Page 27

Present

T he Diamond Club pulses with low, sultry lighting and the kind of exclusivity that keeps outsiders at bay.

The air is thick with perfume and cigars, the underlying scent of whiskey and sweat mixing with the thudding bass of deep house music.

Rocco and Alessio Falcone hold court in the VIP section, surrounded by women who drape themselves over their laps like expensive accessories.

While his wife is at home nursing her bruises.

They think they own this place. They think they’re untouchable.

I blend into the opulence, wrapped in a deep crimson dress that hugs my curves but allows for movement.

The silk clings like blood on skin, the thigh slit high enough to conceal the compact pistol strapped to my garter.

My red wig is swept into a sleek, effortless chignon, my makeup sultry but understated.

I’m just another wealthy woman in this crowd, another anonymous figure in the dimly lit world of the powerful and corrupt.

No one notices as I slip through the bodies on the dance floor.

My heels are high enough to be elegant but low enough to run in.

Every detail of my presence is intentional—every glance, every shift of my posture, every sip of the untouched whiskey glass in my hand.

I take my time, letting the moment stretch, letting my target settle deeper into his arrogance.

Rocco lounges like a king, legs sprawled, a hand around a brunette’s throat as he murmurs something into her ear. She giggles, leaning into his touch. Alessio, his younger brother, watches the club with the lazy half-interest of a man who’s never had to fear for his life.

I move closer, taking a seat at the empty bar stool a few feet away. I let my presence be felt—just a brush of awareness, something to make Rocco look up, to notice me. When he does, he smirks.

“Now that’s a face I didn’t expect to see here.” His voice is slick with confidence, his eyes dragging over me like I belong to him already.

I let my lips curve just slightly, just enough to keep him interested. “Maybe you haven’t been paying attention.”

Alessio chuckles beside him, nursing a drink. “Or maybe you’re looking for some real Italian Stallion?”

I tilt my head. “Maybe I’ve been waiting.”

The air shifts. Rocco leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “That so? Waiting for what?”

“For the right opportunity.” I sip my drink, keeping my gaze level. “For the right company.”

He grins, cocky and assured. He thinks I’m here for him. He doesn’t see the trap closing around him, not yet.

I watch their movements, waiting for the exact moment they drop their guard. Rocco signals for another drink. Alessio shifts, angling himself toward a passing waitress, his attention momentarily broken. I slide the gun from its holster. Screw the silencer onto the barrel.

That’s when I move.

Smooth. Unseen. This is how professionals work. No grand gestures. No wasted movement. The bullets are designed to expand and fragment on impact—no ballistics, no traceable evidence.

The first shot buries itself in Rocco’s shoulder. His body jerks, twisting as the bullet explodes through his collarbone. The force sends him staggering back, a look of pure shock frozen on his face.

Before he can recover, I fire again.

The third bullet rips through Alessio’s thigh, shattering bone, decimating muscle. He crumples, a strangled sound escaping his lips as he clutches his leg. Blood pools instantly, dark and thick against the marble floor. He’ll bleed out in minutes.

Panic erupts around us. Screams, scrambling bodies. People duck, tables overturn. The music stutters before cutting off entirely. I stand in the middle of it all, unmoving. Calm.

Rocco tries to right himself, his good hand pressing against one wound, his breath ragged. His eyes meet mine, wide with fury and disbelief.

“What the fuck—”

I step closer, crouching just enough to meet his gaze. “Shh.”

His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven gasps. He’s in pain. Good.

Alessio thrashes weakly, the blood loss making him sluggish. He tries to reach for his own weapon, but his fingers tremble too much to close around it. His mouth works soundlessly, as if he’s trying to understand how this happened, how someone got the drop on them here, in their own playground.

I lean in, my voice low enough that only they can hear. “For Lucia.”

Then I’m gone, slipping through the chaos like a ghost. The shadows swallow me whole before anyone can get a good look. The club security is too slow, the patrons too focused on saving themselves. I walk out the back entrance, into the cool night air, my heartbeat steady, my breathing even.

There’s a sourness in my gut, rotting me from the inside out, and I don’t know how to staunch it. My carefully curated life feels hollow and unfulfilling. But this is what needed to be done.

Now, the Commission will have no choice. They’ll come together to protect their sons, their legacies.

Because that’s what foolish men do.

And when they do, I’ll be waiting.