The concrete walls of the back room dripped with moisture, and the buzz of fluorescent lights hummed above them like the sound of a countdown.

Eve sat cuffed to a chair, blood on her cheek, her breath shallow but steady.

Across from her stood her father, John, sleeves rolled up, holding a knife in his right hand. His face was blank. Cold. The kind of cold you only learn after twenty years pretending to be a killer.

Because John wasn’t just her father—he was a ghost in the Silvano crime family. A loyal dog. A trusted right-hand man. And now, the man is ordered to kill his own daughter.

On camera.

“Make it convincing,” Angèl had said.

A test of loyalty. A performance.

Because the paranoid bastard didn’t trust anyone.

Not even John.

Especially not Eve—his new recruit. A little too clever, a little too curious.

And the FBI? They were watching too. On a bug stashed behind the air vent, waiting for the signal. The one John and Eve agreed on months ago, in case everything went to hell.

Like it just did.

“Say something,” John growled, loud enough for the camera to pick up.

Eve looked up at him. Her lip split. Makeup? Real? Didn’t matter. Her eyes were calm. Too calm for someone tied to a chair in a mafia interrogation room.

“I told you,” she said evenly. “I didn’t say a word. I didn’t betray the family.”

“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped, pacing. “You know what Angèl thinks. You’ve been asking questions. Disappearing for hours. You think no one noticed?”

“I did what you asked,” she said. “Everything you asked. I earned his trust.”

John turned sharply. The knife glinted in the light.

Eve didn’t flinch.

And then, in a voice just above a whisper—too low for the hidden mic to catch—she said:

“Room sweeped. Three bugs. Two shooters outside.”

John’s nostrils flared. He didn’t break character. Didn’t stop moving.

She looked him in the eye. And louder this time:

“I trust you,” she says as his knife points to her throat.

Time froze.

Behind the two-way mirror, Angèl watched. His finger hovered over the walkie-talkie. One twitch, and Eve would be dead for real.

John’s hand trembled—just enough to sell it. He brought the knife lower. Closer. Pressed it against her collarbone.

“You shouldn’t,” he muttered.

And then—

He stabbed her.

Eve’s body jerked. Blood sprayed across the floor. She let out a gasp and slumped forward, limp.

A red stain bloomed across her side, just under the ribs.

John dropped the knife.

Silence.

Behind the glass, Angèl’s lips curled into a satisfied grin.

“Loyalty,” he murmured, turning to his guards. “You see? Loyalty like that doesn’t grow on trees.”

He clicked the intercom. “Dump the body. Clean up the mess. And get John a drink.”

John carried Eve’s body out himself, arms steady but jaw clenched. He walked right past the guards without blinking. Right past Angèl’s goons. Through the hallway, past the bar, into the back lot where the dumpster reeked of stale beer and old blood.

No one followed.

He laid her down gently on the ground.

“You alive?” he whispered.

Eve’s eyes snapped open. “Barely. That fake blood tastes like pennies and glue.”

John yanked off his shirt and pressed it against the real wound—small, precise, shallow. Just enough to fool the cameras.

“You’re lucky I was left-handed growing up,” he muttered.

“You’re lucky I didn’t pass out when you punctured me, you psycho,” she hissed. “That hurt!”

“Would you rather be dead or grounded?”

“I’m twenty-seven, Dad.”

“And still dumb enough to trust me with a knife. Proud of you.”

She winced but smiled. “Was the line too much?”

John shook his head. “Perfect.”

Behind them, tires screeched.

A black SUV rolled up, headlights off. Out stepped a woman in a Kevlar vest and a pistol in hand.

“FBI,” she said. “Ready to go loud?”

“Wait until I get back inside,” John said. “They’re all in there. Angèl, his nephew, his accountant… all the rats in one nest.”

Eve sat up, holding her side. “Make it quick. I’m starting to black out from theatrical bleeding.”

Back inside, Angèl poured John a glass of expensive whiskey.

“You did good,” he said, toasting him. “Better than I expected.”

John accepted the drink but didn’t sip. He couldn’t afford even one drop—not until this was over.

“You think I’m happy about it?” John muttered. “That was my daughter.”

“Pfft.” Angèl waved a dismissive hand. “You can make more.”

John smiled. Just for a second. Then smashed the glass against Angèl’s head.

Chaos erupted.

The guards pulled weapons—too slow. John grabbed a pistol off the first one he dropped and ducked behind the couch. A shotgun blast hit the ceiling. The lights flickered.

That’s when the FBI stormed in.

Through every entrance. Screaming. Flashes. Shouting.

In under sixty seconds, it was over.

Angèl lay cuffed on the floor, dazed and bleeding. His empire of blood and bribes crumbling around him.

Outside, Eve sat on the ambulance steps, shirt stained red, sipping apple juice like a tired little kid after soccer practice.

John walked up beside her, holding a bag of gauze and a Snickers bar he stole from a paramedic.

“You alright?” he asked.

Eve stared ahead. “That guy was gonna cut my pinky off if you didn’t show.”

“I know. I was watching.”

She looked at him. “You really sold it.”

“You think I wanted to stab you?”

“You didn’t hesitate.”

“You said you trusted me.”

She smiled. “Still do.”

John handed her the Snickers.

She opened it with one hand, wincing as she took a bite. “So what now?”

John leaned against the bumper. “Witness protection. Probably Idaho. New names. Fake lives.”

“Ugh. Can’t we just do Cancun?”

“I’ll put in a request.”

They sat in silence for a while.

The sirens faded. The sunrise turned the sky gold and pink.

Eve looked over at him. “You think I’ll ever get used to this kind of life?”

John grinned. “Kid, you just faked your own death, took down a mafia boss, and insulted my stabbing skills mid-interrogation. You were born for this.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “You’re getting soft.”

He pointed to her bandaged side. “Tell that to your spleen.”

They both laughed—loud, full, exhausted.

Somewhere behind them, Angèl screamed as he was dragged into custody.

But Eve and John didn’t look back.

Because they had a future now. One not bought with lies but earned through one insane, bloody, beautifully staged performance.