Daddy Issues
Aaliyah
Aaliyah stood at the door of the hotel room, heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
The air felt thick, suffocating. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to steady her pulse, but the weight of years of control, of expectation, of everything she had tried to leave behind pressed down on her like an iron hand to the throat.
She curled her fingers against the smooth surface of the wooden table beside her, nails digging into the grain hard enough to anchor herself. This was what she wanted, what she had planned for, what they had spent weeks setting up. And yet, standing here now, knowing that in mere seconds she would be face-to-face with the two men who had dictated the course of her life for so long, she felt something dark coil in her stomach.
This was not fear. It was something colder.
The door creaked open.
Asmar Amrohi entered first. He stepped inside with his usual quiet authority, his presence alone enough to command the space. The years had not softened him. His broad frame was dressed in a dark, tailored suit, every inch of him curated for dominance. The sharp cut of his beard, the exactness of his silver cufflinks, the unwavering way his dark eyes settled on her—it all reeked of control.
His gaze raked over her, slowly, deliberately, and his mouth curled downward in displeasure.
“You look unkempt.” His voice was flat, unimpressed, as if she were a wayward child who had been found playing in the dirt. “Have you been reduced to living like a peasant?”
Aaliyah lifted her chin, meeting his stare without flinching. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
The next presence in the room was more subtle, but no less suffocating. Ehsan stepped in behind her father, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
His eyes were unreadable at first, taking her in with that same quiet intensity he had always carried. But then he spoke, and the venom laced in his voice made her stomach twist.
“I should not be surprised,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, as he unbuttoned his blazer and adjusted his cuffs. “A spoiled girl, running away the moment things got difficult. You embarrassed me.”
Aaliyah’s nails pressed deeper into the wood at her side. She knew this would happen. She had anticipated it—their disappointment, their condemnation, their belief that she was some wayward possession who had simply wandered too far and needed to be retrieved. And yet, hearing it now, feeling it creep over her skin like a sickness, it was harder to swallow than she had expected.
Her father stepped forward, and the scent of his cologne—rich oud, deep and smothering—wrapped around her like a vice.
“You had one duty,” Asmar said coldly. “One. And you failed. You have no idea the shame you have brought upon our name.”
Aaliyah swallowed down the sharp retort that burned in her throat. She would not let them pull her into their game.
Ehsan took a slow step forward, his voice deceptively gentle. “Do you think this is over, Aaliyah? That you can simply throw a tantrum and walk away?” He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing. “You are fortunate, Aaliyah, that I am still willing to take you back after you shamed me. After you whored yourself out on the run.”
The words landed like a slap to the face. Aaliyah stiffened, a flicker of something raw and furious sparking in her chest. But she did not break. Not yet. Not ever.
--
Aaliyah barely saw the movement before it happened. The air in the hotel room was already suffocating, thick with the scent of her father’s cologne, the weight of unspoken threats pressing in on her chest like a vice. She had expected the words—his fury, his disappointment, the venom in his voice as he spoke about her supposed disgrace. But she hadn’t expected this.
Asmar’s hand lifted. Time slowed. Aaliyah’s heart lurched into her throat.
She had been here before. She knew the exact way the body tensed before impact, how the air changed just before skin met skin. Her father’s fingers curled into a strike, his expression unreadable save for the cold finality in his eyes.
A part of her locked up, muscles bracing, instincts screaming at her to move, but years of conditioning had taught her something else—obedience. Even now, after everything, after running, after fighting tooth and nail to carve out some semblance of control in her life, a deep, buried part of her still hesitated.
She didn’t get the chance to react. A sudden, sharp motion—faster than her father’s hand. A blur of movement. A shift in the air. Cruz.
Before the strike could land, Aaliyah felt a firm grip on her wrist, tugging her out of reach in one fluid, practiced motion. The sheer force of it pulled her slightly off balance, her breath hitching as she stumbled backward.
Cruz stepped between them like an immovable force, her broad shoulders blocking Aaliyah’s view of her father entirely. The warmth of her body, the sheer solidity of her presence—it was jarring, a stark contrast to the cold shock still spreading through Aaliyah’s veins.
For a moment, all she could do was gasp, trying to catch up to what had just happened.
Then, she saw Cruz’s posture—rigid with barely contained fury, her hands clenched at her sides, every muscle in her frame locked and coiled like a spring wound too tight. But it was her expression that sent a chill through Aaliyah.
