Miguel O'Hara x Reader [one-shots]

INNOCENCE [M] (P.II)

I WAS WANTED in the state of Quintana Roo, right here in Mexico.

Well, technically, an anonymous individual is charged with the murder of the soldier I killed and my kidnapping. I was a fragile girl— there's no way I could have been the one to kill him. Especially since that was the way I had presented myself to the military's general.

My father had wanted to know details. He was full-on raging due to the amount of casualties he faced. He was a massive mafia boss who had gone too far, and now the people of Mexico were turning against him.

I was all he had, and he was all I had.

I didn't agree with many of the things he did, but there was death everywhere. I had grown used to being my father's executioner. After all, no one would expect a girl to be one.

My father was traditional, through and through, but I think he liked the fact that I was always incognito everywhere I went. I had the feeling he wants me to take over the "business" when he's too old for it.

I promised myself I'd never.

I'd been in hiding for approximately three weeks. A sketch of me had been shown on the news ten times so far. People began to suspect I had been dead— the latest victim of Doom.

I hadn't been shown on the news once today. Without my father's permission, I decided that being cooped up in the manor was going straight to my head, and I needed fresh air to clear my mind.

I made sure to keep my head down, of course, but I also made sure to take a look around me. I had moved to Mexico when I was five years old, after my mother died. My father traveled to the United States to retrieve me and brought me here, to this nation I now called home.

I barely remembered my life in the US. I didn't even know what state I was from. My father had pulled ties to get me an entirely new passport, birth certificate, pre-school record— you name it. To anyone concerned, I was a Mexican citizen. If I were to be caught for any of the crimes I've committed, I wouldn't be brought to the United States for exoneration, but to a Mexican prison, where my father had complete power over every living person. He'd make my life seem as if I weren't in shackles.

To be in a US prison is worse than death, my father had always told me. I'd seen the videos and the news— I knew he wasn't lying. If there was one thing my father was afraid of, it was to be held in one of those cells.

Either way, Mexico was still beautiful. There were many run down buildings in this area, but the people were still smiling all the same. They all had their own individual lives— hopefully so much better than mine.

Seeing all these people made me hate my life. They were so happy with their lives, and I worked for a man that destroyed that happiness for everyone, just for his own selfish reasons. I had no say in the matter anyway.

To work for Doom is to die for him.

Continuing down the path of no destination, the sun's blaring glow made it hard to see. I huffed and reached to my side, shuffling through my purse to find my sunglasses.

I had my hand wrapped around them when a palm was slapped over my mouth, and I was pulled into a building.