocking.
Fire stopped being frightening.
She became both.
Now she deals in silence and fear — not because she wants to rule anything, but because it's easier to be surrounded by men who know what she's capable of.
She doesn't ask questions. She doesn't explain herself.
And she doesn't love.
Not anymore.
This isn't a story about a good girl who fell in love with a bad man.
She was never a good girl.
And he?
He was never just a bad man.
They were two storms that never asked permission to meet.
YOU ARE READING
She doesn't cry
RomanceDelia Varela learned early that love is a weapon-and betrayal, a lesson soaked in blood. Once a bartender in a mafia-owned lounge, now a ruthless fixer and rising force in a violent underworld, Delia refuses to be anyone's victim again. With a Glock...