Cruz’s dark eyes were fixed on Asmar, unblinking, hard as granite, and filled with something raw and vicious. A storm brewing beneath the surface.
“If you touch her,” Cruz said, her voice low, quiet, but razor-sharp, “I’ll break every bone in your hand.”
The room was deadly silent.
Aaliyah swallowed hard, barely able to breathe.
She had seen Cruz angry before. Had seen her kill before. Had watched her fight her way through impossible situations with nothing but sheer will and instinct. But this—this was different. This wasn’t the cold, calculating Cruz who made split-second decisions in battle. This wasn’t the controlled agent trained to suppress emotion. This was personal.
Asmar stared back at Cruz, his hand still half-raised, shock flickering across his face at the sheer audacity of someone daring to step between him and his own daughter. But then his expression twisted, anger flaring back into place.
“You dare—”
“We’re done here,” Cruz growled, cutting him off without an ounce of hesitation.
The finality in her voice sent a shiver down Aaliyah’s spine. She didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
Her father had always been untouchable. His word was law, his decisions absolute. He had dictated every part of her life, controlled her existence with an iron grip. And yet—here Cruz was, standing in front of her, unwavering, unshaken, shielding her without a second thought.
Aaliyah’s pulse thundered in her ears. She had known, logically, that Cruz would protect her. But seeing it, feeling it—having someone step between her and a lifetime of fear—it knocked the breath from her lungs.
Asmar’s gaze flickered between them, taking in the sight of Cruz standing so close to Aaliyah, her stance protective, the quiet but unmistakable claim in the way she positioned herself. And then something in his expression shifted. Disgust.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, lowering his hand, his lips curling into something between a sneer and realization. “Ah,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something cold, cutting. “I see now.”
Cruz didn’t move. Didn’t react. But Aaliyah did. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her. She knew exactly what he meant.
But before she could form a response, before she could even process the growing horror in her father’s gaze, Cruz’s voice cut through the air again, sharp as a blade.
“You’re going to leave this room, and you’re not going to follow her. You’re not going to send anyone after her. You’re going to walk out of here, and you’re going to forget she ever existed.”
Aaliyah’s chest constricted. It wasn’t a threat. It was a command.
Asmar’s nostrils flared, his jaw tightening. “You think you can tell me what to do? You think you can take my daughter from me? She isn’t yours to take.”
Silence. A thick, suffocating silence.
Then—Ehsan stepped forward, expression twisted in something cruel, stepping to Asmar’s side like a loyal dog. “You should listen to your father, Aaliyah,” he sneered. “You are lucky I am still willing to have you after—”
Cruz moved before Aaliyah could process it. She didn’t lash out, didn’t hit him—though Aaliyah could see in the tight coil of her shoulders that she wanted to. Instead, she turned just enough to reach behind her, her fingers curling around Aaliyah’s wrist again, gripping tight.
Aaliyah barely felt her feet beneath her as Cruz pulled her through the door, her grip unyielding, fingers pressing firmly against her wrist. The world outside the hotel suite blurred at the edges, distorted by the haze of adrenaline and confusion that coiled in her mind. Her pulse roared in her ears, her breaths coming sharp and uneven.
“Wait,” she choked out, stumbling slightly as Cruz guided her forward with quick, precise steps. Her mind was racing, trying to catch up. “The CIA—Kyle—he said—”
“They’ve got it from here,” Cruz cut in, her voice tense, clipped.
Something was wrong.
Cruz was moving too fast. Her posture was too rigid, the way her eyes flicked toward every exit, every possible threat—she wasn’t just getting them out. She was extracting them. Urgency bled from every movement, every breath.
Aaliyah’s stomach twisted, dread curling its way up her spine. The air felt too thin, too tight, and the walls of the hallway seemed to press in on her as Cruz maneuvered them forward. She could barely keep up, her mind still spinning from the encounter, from the cold finality in her father’s voice, in Ehsan’s sneer.
Then cracks split through the air. Two of them. Loud. Final.
Aaliyah stopped breathing.
The sound ricocheted through the air like a death knell, ringing deep in her bones. Her body locked, her pulse faltering before roaring back to life, wild and erratic.
She knew. Before her mind could even process it, before her eyes could confirm it—she knew.
A deep, suffocating horror clawed at her throat, and suddenly she was twisting, wrenching against Cruz’s grip. “No—no—”
Her vision blurred, her chest tightening with something raw and unbearable. The hallway stretched before her like a tunnel, a path leading back to the room where she had just been, where her father and Ehsan had been standing mere moments ago. Where they had been breathing. Talking. Alive.
