Delfina's Interrogation Blaze of Bent Wills

The interrogation room smelled like stale coffee and desperation, a cramped box with peeling gray walls under a single flickering bulb that cast long shadows across the metal table bolted to the floor. My wrists chafed against the handcuffs chaining me to the chair, the cold steel biting into my skin as I shifted uncomfortably. I'd been picked up on a petty theft bust, but they knew I ran with Victor Kane's crew—low-level jobs that paid just enough to keep the wolves from my door in the gritty streets of Buenos Aires. Sweat trickled down my back, not just from the humid night air seeping through the barred window, but from the knowledge that I was in deep shit. The door creaked open, and she walked in—Delfina García, the detective they'd warned me about. At 22, she was a force of nature, her mocha skin glowing under the harsh light, jet-black hair in messy waves cascading long over her shoulders like a wild storm. Her chocolate brown eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach twist, oval face sharp and unyielding, slim 5'6" frame moving with predatory grace. She wore a fitted white blouse that hugged her medium breasts and a tight black skirt that accentuated her narrow waist and athletic slim body. No nonsense, all fire. She slammed a file on the table, her presence filling the room like smoke. "Diego Ruiz," she said, her voice low and accented with that pure Argentinian passion, leaning forward so her hair fell forward slightly tousled. "You think you can steal from Victor Kane's rivals and walk away? Talk, or this night gets longer." Her lips curved into a smirk that wasn't entirely professional, her eyes scanning me like she was already peeling back my layers. I swallowed hard,...