The air in the outskirts of NYC had a chill to it that night, something old and heavy like the bones of the city itself were holding their breath. Tucked into the cliffs outside town was a mansion that didn't exist — at least not on paper. No lights, no cameras, no guards posted at the front.
Because no one knew Salvatore De Luca's grandfather was alive.
The man had vanished years ago — "dead," according to every whispered report. But that had always been too clean. Too convenient. The old king never stepped down, he just moved the throne into the shadows. And tonight, he was finally being pulled into the light.
Vesper stood at the edge of the property, gaze cutting through the fog like a knife.
There was no hesitation. No emotion. No thought spared for De Luca or the chaos this would unleash. Orders or no orders, this kill wasn't part of a contract.
This one was way too personal.
The manor was a relic, built like a fortress but left to rot in places. Vesper slipped through a rusted fence, boots silent against the gravel. Inside, the halls smelled of cigars and mildew. No alarms, only pride. The De Luca patriarch still thought himself untouchable.
Everyone thought Vesper wouldn't strike again so soon.
And that was the mistake.
There were only two guards — aging, sluggish. Vesper incapacitated them within seconds, blades catching the dull moonlight. One sliced to silence, the other simply unconscious. No unnecessary death. Just a path.
The room at the end of the hall had three locks.
None of them mattered.
Inside, the old man sat like a relic on a throne — eyes still sharp despite his years, a heavy coat draped over his shoulders even indoors.
"I wondered if you'd come," he rasped.
Vesper didn't answer.
Only stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
"You killed the senator last month. Clever boy," the old man said, voice like gravel soaked in brandy. "But this… this is sloppy. I'm not in the game anymore."
Vesper's blade glinted as it was drawn.
"You're the reason it started," he said simply.
That was all.
Before the old man could blink, the assassin was already in motion.
The blade slid between ribs — swift, clean, and deep into the heart. The De Luca patriarch gasped, breath hitching as blood bloomed across his silk shirt. He tried to speak, but Vesper was already stepping back, slipping the knife from the wound.
The hilt shimmered — engraved with the signature V.
By the time his body slumped to the floor, Vesper was already gone, disappearing into shadows like a whisper lost to time.
The news wouldn't break for another few hours.
Not because the death wasn't important — it was — but because the people who cared weren't the type to speak out loud. There were phone calls. Panicked scrambling. And then silence, eerie and suffocating.
Salvatore De Luca stared at the screen on his desk, knuckles white.
His grandfather hadn't just been family. He had been insurance. A man with more secrets than graves, someone who could still command fear even from exile. And now, someone had gotten to him. Vesper had gotten to him.
And that knife?
He slammed his fist against the desk, fury cracking through him like a whip.
This was no random act. This was a message.
And the worst part?
He couldn't tell if the message was about power—or about Leona.
He reached for the glass of scotch at his elbow, jaw clenched. That damn letter he sent to Moretti — he'd meant it as bait, yes, but he hadn't expected the storm to answer it with blood.
And now his insurance was gone.
Not that he'd ever really trusted it anyway.
By the next morning, the criminal underworld was trembling — not from grief, but anticipation. Everyone knew what a De Luca retaliation looked like. But no one had ever seen one aimed at a ghost.
No one had ever been able to find Vesper, let alone retaliate.
And just like that, the assassin had reappeared — real, ruthless, and eerily consistent.
One kill. One target. One knife through the heart.
Signed.
Valerio read the morning intel with a deepening frown. The timing was too perfect — just after the letter, just after De Luca made a demand he had no right to. Just after Leona delivered it.
He didn't believe in coincidence.
But he didn't believe in betrayal either.
Not from her.
Still, he couldn't ignore the quiet terror in her eyes when she heard the name Vesper. It was too raw, too real to be fake. She'd flinched when she saw the headlines that morning. And when he told her about the knife left behind, she had turned pale.
Almost too pale.
But if she was hiding something… it wasn't vengeance. It was fear.
Valerio closed the file, tossing it onto his desk like it burned. Vesper had resurfaced with purpose. And now, every player in the game would have to move again.
What they didn't know — what no one knew — was that the storm was already inside the walls.
And if he wasn't careful, Valerio was going to lose her… Either to the people hunting Vesper — Or to the darkness she never stopped running from.
Leona sat by the window, staring at the falling dusk, watching how the sun painted everything gold before surrendering to the dark. She used to love that—how endings always looked beautiful, almost merciful. But tonight, it just made her feel trapped.
She wanted to leave.
Again.
Disappear. Vanish into a new city, another identity, a name that didn't feel like a curse clinging to her skin. She had done it before—ran with nothing but a suitcase and a lie, leaving her old self behind like ashes scattered in the wind. Reinvented herself as Leona Vale, the harmless bartender with the big smile and empty past.
But this time… she couldn't.
Her chest felt tight with the weight of it. The impulse to flee clawed at her bones, a primal instinct. Run. Survive. Hide. Yet her body wouldn't move. Not towards the door, not towards a packed bag. Just rooted in place, eyes burning as they stared into nothing.
The problem was no longer just her.
It was the two families who unknowingly held her heart in their hands.
The Russos.
Dante.
She thought of his grin, the way his eyes used to light up when he saw her—not a stranger—jusr her. A rare kind of innocence between them, back when everything was simpler, before she knew what monsters looked like. No one knew she'd grown up beside one.
She had destroyed that friendship long before he even knew it. She likes to him.
Then there was the Morettis.
Valerio.
That was the name that anchored her. That ruined her escape.
He wasn't like the others. He never demanded her past, never pulled at the pieces she didn't offer. He simply saw her—lighthearted, loud, and always laughing—and instead of questioning it, he guarded it. Protected her like he'd decided she was worth it without ever needing proof.
She should've left him untouched. Uninvolved. She had meant to.
But then he'd looked at her like she was more than what she pretended to be. And for the first time in years, she wanted to believe it.
And now… she was drowning in the guilt of it all.
The Russo boy who she considered her friend. The Moretti man who made her want to stay.
She pressed her forehead against the glass, exhaling a slow, shaky breath. The city outside buzzed with life. Cars moved. People laughed. The world kept turning.
But she was unraveling.
The letter from Salvatore had twisted the knife deeper. Not just for what it said, but because it reminded her how much of her past still hunted her—even when she was smiling behind the bar or teasing Valerio about his temper.
She wasn't safe.
They weren't safe.
And yet, she couldn't make her feet move. Couldn't walk out on Valerio. Not after everything. Not when he had looked at her with that storm in his eyes, the kind that said he'd burn the world down if it ever hurt her.
And wasn't that the most dangerous part?
Because Leona Vale was supposed to be fake. A soft lie to protect the truth. But somewhere along the way, she had stopped pretending.
And Valerio?
He had become more than just a risk.
He had become home.
Valerio paced slowly, the worn letter crumpled in his fist. He could still hear Leona's soft footsteps retreating after their argument, and it gnawed at him. His instinct screamed to protect her, to keep her as far from De Luca's reach as possible—but the letter made that harder. The veiled threat it carried, wrapped in twisted affection, wasn't just dangerous—it was intimate. Salvatore didn't want war. He wanted her. And that alone made Valerio's blood boil.
Telling Dante would be the logical move—his brother in arms, his family in every way but blood. But Dante also had a right to know Leona's past… and Valerio wasn't ready to watch the doubt grow in his best friend's eyes. He wasn't sure he could take it either. Not yet.
Maybe he was being selfish. Maybe this silence was more about fear than strategy. But Valerio only knew one thing: losing her wasn't an option. Not again.