Not anymore. Her knees buckled.
A strangled, broken sound tore from her lips. The weight of it, of everything, crashed down on her with such force that she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
She was the bait. She had lured them here. She had led them to their deaths.
Strong arms caught her before she hit the ground. Cruz—solid, steady, unwavering. The warmth of her, the strength in her arms, should have been a comfort, but it only made the sob tearing through Aaliyah’s chest feel sharper, more brutal.
Her fingers clutched at Cruz’s shirt, her entire body trembling. “I didn’t—Kyle said—”
“I know.” Cruz’s voice was steady, but Aaliyah could hear the quiet fury burning beneath the surface, could feel it in the way Cruz held her so tightly, like she could absorb the pain, take it away. “I know.”
Aaliyah let out a shuddering sob, pressing her face against Cruz’s shoulder. Her hands fisted in Cruz’s shirt as if holding on could stop the world from unraveling.
Cruz carried her without hesitation, her grip unrelenting, protective. “I’ve got you, baby,” she whispered into Aaliyah’s hair, pressing a firm kiss there, grounding her. “I love you.”
The words cut through the chaos like an anchor, but Aaliyah was already falling.
Cruz
Cruz watched from the shadows, her muscles coiled, her breathing steady but slow. The night was thick with anticipation, the kind that pressed against her skin like a warning. The hotel in Greece was silent except for the occasional creak of an old floorboard, the muted hum of a car passing in the distance. But Cruz wasn’t listening for that. She was listening for movement, for the shift in the air that would signal a trap being sprung.
Her hand hovered near her weapon, fingers flexing against the grip of her sidearm. It was instinct at this point—this readiness, this awareness that something wasn’t right. She had learned a long time ago to trust that feeling. It had saved her life more times than she could count.
And right now, her gut was screaming. She had been on countless missions before, had walked into too many rooms with the same air of controlled tension that Kyle and his men carried now. They were too calm, too still. Not in the way trained operatives should be, but in the way people were when they already knew how something would end.
Kyle had insisted that this was a capture-only mission. That Asmar and Ehsan would be taken alive. But Cruz knew better. The CIA didn’t do clean extractions when it came to men like them. And Kyle wasn’t the type to let morality get in the way of an objective.
Her jaw tightened as she glanced through the crack in the door, her eyes locking onto Aaliyah.
She sat across from Ehsan and Asmar, her posture poised but rigid, her expression carefully measured. But Cruz saw the flicker of unease in her green eyes, the way her fingers curled subtly into the fabric of her dress. The way her pulse beat just a little too fast in the hollow of her throat.
Ehsan sat beside Asmar, exuding the kind of arrogance that had always made Cruz’s stomach turn. He leaned back, legs crossed, a smirk playing on his lips as if he had already won. Asmar, on the other hand, was the picture of restrained fury—his posture stiff, his fingers drumming impatiently against the arm of the chair.
Cruz didn’t need to hear the conversation to know how it was going. The power dynamic was clear. Ehsan and Asmar weren’t here to listen. They were here to remind Aaliyah of her place.
Cruz exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay still. She had a mission. She had a plan. She had to wait.
And then she saw it. The way Ehsan leaned in, voice low, his hand curling into a fist on the table. The way Asmar’s lip curled in disdain, his gaze raking over Aaliyah like she was something broken that needed fixing. Ownership. Disgust.
Cruz’s blood ran hot. She clenched her jaw, fingers pressing tighter around the gun. Every fiber of her being screamed to walk in there, to put a bullet between Ehsan’s smug eyes, to make Asmar see exactly how little control he had over Aaliyah now. But she held herself back, barely. This wasn’t the plan. She had to think. She had to be smart.
Then, Asmar stood. Cruz saw the way Aaliyah’s breath hitched, the way her shoulders straightened as if bracing for impact.
And then he lifted his hand. Cruz didn’t think. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, before she could weigh the consequences. One second, she was in the shadows. The next, she was there.
The sound of her boot hitting the hardwood floor was sharp, cutting through the thick air of the room. Her gun was out, steady, aimed at Asmar before he could even lower his hand. The entire room froze.
Cruz’s voice was lethal, quiet, a blade’s edge ready to strike. “Try it,” she said, her tone like a death sentence.
Asmar turned slowly, his expression morphing from fury to something darker. Ehsan stiffened beside him, his eyes flicking toward Kyle and his men as if waiting for some kind of intervention.
