Miguel O'Hara x Reader [one-shots]

INNOCENCE [M]

I WAS SHAKING.

In the corner of the room, my entire body was trembling. I had no shoes, barely any clothes, and feared for my life. Gunshots, screams, and eerie silence was what filled the house I was in.

Currently, it was being infiltrated. I was here at the wrong time. The military had come to kill notorious Mafia leader Doom's men.

I hadn't known how they figured out this location, but they had. I was here because I was hired to entertain. Now, I may have been nearing my death.

As the gunshots and footsteps sounded closer, I cowered into the corner even more. This was a horrible hiding spot—not that it even was much of a hiding spot—and would get me seen rather quickly.

My head snapped up as I watched one of Doom's men raise a gun and begin shooting with no aim. If he could at least get one, he would die a happy man.

It was safe to say he did, because I saw that satisfactory glint in his eye just before he was shot dead.

I flinched, my breath hitching.

The military man that shot that man stiffened. His hold on his gun loosened, but still remained in his hand as he turned around. His eyes met mine, and from there, I knew he was the leader.

From the look in his eyes, he contemplated on killing me. But then, he realized that I was probably innocent.

A few of his men came up behind him, glancing at me. In Spanish, they asked what they should do. The leader directed them towards other parts of the area, leaving just us in this empty space.

I cowered back as far as I could, but he raised his hands and moved his gun into his waistband. His hair was slightly disheveled, he had few cuts on his arms, and his muscles bulged with exhaustion.

His reddish brown eyes never left mine.

"No voy a hacer nada," He inched towards me, crouching down to my level.

Though he was perfectly fluent and clearly learned Spanish before English, I still said: "I speak English," in my near-perfect accent.

"Okay," he nodded, unfazed. "I have my men surrounding this building. I can take you to one of them and they'll drive you anywhere safely."

I bit the inside of my cheek, contemplating. "How do I know... How do I know you're not lying? How do I know you won't keep me?"

His eyes slightly narrowed. He wanted to ask the question— how long had I been under Doom's men's control?  He didn't want to know the answer to that.

He read it in my eyes and suppressed his urge to ask. "The military doesn't do that. I don't do that. Mexico may have some corruptions, but I'd die before succumbing to that fate."

I held his stare for a moment longer. My shaking had subsided, and all that was left was my erratic heart.

He held out his empty, calloused hand for me as a peace offering. I looked at his hand, then at him, then at his hand again.

After a second longer, I reached out my hand and placed it in his.

He stood up, me with him, never letting go of my hand. He walked me down the steps of the house carefully and gently.

Gave me one last look before ordering one of his men to take me wherever I wanted to go safely. I watched him walk away before getting into the passenger seat.

The man next to me didn't ask where I wanted to go, at least not yet. He seemed to read my mind as I wanted to go far from here—this place.

When we were twenty minutes away, he pulled over to the side of the road, ready to ask me. I looked over to him, not answering.

His eyebrows creased in slight concern. His dark brown eyes narrowed as he tilted his head. "Are you okay?" He asked me in a thick, non-fluent accent.

I almost felt bad for what I was about to do.

Almost.

In an instant, I reached under my raggedy, sheer dress and into the waistband of my underwear.

I wrapped my fingers around the object, moved my pointer finger into the hole, and pressed once.

His body slumped.

Smoke came out the barrel of the gun.

Men always underestimated women. They always underestimated me.

Placing the gun back into my waistband, I left the car and began my walk towards a pay phone to make a very important call to my father.

The sound of the phone being picked up filled my ears.

"Doom," my father's short introduction without greeting came up immediately. He had never felt the need to. After all, he had only given his personal phone number out to one person. Me. "Habla."

And talk I did.

Remember when I said that I was innocent?

I wasn't. Not one bit.