The heels of her stilettos clicked against the marble floor, each step measured, deliberate.
Valeria Ivanov wasn't in a hurry.
Power wasn't about speed. It wasn't about raising your voice or making threats. It was about presence. About knowing that the moment you walked into a room, everything inside it—every gaze, every breath—gravitated toward you.
And in Vincent Morelli's penthouse, she owned the space before she even reached him.
The suite stretched before her in an opulent display of excess. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city below, its skyline shimmering like a restless, living thing. The furniture, dark leather and polished mahogany, was arranged with the careful laziness of a man who never had to lift a finger. A decanter of whiskey stood half-empty on the glass table between two low-slung armchairs. The scent of cigar smoke clung to the air, mixing with something else—something metallic.
Blood, maybe. Faint. Almost gone, but not quite.
Valeria took it in with a glance, though she gave no outward reaction. Whatever had happened here before she arrived was of no concern to her.
Not yet.
Vincent was watching her.
He lounged on the couch, one arm draped lazily along the back, a smirk tugging at his lips. He had the look of a man who had grown comfortable in his power, who had long since stopped chasing his prey and instead let it come to him. His dark eyes flicked over her, assessing, appreciating.
She knew what he saw.
The dress was black, the kind of black that absorbed the light, that slithered over her body like liquid silk. A second skin, cut high at the thigh, low at the collarbone. The kind of dress that whispered promises while revealing nothing.
But she wasn't here to promise.
She was here to take.
"Miss Ivanov," Vincent greeted, his voice as smooth as the whiskey in his glass. "I didn't think you'd actually come."
"Vincent." She said his name like a secret, letting the syllables roll off her tongue with a softness that belied her intent.
She stepped closer, sinking into the armchair opposite him with unhurried grace. She didn't rush. Didn't reach for her drink. Instead, she let him feel the weight of her silence.
Let him wonder.
He lifted his glass, swirling the amber liquid. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Valeria smiled, slow and knowing. "Business."
His smirk deepened. "Is that what we're calling it?"
She tilted her head, watching him. He wanted to play. He thought this was a game of words, of charm, of veiled suggestions and subtle flirtations.
It wasn't.
Valeria reached into her clutch, retrieving a single sheet of paper. She unfolded it with deliberate slowness, the sound of crisp paper breaking the quiet.
"I have an offer," she said simply.
Vincent's gaze flickered to the document, then back to her. "You want the Morelli Estate?"
She didn't answer.
She just let him feel the inevitability of it.
He exhaled through his nose, amused. "That's bold, even for you."
"Bold," she echoed. "Or necessary."
A pause. Then, with an air of indulgence, Vincent reached for the pen on the table.
"If I sign this," he mused, twirling the pen between his fingers, "I assume there's something in it for me?"
His gaze dipped—her lips, her collarbone, the smooth stretch of skin along her exposed thigh.
Valeria leaned in, the space between them shrinking. Her voice was a whisper of smoke.
"Naturally."
Vincent's smirk widened.
He signed.
The ink barely had time to dry before she slipped the document back into her clutch.
She should leave now. Get up. Walk out.
But she didn't.
Instead, she let the moment linger. Let him believe he had won something tonight.
Her hand rested lightly on his thigh, just enough to make him think she was surrendering something.
His fingers, bold now, skimmed along the slit in her dress. Testing. Searching.
She let him.
For a moment.
Then, with the fluid precision of someone who had done this before, she slid the blade between his ribs.
There was no hesitation.
No warning.
Just a whisper of metal through flesh.
Vincent's body jerked. A strangled gasp escaped his throat.
He looked at her, confusion flickering across his face before realization settled in, sharp and cold.
She didn't move away.
Her lips hovered near his, her breath warm against his skin as his own began to falter.
"Shh," she whispered, twisting the knife just slightly. "It's better this way."
His body spasmed. A wet, broken sound slipped from his lips. Blood—warm and thick—spread beneath her palm, soaking into his crisp white shirt.
His eyes, wide and disbelieving, searched hers.
For what?
An answer? An apology?
She had neither to give.
She held him as his body sagged, easing him onto the couch with a gentleness that almost felt like tenderness. Almost.
His last breath left him in a weak, pitiful exhale.
She didn't sigh. Didn't blink.
Instead, she simply leaned down, brushing her lips close to his ear.
"Mission complete."
The words were soft, almost affectionate.
Then she pulled back, watching as the life faded from his eyes.
She wiped the blade clean with a silk handkerchief, her movements unhurried. Methodical. She smoothed her dress, careful to avoid the mess.
The blood belonged to him.
Not her.
She stood, giving him one last look—not in mourning, not in regret, but in acknowledgment.
Then, without a single backward glance, she walked out.
The scent of jasmine and whiskey lingered in the air long after she was gone.
And the city below, sprawling and restless, carried on as if nothing had changed.
As if men like Vincent Morelli had never mattered at all.