But Cruz wasn’t waiting for anything. Her gun didn’t waver. Her heartbeat didn’t spike. This wasn’t an empty threat.
Aaliyah sucked in a breath, wide eyes locking onto Cruz, but Cruz wasn’t looking at her. Not yet. She was looking at Asmar. At the man who had raised a hand to his own daughter without hesitation.
No one touched Aaliyah. Ever.
The silence stretched, thick with tension, before Kyle’s voice finally cut through it. “Stand down, Manuelos.”
Cruz ignored him. Her finger hovered near the trigger, her pulse slow, steady. She could end this now. She could make sure Asmar never had the chance to hurt Aaliyah again.
But she wasn’t here for vengeance. She was here to get Aaliyah out.
Slowly, Cruz stepped forward, keeping her aim locked on Asmar as she positioned herself between him and Aaliyah. A shield. A silent promise.
She could feel Aaliyah behind her, could sense the tension in her body, the sharp breath she took as if she was only now allowing herself to exhale.
Asmar’s gaze burned into Cruz, his lip curling in disgust. “This is what you’ve become?” he spat, voice low with contempt. “A traitor. A dog for the Americans.”
Cruz didn’t flinch. “I don’t give a damn what you think I am.”
His eyes flicked to Aaliyah, venomous. “And you,” he sneered. “You are still mine. No matter where you run, no matter who you think you belong to now—you are still my daughter. And you will obey.”
Cruz closed her eyes for a brief second, exhaling.
She wasn’t here for vengeance. She was here to get Aaliyah out.
Kyle, always the opportunist, stepped in to smooth over the moment, voice casual, like he hadn’t just watched Cruz nearly execute a man in cold blood. “Let’s all take a breath, yeah? We’re here to talk.”
Cruz didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She had already made her point. And Asmar knew it, too.
Cruz took another step back, shifting slightly so that Aaliyah was fully behind her, out of Asmar’s reach. Because the message was clear. No one touched Aaliyah. Not now. Not ever.
--
Cruz didn’t hesitate.
The moment Asmar moved, she pulled Aaliyah back, her grip firm and unyielding, placing herself between them without thought. She knew what was coming, knew the way men like Asmar operated. Knew that if she let this moment stretch even a second longer, it would turn into something neither of them could afford.
Her body was a wall between Aaliyah and her father, her stance wide, balanced, ready to strike. But they didn’t have time for a fight. Not here. Not when they had already set the stage.
Aaliyah was rigid behind her, her breath hitched in anger, but Cruz knew this wasn’t the moment to let her feelings take over. She tightened her grip around Aaliyah’s wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make it clear.
Move. Now.
The room buzzed with tension, Asmar’s expression twisted in rage, his lips curling as if he had more to say, but Cruz didn’t give him the chance. She tugged Aaliyah toward the door, stepping back, forcing distance between them. She could feel the heat radiating off Aaliyah’s body, the way her pulse pounded beneath her skin, the storm brewing in her, but they didn’t have the luxury of letting her confront him. They weren’t here to win a war—they were here to end it.
Kyle was waiting. Too ready.
Cruz’s instincts went razor-sharp, her senses stretching in every direction as they exited the room. The hallway outside was empty. Too empty. Her pulse kicked up, a warning crawling up her spine. This wasn’t right.
Kyle stood at the far end of the hall, near the service exit, his posture too relaxed, his stance too prepared. His gaze flicked to her, then to Aaliyah, and Cruz caught it—that slight shift in his expression. Like he already knew what had happened in that room. Like he was waiting for it to be over.
Her gut clenched.
She walked faster, pulling Aaliyah with her, her grip tightening in silent instruction. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Just go. But Aaliyah was resisting, her body tense against Cruz’s hold.
“He—” Aaliyah started, her voice tight, breathless with frustration. “He doesn’t get to just—”
Cruz’s fingers dug in, not enough to hurt, just enough to make her understand. “Not here,” she murmured low, controlled. “Not now.”
She was already working through contingencies in her head. Get to the exit. Clear the floor. Get Aaliyah out before whatever was about to happen happened. Because she knew, deep in her bones, that something was coming. She just didn’t know from which direction yet.
And then—
The gunshots.
Two sharp cracks, the unmistakable sound of suppressed rounds.
Cruz didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. Her body knew what it was before her mind even caught up.
But Aaliyah stopped. Dead in her tracks. Her breath hitched, sharp and broken, and then she crumpled.
