Leonardo's POV
The glass of whiskey in my hand felt heaver than it should have. I swirled it lazily, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light from the single bulb hanging above me. Across the room, the sniper rifle rested on its stand, sleek and ready.
Ophelia had insisted I attend her party. But parties like hers weren't my style, not anymore.
Through the rifle's scope, I saw the long dining table, every guest seated, their movements so rehearsed they looked like actors on a stage. Ophelia flitted around like a perfect hostess, her laugh light and meaningless.
And then there was him.
Micheal Everlight. The target.
He sat at the head of the table, his broad shoulders hunched ever so slightly. He wasn't a man used to losing control, but tonight he looked like someone who'd already lost it.
The information Ophelia had dropped flashed in my mind. Everlight Holdings… corruption dressed in corporate attire. Decades of deals that lined his pockets and ruined others. A list of enemies so long it could stretch across continents.
And yet, as I studied him, something itched at the back of my mind. He wasn't what I'd expected.
There was no arrogance in his posture, no smug confidence he held his glass. He looked… tired. Like a man carrying the weight of a thousand decisions he regretted.
I shook the thought off, forcing my focus back to the mission, Emotions had no place here.
The rifle felt cool and steady beneath my hand as I adjusted the scope, centering it on his temple. My breath evened out, the noise of the city below fading into nothing.
This isn't personal.
My finger hovered over the trigger but a flicker of movement caught my eye.
A girl.
She was young, early twenties at most. Her dark hair framed her face, her features sharp but softened by something delicate, something fragile. She looked at Mr. Everlight with an expression I couldn't place…. anger, maybe, but also something deeper.
Grief.
My chest tightened, just for a moment, but I pushed the feeling aside. She's not part of this.
I exhaled slowly, the crosshair steady over the target's head. One shot. That was all it would take.
And then I pulled the trigger.
The chaos erupted instantly. Guests screamed, chairs scraped, and bodies moved frantically, but I barely noticed. My gaze stayed on her.
She was frozen at first, her expression blank with shock. And then she moved, stumbling toward him, her heads trembling as she reached for his shoulder.
Her lips moved, forming words I couldn't hear. Her face twisted, raw with emotion, grief, confusion, desperation.
I swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising in my throat.
"Focus," I muttered under my breath, my hand tightening on the rifle.
I scanned the room, watching as Ophelia knelt beside the body, her cries sharp and deliberate. She played her part well, but I knew better. Her tears weren't real. They were for show, for control, for whatever power she planned to seize in the aftermath.
And the girl? Who was she? His daughter? She wasn't part of the information.
I pulled back my scope, my heartbeat steady, though my mind wasn't.
This was supposed to be a simple contract, a job, like any other. But the image of her face stayed with me, the way her eyes burned with something far more dangerous than grief.
A part of me wanted to leave it behind, to pack up the rifle and walk away. But another part, a part I thought I'd buried couldn't let go.
She would ask questions. She would dig.
And when she finds out the truth, when she realizes who had orchestrated this, she wouldn't stop.
My jaw tightened as I stood, slipping the rifle into its case.
The job was done. The man was dead.
So why do I feel a certain unease?