Page 1

One

C ALISTA

The bullet burst from the gun, producing a thunderous crack that echoed across the shooting range and sent a satisfying shiver down my spine.

The metal pressed hot against my palm, and each contour dug into my skin while the weight of the pistol felt significant and anchoring.

I squinted, focusing my gaze on the paper target at the far end of the range, its surface crafted to replicate a human silhouette with clear lines defining the head and torso.

Spirals of smoke curled up from the barrel, tendrils weaving through the crisp morning air, brushing against my cheek like a playful whisper. The pungent, acrid scent stung my nostrils, potent enough to make me wrinkle my nose.

I had only been here a short while, yet already the target bore the marks of my precision. Tiny holes dotted the paper, the edges frayed and curling, each puncture a testament to my aim. Still, despite my steady hand, it wasn’t quite as obliterated as I desired.

I steadied my breathing, drawing in a long, calming breath, and aimed with precision, squeezing the trigger once more.

The bullet zipped through the air with a piercing whistle, sending an exhilarating rush of energy coursing through my veins.

It pulsed within me, an irresistible force awakening every nerve ending with a primal instinct.

It was such an intense sensation that it seemed to seize my very essence, reminiscent of a siren’s haunting melody drawing me toward the unknown.

The world around me blurred as this rush consumed me, leaving only the rhythm of my heartbeat and the echoes of the shots in my ears.

That intoxicating feeling of control was nothing short of addictive.

“You might as well give in. You’re never getting out of here…”

The persistent voices that had haunted my thoughts for nearly two years echoed with each deafening shot, a chaotic chorus accompanying the relentless slideshow of memories flashing through my mind—a testament to everything I had survived.

With each squeeze of the trigger, my hands bucked, sending another bullet down the range and another nameless face flickering in my mind like a ghostly apparition.

I had tried to banish those phantoms, those voices, and the horrific images that haunted my dreams, but they clung to me like shadows at dusk.

Every day, I visited the shooting range, allowing the smell of gunpowder and the crack of gunfire to become my soothing companions. Yet, despite my best efforts after each session, the memories persisted, stubborn and unyielding.

Frustration boiled within me as I tightened my grip and fired again. Another horror flashed before me, a vivid remembered pain stabbing at my consciousness.

The images flickered like a distorted, fuzzy, dark video with blurred, disjointed edges. Fear wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket, consuming me. The threats echoed, along with the brutal beatings etched into my memory. And the rest…the unbearable thoughts? No. I wouldn’t let them win.

I released the trigger over and over, the recoil jolting through my arms a physical reminder of my defiance.

With each shot fired, every blast became a cathartic release, a desperate attempt to purge the past.

My fingers moved automatically as I loaded bullets into the chamber, expending nearly all the available ammunition in my relentless assault.

“Healing takes time, Calista…” My therapist’s voice wove through my thoughts, blending with the taunts of my abductors.

It was a relentless loop that whirled in my head .

Time marched on, yet the trauma lingered, simmering like a pot left on the stove too long, refusing to evaporate, akin to an uninvited guest overstaying their welcome.

Standing in my booth, gun in hand, I transformed into a warrior, locked in combat not with a visible foe but with my past. An ugly past that loomed large, a shadow I desperately wished to escape. The fight wouldn’t end until its grip on me loosened and it no longer dictated my life.

I longed for normalcy, a life unshackled by fear.

To return to the person I was before, when courage, boldness, and hope defined me.

When I was the old Calista Vitalis.

The Cali who was fucking joyful, before the darkness descended.

I couldn’t recall the last time I felt a genuine burst of warmth or free, unburdened happiness. Every glimmer of trust I once had in people shattered into a thousand pieces when my sisters swept in and took me away from that nightmare.

It wasn’t just a rescue. It marked the beginning of a painful transformation. I emerged from that ordeal forever altered, haunted by the realization that the person I once was had vanished, leaving me to wander down perilous, shadowed paths.

In those bleakest nights, with the silence of despair pressing in, I stared at the ceiling, grappling with the thought that ending it all might be the only escape from the relentless sorrow. But somehow, bruised and in despair, I fought with every ounce of strength to push away those taunts .

