The city of Florence stretched out before Anya like a dream, its cobblestone streets bathed in the golden hues of late afternoon. It was a sharp contrast to the dark, oppressive walls of the Dragon Clan's fortress. Here, life thrived in colors and music, the air fragrant with the scent of fresh bread and blooming flowers. For a brief moment, Anya felt like a different person—someone free of vengeance, free of destiny.
But the illusion was fleeting.
Her mission today was not one of leisure. It was a carefully orchestrated plan set in motion by Mr. Ostov himself. There were whispers of a meeting between the Dragon Clan's rivals, a covert gathering that could tip the balance of power in Italy. Anya had been sent to intercept.
The café was quaint, nestled in a quiet corner of the Piazza della Signoria. Anya sat at a small table near the back, her dark coat blending into the shadows as she observed the crowd. Her eyes darted to the man she had been following—a tall figure in a gray suit with sharp features and a confident stride. He was flanked by two guards, their presence inconspicuous to the untrained eye but glaringly obvious to her.
Anya sipped her espresso, her fingers brushing the concealed dagger beneath her sleeve. She had been trained for moments like this, moments when observation turned into action. Yet, a part of her hesitated. Madden's words from the night before echoed in her mind: "There is no room for hesitation in the Dragon Clan."
The bell above the café door jingled, drawing her attention. A woman entered, her presence commanding despite her simple attire. Anya's heart skipped a beat. She recognized her from the files Madden had shared—a key operative of the rival syndicate. The woman's sharp eyes scanned the room before locking onto the man in the gray suit.
Anya's pulse quickened as she watched them exchange greetings and take a seat at a table nearby. She strained to hear their conversation, her ears catching snippets of words in Italian. The talk was guarded, layered with subtle threats and veiled promises.
Her focus was so intent that she didn't notice the shadow falling across her table until it was too late.
"Enjoying the view?"
Anya's heart lurched as she looked up. The man before her was tall, with dark eyes that seemed to pierce through her. His accent was Russian, smooth and familiar, but his face was not.
She tensed, her hand inching toward the dagger, but his next words froze her in place.
"Relax, Miss Lukyan. If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Her blood ran cold at the sound of her name. She forced herself to maintain a calm exterior, her voice steady as she replied, "I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
The man smirked, taking the seat across from her uninvited. "No mistake. Your father spoke highly of you, you know. Before everything went to hell."
Anya's fingers clenched around her cup. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice low.
He leaned back in his chair, his movements casual but deliberate. "Let's just say I'm someone with a vested interest in seeing how far you'll go for your vengeance."
Her eyes narrowed. "If you know who I am, then you know I don't take kindly to games."
"Good," he said, his tone darkening. "Because what's coming next is no game."
Before she could respond, a commotion erupted at the rival operatives' table. The man in the gray suit stood abruptly, his voice rising in anger. The woman responded with equal fervor, their words rapid and unintelligible.
Anya's companion glanced at the scene, his expression unreadable. "Looks like you're running out of time to decide which side you're on."
She didn't have time to question him further. The guards flanking the man in gray were already moving, their hands reaching for concealed weapons.
Anya acted on instinct. She rose from her seat, her dagger slipping into her palm as she closed the distance between herself and the operatives. In one fluid motion, she disarmed the nearest guard, her blade slicing through the air with deadly precision.
The café erupted into chaos. Customers screamed and scattered as the fight unfolded. Anya's movements were swift and calculated, every strike a testament to her training. But even as she fought, her mind raced. Who was the man who had confronted her? And why had he let her walk into this alone?
As the last guard fell, Anya turned to face the operatives, her chest heaving. But they were gone, their chairs empty and the door swinging shut behind them.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, wiping the blood from her blade.
The café was a wreck, its once-peaceful atmosphere shattered. Anya knew she couldn't stay. She slipped out the back, her steps quick and purposeful as she disappeared into the winding streets.
But the encounter lingered in her mind, a puzzle she couldn't ignore. Whoever the man was, he had known her father. He had known her. And he had left her with more questions than answers.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Florence in a fiery glow, Anya knew one thing for certain: the game she was playing was far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.