Tempting Isn't It (Part 2)
Warnings: slight spoilers, 18+ MDNI, violence, explicit language, nsfw content, weapons, this part doesn’t contain any smut.
Isabella had been on Armando's ass ever since the Mike incident. Shooting a man in front of a crowded cookout was not just sloppy, but a personal embarrassment that still echoed through their networks and whispered in the ears of rival organizations. Isabella’s voice had been sharp and venomous during the private debrief as she paced around her son like a predator. She hissed, her eyes cold and unforgiving. “No spectacles. No excuses. Or the next bullet comes from me.”
For weeks afterward, Armando and his most trusted crew shadowed you with relentless precision. They studied your quiet hits against men who deserved far worse than the swift deaths you delivered. They gathered every scrap of information they could, building a profile that grew thicker by the day. Then, just as the net felt tight enough to close forever, you vanished without a trace. But not quietly. Instead, you turned the hunt into a deeply personal and psychological game. Deliberately lighting fires near Armando to keep him constantly off-balance and seething with frustration. You wanted him angry because anger made people sloppy. You wanted him obsessed because obsession clouded judgment. Every single time his crew got close, you left him a message he couldn’t ignore, pushing him further and further each time until the chase became something neither of you could easily escape.
In Medellín, you waited until his team was only minutes away before acting. You had rigged a small but powerful explosive under one of their secondary vehicles. The blast was carefully calculated, nothing lethal to the men inside, but just strong enough to flip the SUV onto its side and send thick black smoke curling dramatically into the humid night sky while you made your escape through back alleys you had scouted days earlier. A single queen of spades playing card was taped securely to the twisted bumper. Beneath it sat a handwritten note that read simply: Boom. Too slow again, Aretas. Armando arrived on the scene only moments later. He stormed out of his armored vehicle with his pistol already drawn, his broad chest rising and falling rapidly as adrenaline surged through him.
When his eyes landed on the note and the damaged vehicle, he crushed the paper violently in his fist until his knuckles turned bone white. A low, guttural snarl escaped his throat, a sound his men had rarely heard from him. For the first time in years, his legendary composure cracked wide open. He raised his weapon and fired two rounds into the burning wreckage, the sharp gunshots echoing loudly through the night streets. His men stood back uneasily, shifting their weight and exchanging nervous glances. The calm, lethal Armando Aretas was visibly unraveling before their eyes. He breathed hard, his powerful frame tense, and his dark eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and something much deeper and more dangerous. You watched the entire scene unfold from a distant rooftop through high-powered binoculars. Your heart raced with a potent mix of adrenaline and dark satisfaction. Seeing the powerful Armando Aretas lose control in such a raw way sent a forbidden thrill racing through your veins.
You watched the entire scene unfold from a distant rooftop through high-powered binoculars. Your heart raced with a potent mix of adrenaline and dark satisfaction. Seeing the powerful Armando Aretas lose control in such a raw way sent a forbidden thrill racing through your veins. Hatred for everything he represented mingled with a sharp, electric awareness of the dangerous man beneath the killer. The sight of him unraveling because of you stirred something complicated and addictive inside your chest.
Another time in Guatemala, you deliberately leaked a false location through one of his paid informants. The tip led Armando and six of his best sicarios straight into an empty warehouse on the outskirts of the city. When they breached the door with tactical precision, expecting resistance, they found only a looping video playing on an old monitor. On screen, you smiled confidently, flipped them off with deliberate slowness, and spoke in a sweet, mocking voice: "Demasiado lento, perra. Esto es interesante ?verdad?.....no??......no eres divertido. vete a casa con las manos vacías a tu mamá."” Seconds later, the building’s sprinklers activated without warning, flooding the entire space with ice-cold water that soaked them to the bone.
You watched safely from a rooftop across the street, the rain mixing with the thrill of victory. Armando in pure fury and emptied half a magazine into the monitor, shattering it into sparks and plastic debris. Soaked and seething, he stood motionless for a long moment with water streaming down his sharp face. His jaw clenched so tightly that the muscle jumped visibly. His eyes burned with raw, unchecked rage. You could see the obsession growing stronger in him with every encounter. The way his powerful body tensed spoke of barely contained violence and a deepening personal fixation that went far beyond professional duty.