I refused to let them win.

I did it for my sisters, Laya and Avra, their faces a constant reminder of hope amidst despair, and for the family name that weighed on my soul like an unbreakable vow.

And fueled by a burning desire for retribution, I fought to ensure that those monstrous kidnappers, the very architects of my suffering, would never claim another piece of me.

I wasn’t the person I used to be. They had stolen so much—moments, memories, and parts of my spirit that could never be returned.

Yet, with each furious day spent training on the cold concrete of the shooting range, at the gym where sweat and determination molded my battered body into something formidable, and at dawn when I hauled myself out of bed, fighting against the weight of despair, I vowed with every heartbeat that they would never steal anything else from me.

The images still danced at the edge of my vision, and whispers of past horrors echoed in the silence. I clung to the hope that through grueling daily training and therapy, that paralyzing fear would one day dissolve into nothingness.

Still, my impatience prickled beneath my skin, driving me to the shooting range before sunrise and to the gym every day to perfect my fighting skills.

It may be obsessive, but I reminded myself that I was paving a way forward, each moment a step away from the darkness.

In an unexpected twist that still left me in awe, I had secured a spot in Harvard’s prestigious online MBA program, all because my sisters had dared me to take the plunge and apply .

Now, I was navigating my studies through the digital realm, staying with my sister Laya and brother-in-law Niko in the sun-drenched hills of Greece while focusing on my recovery.

As I took a moment to reload my gun, a familiar vibration buzzed in my pocket. The distinctive haptic pattern signaled that it was nearly time for my scheduled meeting with my sisters. Just one more round, I thought, and then I’d join them.

I shifted into a firing stance, feet planted firmly on the ground, and squeezed the trigger, watching as the ammo flew and the paper target in the distance burst apart.

A satisfied grin crept onto my face as I pressed the button beside me, bringing the shredded target closer. A small laugh escaped me when I saw the sheer destruction. The paper was riddled with holes, particularly in the areas of the head and groin.

I plucked the target from the clip, holding it up, and spun around to face my bodyguard. Sebastian, a towering figure with a steely gaze, was one of the Vitalis family’s most trusted men, now tasked with shadowing my every move.

He was always there, never letting me out of his sight. Sometimes, it annoyed me, but I genuinely valued the security he and his team offered.

Being a Vitalis came with its own hazards, as my sisters and I bore the weight of a legacy riddled with enemies. The Vitalis name was both a blessing and a curse, a gilded cage with invisible bars .

From an early age, I understood the peril tied to my father’s bloodline.

I was just a little girl when the truth of our vulnerability struck me like a lightning bolt.

It was a dark night, one that reeked of blood and betrayal, and in an instant, I lost both my mother and father.

In the aftermath, my only family consisted of my sisters and Vik, my father’s second and most trusted advisor.

They became my guardians and protectors.

They raised me to be strong, to fight, and to survive.

That strength bred a longing for independence, a desire to live like everyone else, to be carefree and unburdened by the name I bore. For a time, I had forgotten the ever-present danger of being a Vitalis.

Then we’d come back to Greece, the land of our ancestors, to reclaim all that was stolen from us and to stand tall in the face of those who sought to see us fall. I’d had only a vague notion of the sacrifices our ambitions demanded.

From the very beginning, I fought against the constant invasion of my space, determined to stand on my own. In the end, Vik had shaped me into a fighter whose accuracy exceeded even my sisters’, regardless of how lethal their aim.

A chill crawled down my back, while an ember-like burn crept up the back of my throat. That day in the library had reshaped my reality. One moment, I was lost among timeworn art books, and the next, rough hands forced a bag over my head and dragged me away.

I had refused to let my security detail crowd me during class research, and the consequences had rained down.

Ozias Xenos, who was responsible for my parents’ murders and the reason my sisters and I fled to Prague, had orchestrated the kidnapping. I became a pawn in his quest for control and power and a tool for exacting revenge on his son, Elias, for betraying him and choosing Avra after their marriage.

Yet, I carried the burden for flouting well-established rules of safety in my world.