The rain over Chicago didn't wash away the filth; it only turned the city's soot into a slick, black bile that coated the pavement of the West Side. Vesper Thorne—once Volkov, before her family traded her name for a temporary ceasefire—stood in the shadow of a decaying warehouse, her breath hitching in the frigid air. She wasn't cold. Her nervous system had long since recalibrated its relationship with discomfort. Since the night the world turned into a red blur of pain and betrayal, the concept of "suffering" had become a distant, academic theory.
She checked the weight of the Glock 19 holstered at the small of her back. The steel felt grounded. Real. It was the only thing that didn't lie. Her family, the Volkovs, had spent years trying to mold her into a pawn of elegance, a piece of porcelain to be displayed at galas. But after Dante Valerius had finished with her—after the kidnapping, the basement, and the systematic destruction of her dignity—the porcelain hadn't just cracked. It had been ground into dust and forged into something else. Something jagged.
She watched the black SUV pull into the alley. It was a clean hit. No witnesses, no cameras, just the rhythmic thrum of the city's elevated train overhead providing the soundtrack for an execution. Two men stepped out, their suits sharp enough to cut, their eyes scanning the perimeter with the practiced indifference of professional killers. They were Valerius men. Her husband's men.
Husband. The word felt like a mouthful of broken glass.
Vesper stepped out of the shadows. Her movement was fluid, devoid of the hesitation that usually plagued the living. She didn't feel the adrenaline spike that most assassins relied on; her pulse remained a steady, haunting sixty beats per minute. One of the men started to reach for his jacket, but Vesper was already there. She didn't use her gun. Instead, a slim tactical blade slid from her sleeve into her palm.
The first strike was surgical. She opened his carotid artery before he could draw breath to scream. As he slumped, a frantic, gurgling mess, she turned to the second man. He managed to get his weapon clear, but Vesper moved inside his guard. She was a ghost in a machine of flesh. She grabbed his wrist, twisting until the bone snapped with a dry, sickening pop, and drove the heel of her palm into his throat. He fell, clutching his windpipe, his eyes wide with a terror that Vesper observed with a clinical, detached curiosity.
She didn't feel triumph. She didn't feel guilt. She simply watched the life fade from his eyes, wondering at what exact millisecond the light vanished.
"Too slow," she whispered. Her voice was a flat rasp, a sound that hadn't seen the sun in months.
She wiped the blade on the dead man's silk tie and looked up at the towering silhouette of the Valerius monolith in the distance. Dante was there. He was always there, watching through his screens, feeding on the chaos he created. He thought he had bought a broken woman to fill his bed and secure his legacy. He thought the child growing inside her was a tether that would drag her back to his feet.
Vesper placed a hand on her abdomen. It was still flat, the life within her a microscopic parasite born of violence. The Dr. Elena Vance had told her to keep it. It's yours, Vesper. Not his. Give it life to spite him. Spite. Now that was a motivation she could understand.
She left the alley as the rain intensified, her footsteps leaving no trace on the oil-slicked asphalt. She had a gala to attend. A wedding contract to honor. And a husband to deceive until the moment his heart was within reach of her blade.