You struck again by blowing up a minor but symbolically important stash house of theirs in Monterrey. You timed it perfectly so you could watch his reaction later on a hacked security feed. The explosion lit up the early morning sky in a controlled bloom of fire and smoke. You even left a burner phone at one of the scenes with a single text message queued and ready for him: "How’s Mommy Dearest handling all these embarrassments, Aretas?" Each time he got closer, sometimes terrifyingly so. Each time you stayed just one step ahead, slipping through his fingers like smoke. And each time, the mask of cold professionalism cracked a little more on his face. You reviewed the footage obsessively, noting how his jaw would clench, how his eyes would burn with an intensity that went far beyond simple duty. You were no longer just a target to him. You had become the woman who made Armando Aretas feel genuine emotion, and that realization made you infinitely more dangerous in an entirely new and intimate way.
The closest call of all came fourteen months into the chase in Bogotá. Deliberate leaked conflicting pieces of intel. A decoy sighting was planted at an upscale nightclub on the east side of the city, complete with a paid witness who swore she had seen you there. Armando split his forces carefully but chose to lead the primary team himself to what he believed was the real location, a dimly lit industrial park on the west side where you were actually finishing off a particularly vile enforcer who had trafficked dozens of innocent people. He showed up exactly as you had hoped. You had just wiped the blood from your knife with a steady hand when the warehouse doors exploded inward with a deafening crash. Armando stormed in well ahead of his team, pistol raised and steady. His eyes locked onto you instantly across the blood-spattered concrete floor.
For one frozen, electric second, the entire world narrowed down to just the two of you standing there amid the chaos. His breathing came ragged and heavy. His usually impeccable hair was disheveled from the rain outside. His shirt clung tightly to his broad, muscled chest. Pure, seething fury burned brightly in his dark gaze, but beneath that surface simmered something far hotter and more complicated. Frustration, deep obsession, and a dark, unspoken hunger crackled in the air between you like live electricity. His gun hand remained steady, yet his strong jaw clenched visibly with barely restrained emotion. “Tú,” he growled, his voice low, venomous, and rough as he took a deliberate step forward. “All this time you’ve been playing with me like a cat with a mouse.” You straightened slowly, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs, but you kept your expression cool and taunting. A slow, confident smile curved your lips as you twirled the bloody knife once in your fingers with practiced ease.
“Took you long enough, Aretas,” you replied, voice steady despite the adrenaline. “I was starting to think you’d lost your edge. Disappointed you had to chase my ghost across half a continent just to get this close?” His men fanned out cautiously behind him, weapons ready, but Armando raised one hand sharply, halting them in their tracks. This moment felt intensely personal, almost intimate. The tension hanging in the air was suffocating, thick enough to taste. Two dangerous predators finally stood face to face after months of cat and mouse.
“You blew up my vehicles,” he snarled, taking another measured step closer, his presence dominating the space. “You humiliated me in front of my crew. You left your little notes like some lovesick teenager taunting me.” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “When I finally put my hands on you…”
“You’ll what?” you interrupted smoothly, your voice silky and defiant even as your pulse thundered in your ears. “Kill me? Fuck me? Both? We both know you’ve thought about it more than once, haven’t you?”
The charged silence stretched out heavily between you. His eyes darkened noticeably as they flicked over your body for a brief, heated second. Hatred and raw, conflicted desire warred openly across his handsome, furious face. You saw the exact moment his iron control began to fray at the edges. He lunged forward with surprising speed for a man of his size. You moved like lightning, throwing the knife with perfect accuracy so it embedded deep in the wall just beside his head as a distraction. Then you bolted hard for the side exit you had prepared days in advance. Gunshots roared behind you, filling the warehouse with deafening noise. Armando’s shots were deliberately wide, grazing the concrete near your feet rather than striking true. Whether driven by rage or something far more complicated, he missed.
You slipped swiftly through a narrow, pre-planned corridor, heart pounding wildly in your chest. A breathless, exhilarated laugh escaped your lips as you triggered the small smoke charges you had planted earlier. Thick white smoke billowed out instantly, filling the space and obscuring everything. By the time Armando kicked through the final door with a roar, shouting your code name in pure fury, you were already disappearing into the rainy Bogotá night on a stolen motorcycle, the engine roaring beneath you as freedom swallowed you once more. He stood alone in the heavy downpour for a long time afterward. His chest heaved with exertion and emotion. His fists clenched tightly at his sides. Rain streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat of the chase. The taste of fresh failure and a deepening, dark obsession settled heavily over him as your taillight vanished into the distance.
A/n: Hiiiyaaa, lowkey in this part Armando does appear like a lil bit of a bitch, but he'll even out. I hope y'all enjoy it. I already typed up the next part, but I need to check my grammar and etc... I can't be out here sounding uneducated nowwww..... I 'm also working on looping some more of the Bad Boys Plot in this series.
Show me some love mf... plz.....like, reblog, comment or whatever to be added to my taglist so that you can know what's going onnnnn... Thank you lovies!!!!!!!
