The soft glow of the computer screen flickered against the dark glass of the window, casting shifting shadows across Valeria Ivanov's sharp features. Her fingers drummed idly against the smooth desk as she scrolled through encrypted files—names, numbers, transaction records.
But she wasn't really seeing them.
Something else had taken root in her mind.
The memory of Vincent Morelli's final moments clung to her like the scent of blood that had lingered long after she'd washed it away.
She could still see the way his lips had parted, forming a plea that never came. The way his eyes had gone wide, caught between shock and the slow, dawning realization that there would be no mercy.
A flick of her wrist. A gasp. Then—silence.
It had been easy.
Too easy.
She exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders, but the tension didn't ease.
The thrill that usually followed a job well done felt… hollow this time. Like a song that ended before the final note. Where was the challenge? The pulse-pounding adrenaline? The intoxicating dance of life and death?
Boring.
The steady click of footsteps echoed down the hall.
Her fingers stilled.
She knew that walk.
Each measured step carried a weight that coiled instinctively in her stomach—an old, ingrained response she never acknowledged aloud.
Lorenzo Ivanov did not knock.
The door swung open, and he entered as if he owned the very air in the room.
A man carved from cold steel and fire-forged ambition, Lorenzo had a way of making even silence feel suffocating.
The faint scent of Cuban cigars and expensive leather followed him in, settling into the space between them like a ghost.
Valeria didn't bother looking up.
"If you're here to congratulate me on a flawless job," she murmured, still scrolling, "I accept whiskey as payment."
Lorenzo didn't acknowledge the joke. He never did.
Instead, he moved forward with slow, deliberate grace, his sharp grey eyes assessing her like a man appraising a weapon—calculating its sharpness, its reliability, its worth.
"You killed a rat," he said, voice smooth as glass, "but you let the wolves take the prize."
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for half a second before she resumed typing.
A flicker of irritation curled beneath her ribs, but she kept her expression neutral.
"We got the Morelli Estate," she said evenly.
Lorenzo's mouth pressed into a thin line. "We could have gotten more."
Her gaze lifted then, dark and sharp. "Morelli was a loose end. His territory was nothing compared to what's coming. What else did you expect?"
Lorenzo's gaze burned cold.
"I expected you to do more than slit the throat of a man already drowning."
His tone was quiet, but she felt the weight of it.
"You should have aimed higher."
Her nails pressed into her palm.
She had done exactly what was needed—clean, efficient, no loose ends. And yet, with Lorenzo, nothing was ever enough.
She hated that his words got to her.
"You had access to Morelli's network," he continued, each word clipped with the precision of a scalpel. "You could have leveraged him. Used him. Instead, you took the quickest route."
His expression darkened.
"Shortsighted."
Valeria tilted her head, feigning boredom. "And who exactly should I have set my sights on?"
Lorenzo stepped closer, the air between them sharpening.
"Adrian DeLuca."
A beat of silence.
The name settled in the space between them, thick with something unspoken.
Valeria leaned back in her chair, letting it roll across her tongue, slow and considering.
She knew the DeLucas better than most.
Knew their power, their reach.
Knew the way they moved through this city like kings dressed in designer suits.
The DeLuca heir.
She had never met him in person, but she knew of him.
He wasn't just another player in this war.
He was the architect of it.
A strategist so meticulous, so ruthless, that he had turned every Ivanov misstep into a bloodied lesson.
And now, her father wanted her to get close to him.
A slow smirk curled at her lips.
"You want me to seduce him."
Lorenzo's voice was like ice cracking.
"I want you to destroy him."
A strange thrill curled in her chest.
This was different.
She had played this game before—honeyed words, stolen glances, whispered promises wrapped in silk and steel.
Men always thought they were the hunters.
Right up until the moment she tightened her grip and reminded them who truly held the knife.
But Adrian DeLuca?
He wasn't the type to fall.
He was the type to pull—to lure, to unravel, to set the game before you even realized you were playing.
If she wasn't careful, she wouldn't be the predator in this hunt.
Lorenzo stepped closer, his voice dropping to something quieter. More lethal.
"I don't need to remind you how much the DeLucas have bled us," he murmured. "This is how we make them suffer."
His gaze sharpened.
"Unless you'd prefer I give the job to someone more… effective."
The insult landed like a knife to the ribs.
Her smirk vanished.
Lorenzo never asked. He commanded. And if she hesitated, if she refused, he'd find someone else—someone who wouldn't hesitate to get their hands dirtier than she ever would.
Her spine straightened.
"Consider it done."
Lorenzo studied her for a long moment, then nodded.
"Good."
Without another word, he turned toward the door.
Just before he left, he paused, glancing back.
His voice was softer, but no less sharp.
"Don't disappoint me."
Then, he was gone.
The silence he left in his wake felt heavier than it should have.
Valeria exhaled slowly, stretching her neck, rolling out the tension in her shoulders.
Adrian DeLuca.
A man who could burn cities with a whisper. A strategist who saw threats before they even existed.
And now?
He was her next mission.
Her lips curled as she leaned back, fingers tracing the smooth edge of her desk.
This wasn't just another job.
This was a game.
A dangerous, deadly game.
And for the first time in a long while…
She was excited.