Cruz moved instantly, arms wrapping around Aaliyah before she hit the floor, bracing her against her chest. “Aaliyah.” Her voice was firm, urgent, but not panicked. Cruz didn’t panic.
Aaliyah wasn’t hit—Cruz knew that the moment she got her arms around her, the moment she felt the way Aaliyah collapsed rather than fell. It wasn’t pain—it was realization.
She knew. Kyle knew. Cruz had known all along.
She gritted her teeth, her body coiled like a live wire, ready to move. But Aaliyah was breaking.
Cruz could feel it in the way her breath shuddered against her chest, in the way her fingers clutched at Cruz’s shirt like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. And fuck—Cruz didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time to give her the space she needed to process what just happened.
She pressed a hand to the back of Aaliyah’s head, pulling her in, her voice low, steady. “We have to go.”
Aaliyah wasn’t moving. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, her nails digging into Cruz’s arms. “He—” The word barely made it past her lips, like saying it would make it more real. “No, no, he—”
He’s dead. She didn’t say it, but the words were there, thick in the air between them.
Cruz swallowed hard, her chest tightening at the way Aaliyah trembled against her. This wasn’t just grief. This was something deeper. Something raw and tangled—grief and guilt and relief all bleeding into one.
Cruz held her tighter, her mind racing through exit strategies. Get her out. Get her safe. Everything else comes later.
Cruz’s arms tightened instinctively around her, steadying her, grounding her. “I’ve got you,” she said, her voice firm, unshakable, even as her heart slammed against her ribs. “I’ve got you, baby.”
But Aaliyah wasn’t hearing her. Not really. Her fingers dug into Cruz’s shoulders, clutching at her like she was the only solid thing left in a world that had collapsed beneath her feet. Her breathing was erratic, shallow, more like gasps than real breaths.
Cruz could hear the distant chaos—Kyle barking orders, the shuffle of movement, the hurried retreat of operatives who had done what they came to do. The scent of gunpowder lingered thick in the air. The bodies—she didn’t need to look to know what they would see if they turned back.
Ehsan. Asmar. Gone. And Aaliyah blamed herself.
Cruz wasn’t going to let her fall apart here. Not in this place. Not surrounded by the echoes of violence, the ghosts of what-ifs.
She adjusted her grip and lifted Aaliyah effortlessly, one arm under her legs, the other wrapped securely around her back. Aaliyah barely resisted, only a soft, strangled sob slipping from her lips as she buried her face into Cruz’s neck, her breath warm and uneven against her skin.
Cruz walked. Fast. Purposeful. Away from the gunfire. Away from the bodies. Away from Kyle and his men. Away from the wreckage of what they had just done.
From what she knew would happen. From what Aaliyah hadn’t been ready to know.
The streets were empty as Cruz navigated them, the night pressing in around them like a cocoon. Athens had its own kind of silence at this hour—muted but not peaceful, the kind of quiet that still carried the distant hum of traffic, the occasional murmur of voices from a window left open. But to Cruz, it was nothing but white noise. The only thing she focused on was the woman in her arms.
Aaliyah trembled, her fingers tightening around Cruz’s shirt. Her body was still too rigid, too caught in the moment that had broken her. Cruz felt the way her breaths came in uneven bursts, how she fought to keep herself from unraveling completely.
She hated this. Hated seeing Aaliyah like this, hated the way the world had stripped her down to this raw, fragile thing in her arms. Hated that she had played a part in it.
She pressed her lips against the crown of Aaliyah’s head, not thinking, just acting on instinct. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” she murmured, her voice rough but certain.
Aaliyah let out another sob, but this one was different—less jagged, more like something breaking loose inside her. She clung to Cruz, pressing herself closer, her breath coming out in a choked, uneven exhale against Cruz’s throat.
Cruz swallowed thickly. She had never been good at this—at words, at comfort, at knowing what to say when the world had been cruel. But she knew how to hold. How to protect. How to carry. How to love.
She closed her eyes, pressing her face into Aaliyah’s hair as she whispered, barely more than a breath, “I love you.”
The words felt foreign in her mouth, unfamiliar in the way they made her chest feel too tight. But they were true. And she needed Aaliyah to hear them. To feel them.
Aaliyah didn’t answer. Not in words. But the way her fingers curled into Cruz’s shirt, the way she pressed even closer, like she was trying to crawl inside the only safety she had left—that was enough.
Cruz carried her through the dark, away from the destruction. Away from everything they had lost. Toward whatever came next.