CHAPTER ONE
I don't run anymore. Not because I’m safe, but because I’ve learned how to stop being prey.
The alley stinks of piss and diesel. One flickering streetlight above. My boots crunch glass as I stalk forward, the weight of the Glock tucked under my jacket a cold comfort against my ribs. I know I’m being followed have been for six blocks but whoever’s behind me is either too green or too cocky to realize I’ve known since the corner of 5th and Lexington.
“Come on,” I murmur. “Don’t disappoint me.”
I’ve spent three years off the grid, buried under fake names and burner phones, pretending I’m not who I am. That I’m not her. The daughter of Rafael Moretti. The woman who walked away from the life after she watched her mother bleed out in the backseat of a stolen BMW, clutching her rosary like it could save her.
I clench my jaw.
Tonight wasn’t supposed to be anything. I came to Manhattan for intel, not blood. A routine recon mission. Just watch, listen, disappear. But when I caught sight of a black van tailing me, something inside me snapped back into place.
Old instincts. Ugly reflexes. The girl who doesn’t scream anymore, she shoots.
A shadow breaks to my right. I duck. Fast. The first swing misses. The second doesn’t. A punch catches my ribs hard enough to knock the wind from me, but I twist with it, pivot on instinct, and drive my elbow into the attacker’s throat. He stumbles. I don’t give him a second chance. One sharp jab to the side of his knee he drops.
“I warned you,” I mutter, pulling my gun and pressing the barrel to his temple.
“C-Camilla” he croaks, blood dripping from his mouth. “We were just just trying to talk.”
“Try a phone call next time.”
He’s not old. Maybe twenty-five. Not one of De Rossi’s men, but affiliated. I can see it in his jacket blue patch stitched into the lining, the wolf sigil half-ripped. Lower ranks. Foot soldier. Disposable.
“You don’t grab people like me from behind, rookie,” I whisper, leaning in. “Tell your boss next time he wants a word, he better come himself.”
I step back. He’s not worth a bullet. But he’s bleeding enough to remember me.
Sirens wail in the distance. I vanish into the shadows before they can find us both.
I slip into the safehouse twenty minutes later, soaked in adrenaline and fury. The loft is cold, stripped bare just a table, a chair, a laptop, and maps on the wall. New York’s mafia circles are tighter than a noose, but I’ve cracked worse. I just didn’t expect to come back so soon.
“Trouble?” A voice cuts through the dim room.
I freeze, Not because I’m scared. Because I know that voice.
Lucien Vale leans against the window frame, a smirk carved into his face like sin made flesh. He hasn’t changed sharp jaw, lean muscles, and those dark eyes that never quite look like they’re telling the truth.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
He shrugs. “You know me. I find things. Especially things I miss.”
My hand twitches toward the Glock. “Try again. This time, don’t flirt.”
He holds up both palms. “Alright. Straight talk. We need you back.”
“No.” I don’t hesitate.
“This isn’t just about revenge, Cam.”
“Everything’s about revenge in our world. Don't pretend you're suddenly noble.”
He steps closer. I don’t move. Neither does he.
“Then let me put it in your language,” Lucien murmurs. “There’s a name on a hit list. Yours. And it’s not De Rossi. It’s someone bigger. Smarter. And they’ve already killed three of ours in the last two weeks.”
I narrow my eyes. “Whose ‘ours’?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me like he’s waiting for something fear, maybe. Hesitation. I give him neither.
“I’m not part of the Syndicate anymore,” I say coldly.
“But the Syndicate didn’t get the memo,” he replies. “Neither did the man coming for your head.”
I hate how still the room gets. Like the air itself is watching.
Lucien finally breaks the silence.
“We need your brain, Camilla. Your blood. Your bite. Whatever you are now it’s exactly what we need. Because whoever’s cleaning house? He’s not doing it for power. He’s doing it for fun.”
My fingers curl around the chair back, white-knuckled.
This was supposed to be a ghost visit. Come in, check the city, leave. I told myself I was done with this life. But the thing is, I know Lucien. And Lucien doesn’t scare easy.
So if he’s here if he’s sweating it’s not a bluff.
“Who’s the target?” I ask.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.
“You.”
Ten minutes after Lucien leaves, I strip off my jacket, pour a shot of whiskey, and stare at the files on the table.
Someone’s watching me. Hunting me.
"s**t someone wants me dead" I mutter loudly, it isn't a first anyways
And if that someone knows who I really am what I’m capable of then this isn’t just another hit.
It’s a declaration of war.
My father once told me that every empire dies by the hand it forgot to crush.
Let’s hope they forgot mine.
Because I didn’t come back to New York to die.
I came to burn it down, everyone who hurt me, killed my family I am back, back for blood.
