Venice's labyrinthine canals shimmered under a silver moon as Azalea maneuvered through the shadows of the old city. She wore her usual mission attire—a fitted black jumpsuit that allowed swift movements and concealed her weapons. Tonight, her target was Anton Fedorov, a tech mogul turned international arms dealer. The job was straightforward: infiltrate, eliminate, and vanish.
Azalea approached the grand villa where Fedorov hosted his illicit gatherings. The mansion was ablaze with lights, the sound of laughter and classical music drifting into the cool night air. She studied the scene through high-tech glasses, scanning for guards and escape routes. She scaled the ivy-covered walls with practiced ease and slipped onto a secluded balcony.
Inside, the opulence was overwhelming. Chandeliers dripped with crystals, and priceless art adorned the walls. Azalea blended seamlessly with the crowd, her calm demeanor masking the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She adjusted the neckline of her elegant black gown, her concealed weapons a comforting weight.
As she moved closer to the main hall, a voice in her earpiece crackled.
"Target is heading to the east wing," Lily's voice whispered. "Security is tight—be careful."
"Always am," Azalea murmured, a slight smile playing on her lips.
She navigated the crowd, slipping into the east wing undetected. The corridor was dimly lit, with guards stationed at intervals. Azalea quickly neutralized one, dragging his unconscious body into a side room.
The next few minutes were a blur of calculated movements and precise strikes. She was nearing her target when she heard a faint sound behind her—a barely audible scuffle, like a predator stalking prey. Her instincts kicked in, and she pressed herself against the wall, knife in hand.
From the shadows emerged a figure. Dressed in a tailored midnight-blue suit, Ambrose moved with lethal grace, his expression sharp and focused. Azalea's eyes widened, her grip tightening on the knife. What was he doing here?
Ambrose froze when he saw her, surprise flashing across his face before he masked it.
"Azalea," he whispered, his voice low and cautious.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her tone edged with suspicion.
"I could ask you the same thing," he replied smoothly, though his eyes darted to the knife in her hand.
Their gazes locked, the unspoken tension crackling like static between them.
"Don't tell me you're here for Fedorov," Azalea said, her voice soft but accusing.
Ambrose gave a half-smile. "It's just business."
"Funny," she shot back, "because this is my business."
Their conversation was cut short by approaching footsteps. Without a word, they moved in tandem, slipping into the shadows. The synchronization was instinctive as if they'd been working together for years.
"Stay out of my way," Azalea whispered, glancing at him as they crouched behind a column.
"I could say the same to you," Ambrose retorted, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.
The footsteps grew louder, and the pair acted in perfect unison. Azalea disarmed the first guard with a quick twist of her wrist, while Ambrose incapacitated the second with a single, well-placed punch. The guards crumpled to the ground, and the two assassins exchanged a glance.
"Not bad," Ambrose said, a hint of admiration in his voice.
Azalea arched an eyebrow. "I don't need your approval."
They continued through the villa, their paths converging despite their best efforts to avoid each other. Every time Azalea thought she'd lost him, Ambrose appeared, his presence both infuriating and strangely comforting.
In the main study, Fedorov sat at a large oak desk, flanked by two bodyguards. Azalea watched from the shadows as Ambrose entered the room, his movements deliberate.
"Mr. Fedorov," Ambrose said, his tone polite but laced with authority.
Fedorov looked up, surprised. "Who are you?"
"A concerned party," Ambrose replied smoothly.
Azalea's heart raced as she watched the exchange. What was Ambrose playing at? She edged closer, her knife at the ready.
Just as Ambrose was distracting Fedorov, Azalea made her move. She slipped into the room silently, taking down one of the bodyguards with a swift strike. The other turned, drawing his weapon, but Ambrose was faster, disarming him with a fluid motion.
Fedorov bolted for the door, but Azalea intercepted him, pinning him against the wall.
"Going somewhere?" she asked, her voice icy.
Fedorov stammered, his eyes darting between Azalea and Ambrose.
"Please, I can pay you—whatever you want!" he begged.
Azalea's grip tightened. "Too late for that."
Before she could finish the job, Ambrose stepped forward.
"Azalea, wait," he said, his tone firm.
She turned to him, her expression a mix of anger and confusion.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Trust me," he said, holding her gaze.
For a moment, she hesitated, her instincts warring with the strange sense of trust Ambrose inspired. Finally, she released Fedorov, stepping back.
Ambrose leaned in close to the trembling man.
"Consider this a warning," he said quietly. "Disappear, and don't come back."
Fedorov nodded frantically, stumbling out of the room as soon as Ambrose released him.
Azalea stared at Ambrose, her hands clenched into fists.
"You just let him go," she said, her voice low and dangerous.
"He's not worth it," Ambrose replied. "Trust me, he's already done."
She shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.
"This isn't over," she said, brushing past him.
As they exited the villa, the tension between them was palpable. Once they were safely away, Azalea turned to Ambrose.
"You lied to me," she said.
"About what?" he asked, feigning innocence.
"Everything," she replied, her voice laced with frustration.
Ambrose hesitated, his usual charm faltering.
"I'm not your enemy, Azalea," he said softly.
"Then stop acting like one," she shot back, walking away.
Ambrose watched her go, his expression unreadable. For the first time in years, he felt a crack in his carefully constructed facade. He knew he couldn't keep lying to Azalea—not if he wanted to keep her in his life.
The night ended with more questions than answers, both assassins left to grapple with the growing connection between them. Azalea couldn't shake the feeling that Ambrose was hiding something, and Ambrose knew it was only a matter of time before his secrets caught up with him.