Valebrook City – 10:02 p.m.
The gown hugged her body like sin.
Juliana stood in front of the mirror in a stolen penthouse suite, high above the Syndicate-owned skyline. Black velvet clung to her curves, slit up one thigh, backless, no straps. The diamond pendant on her collarbone wasn't real — but the dagger hidden in her garter was.
~ "You look like death in heels," Damian said behind her, voice dry.
~ "Good," she replied, turning to face him. "I'm here to bury someone." He tossed her a set of earpieces and a burner phone.
~ "Name of the target is Malcolm Rivas. Real estate tycoon. But behind the scenes, he's laundering weapons contracts and trafficking girls for the Syndicate. He'll be at the auction tonight. V.I.P. list only."
~ "And I'm on it?"
~ "As Juliette Noir. Swiss heiress. Your family just bought an island. You speak five languages and carry a fake European accent."
~ "Accent's cute," she said, slipping one AirPod in. "Want me to purr too?"
~ "Just stay alive."
~ "I always do."
_____
11:24 p.m. – Black Veil Auction, Lower Manhattan
Juliana stepped out of the private car and into hell dressed as heaven.
The auction was hosted inside a cathedral-turned-nightclub—stained glass, black marble floors, gold candelabras flickering like firelight from another era. The walls pulsed with bass and money. Every man in the room wore a tux and a sin. Every woman had a secret or a silencer.
She walked slow. Measured. A cat surrounded by wolves.
~ "Target's at the east balcony," Damian's voice echoed in her ear. "Silver jacket. Two guards. The bald one's packing a Jericho. Other one might have a ceramic knife."
~ "Visual confirmed," she whispered. "He looks like the kind of man who thinks women come with receipts."
~ "He's worse. You good?"
~ "Good? Darling…" she smiled at a passing waiter, snagged a champagne flute, and took a sip without breaking pace,
"…I'm radiant."
____
12:02 a.m. – Inside the Auction Hall
The auctioneer's voice filled the cathedral like a demon pretending to be charming.
~ "Lot 32… one-of-a-kind handcrafted sniper rifle, used in the Turkish Embassy hit. Opening bid, $250,000."
A few hands lifted casually, sipping drinks between bids.
Juliana barely heard them. She was watching Rivas.
He sat like royalty. Drink untouched. Fingers drumming a rhythm on his armrest. Occasionally whispering to his bodyguard. Eyes scanning for threats. But never looking at her.
Yet.
~ "He's not watching me," she said quietly.
~ "He will," Damian replied. "You're the only woman in the room who didn't try to talk to him."
~ "Give me sixty seconds."
She downed the champagne and moved through the crowd. At thirty seconds, she brushed past his chair. At forty-five, she dropped a card into his jacket pocket. By fifty-five, he turned to look — and their eyes met.
Hooked.
_____
12:08 a.m. – Private Lounge Upstairs
She followed him up the winding stairwell like a lamb. But inside, her pulse was steady. Her gun was taped under the bar, and a blade kissed her thigh beneath the dress.
~ "So," Malcolm Rivas purred, swirling his glass of brandy, "Juliette Noir. That name comes with a heavy inheritance."
~ "Doesn't everything?" she replied with a coy smile.
~ "What does a pretty thing like you want from a monster like me?"
She leaned in, lips inches from his.
~ "A favor."
~ "And what's in it for me?"
~ "Whatever you're brave enough to ask for."
He grinned like a man who thought he'd already won.
~ "Tell me something, Juliette. You ever killed a man?"
She tilted her head. "More than once."
He laughed. "Liar."
~ "No." Her voice dropped a pitch. "Just someone who's good at cleaning up the mess." He leaned closer.
~ "Prove it."
She touched the side of his neck, gently trailing her fingers down — then whispered into his ear: "Do you remember Rose Da Vinci?"
He froze.
Just for a second. But she saw it.
~ "Who are you?"
~ "Her daughter."
______
The blade came out clean and fast, slicing under his ribcage before he could scream. She twisted. Pulled. A wet gasp followed.
His bodyguard reached for his weapon — but Juliana flipped the brandy glass at his face, then rolled across the table to retrieve the tape-tucked pistol beneath the bar.
She fired. Twice. The bodyguard dropped.
The second man reached the doorway and nearly shot her — but Damian appeared behind him, silent as smoke, and snapped his neck like breaking celery.
~ "You're late," she hissed.
~ "You were early."
~ "You told me to survive."
~ "You make it hard not to help."
________
12:14 a.m. – Back Stairwell
Sirens hadn't started yet. The guests thought it was a private dispute. But they wouldn't stay fooled for long.
Juliana wiped the blood from her hands on Rivas's silk napkin and tucked the blade back into her thigh holster.
~ "He confessed," she muttered.
~ "To what?"
~ "Funding the ambush on my parents. Called it 'cleanup.' Said my father got too noisy. Too noble."
Damian handed her a fresh burner phone.
~ "That makes three of the six."
~ "I want more," she said.
~ "We all want more."
She stared at the velvet-covered walls, the chandeliers glittering above them, the taste of adrenaline still sharp on her tongue.
~ "This world eats good people alive."
~ "And you're not good?" Damian asked.
She smiled without warmth.
~ "I used to be."
______
12:35 a.m. – Escape Route
The two exited through a hidden freight elevator reserved for staff. They emerged in a service alley behind a dead nightclub. Damian checked his watch.
~ "You've made enough noise for one night."
~ "They started it."
~ "You're going to make the top of the list."
~ "I better," Juliana said. "I'm coming for the rest."
Suddenly — a bang. Not a gun. The alley behind them exploded.
Juliana hit the pavement, ears ringing. Smoke. Fire. Blood splatter on the bricks beside her. She rolled over — saw Damian half-conscious, blood gushing from his side. Someone was already standing over him. A woman. Masked. Lean. Raven-silent.
She turned toward Juliana and whispered through the smoke:
~ "Next time, aim for the head."
Then disappeared into the night.