She's here.
La Morte.
The vixen of death, they called her.
Lorenzo's father had placed a call around noon, demanding his son be put in charge of protecting Mr. Alessandro Valenti during the annual charity event of The Crimson Gala.
Lorenzo hadn't understood it at first.
He was Lorenzo De Luca, otherwise known as Zayn, top-tier assassin and bodyguard who always got the job done. How he had arrived at the nickname was beyond him.
Aside from that, he had a company to run. Ever since his brother's premature death caused by a plane crash, he had been tasked with ensuring the family company stayed up and running.
He was a very busy man.
So why would Father insist?
It wasn't until he set eyes on her, hidden on the roof, rifle positioned in her hands and ready to snipe Mr. Valenti, that he understood why his father had insisted.
The moment the rifle cracked, chaos descended upon the gala. Women screaming. Men running for their dear lives. Lorenzo had barely managed to push Mr. Valenti out of the way just in time, while narrowly avoiding a bullet piercing his own forehead.
From where he was, he could see the expression on her face. Despite being heavily concealed by black gear, her eyes widened.
They were a light shade of gray.
Lovely color.
"Get him out of here!" Lorenzo barked at Mr. Valenti's other bodyguards, pushing through the terrified crowd.
He needed to reach the roof. Quick.
It would take time for her to repack and vanish, but "La Morte" didn't earn her name by being slow.
He ignored the service elevator. It was a metal coffin in a firefight. Instead, he hit the fire stairs three at a time, the silencer on his Beretta cold against his hip. His lungs burned, not from the climb, but from the adrenaline spike. His father hadn't sent him here to save Valenti. He had sent him here to catch her.
Lorenzo kicked the rooftop door open. The night air was a sharp contrast to the gunpowder-thick heat of the ballroom.
She was gone.
Or she wanted him to think so. A single brass casing rolled across the gravel, glinting under the neon glow of the city skyline. He slowed his breathing, scanning the shadows of the HVAC units.
"You missed, Vixen," he called out, his voice low. "That's unlike you. Or was the gray in your eyes clouding your aim?"
A soft metallic click echoed from behind the water tower.
"I don't miss, bello," a feminine rasp replied. So the claims were true. Her voice was hypnotic. "You just happened to be the only variable I didn't account for."
He turned slowly. She was standing on the ledge, the wind whipping her dark gear. She wasn't holding the rifle anymore. She held a detonator.
Lorenzo scoffed, the sound dry against the wind. It was a bluff. It had to be.
"The Vixen of Death," he mused, taking a step forward. "Responsible for the slaughter of over a hundred of my father's best assets. Men who were paid to be ghosts, yet you found them anyway. And here you are, cornered on a ledge with a toy in your hand. Poetic, really."
She chuckled, and it was filled with a confidence that made the hair on his neck stand up.
"Ah yes, the son of Massimo De Luca. You've got one thing wrong though. I'm not cornered," she corrected, her thumb hovering over the red button. "Just making sure we have an audience for the finale. If I press this, the foundation of this building turns to dust. We'll die here together. Romantic, isn't it?"
"No," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "I have a company to run tomorrow. I don't have time to die."
He lunged.
He didn't give her time to blink, let alone press the trigger. He closed the gap in a blur of motion, his hand locking around her wrist while his other arm went for her throat. She was fast, frighteningly so. She dropped the detonator, a decoy, he realized too late, and slammed her palm into his chest, forcing the air from his lungs.
They collided in a mess of tactical gear and aggression. She spun, delivering a roundhouse kick that he barely blocked with his forearm. The force of it numbed his limb instantly.
"You're good," she panted, her gray eyes dancing with a lethal sort of playfulness. "But not as good as me."
He swept her leg, but she used the momentum to roll, coming up with a knee to his midsection that doubled him over. She was almost like a shadow in motion, fluid and impossible to pin down. She stepped into his guard, the distance between them so small he could smell the gunpowder and expensive perfume clinging to her.
So the Vixen of Death wore perfume.
"I know what you are.…..Zayn," she whispered.
His heart stopped. His eyes widened, a cold sweat breaking out under his collar. Nobody knew his identity. Not the clients, not the targets, not even his own father. To the world, he was the cold CEO of the De Luca empire. To the underworld, he was a ghost.
"How did you—"
"Shhhh," she hissed, pressing a gloved finger to his lips. "Secrets are my currency, Lorenzo."
He roared in frustration, reaching for her as she tried to slip away toward the ledge. He tackled her, the two of them hitting the gravel hard. He managed to pin her for a split second, his hand catching on a silver chain around her neck.
As she bucked beneath him, kicking him squarely in the chest to throw him off, he gripped the metal and pulled. The chain snapped.
He tumbled back, gasping for air, while she scrambled to her feet at the very edge of the roof.
"Give that back!" she barked, her hypnotic voice cracking with real emotion. She reached out, her composure slipping for the first time. "Give it to me, now!"
The heavy thud of boots echoed from the stairwell. His father's reinforcements. A dozen flashlights cut through the darkness, sweeping toward the ledge.
"Lorenzo! Are you alright?" a voice shouted.
She looked at the men, then back at him, her gaze lingering on the necklace clutched in his fist. The gray eyes were no longer playful, they were icy with a promise of retribution.
"Keep it for now," she spat, the wind catching her hair as she stepped backward into the abyss. "But I'm coming back for it. And for you."
"Wait!" Lorenzo yelled, rushing to the edge, but she was gone, swallowed by the dark skyline of the city.
He looked down at his palm. It wasn't just a necklace. Hanging from the broken silver chain was a small, tarnished ring, and engraved on the inside was a date he recognized all too well.
The date of his brother's plane crash.