Blood and Roses

The city never slumbered, yet it did learn to maintain an air of secrecy. It slumbered under the turmoil of dancing streetlamps and the hum of distant sirens, a thunderstorm brewing within the atmosphere. Not rain, however, but something more than. Something nebulous. An alignment of destinies converging on a collision. Valentina Russo moved unseen through shadows, light footsteps making little impression, presence almost nonexistent. She sighed, a ghost in a city of vice. She was a product of this world, created and not born—created by hands with little care or love for where she'd been or where she'd go, only the destination. Tonight, the destination was Dante Romano. She sat alone at a posh bar in midtown Manhattan, a place where felons were dressed in tailor-made suits and million-dollar smiles. A place where fortunes were made with a signature and lost with a bullet. Valentina wasn't drinking, though she wrapped her fingers around a tumbler of whiskey, letting the black liquid catch the pale light. All part of the act—always part of the act. On the other side of the room, her contact had shown up. Luca Moretti. A middleman for high-profile clients, the kind who never spoke their own names aloud. He was thin, in a navy-blue suit, with slicked-back hair and eyes that never stopped moving. The moment he spotted her, he toyed with his cufflinks and approached. "Didn't think ghosts drank," he breathed as he sat down across from her. Valentina tilted her head, looking at him. "Only when the company is tolerable." A thin, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a black, narrow envelope, and placed it on the table between them. "The target's a big one this time," he said, his voice lowering. "Dante Romano." Valentina didn't blink. Luca observed her response, looking for something—hesitation, surprise, something—but he discovered nothing. Valentina was hewn from ice, and there was no room in her existence for feelings. "You sure you're ready for this?" he prodded. "Romano's not another rich asshole. He's the son of the most powerful crime family on the East Coast. He's got people in place everywhere—cops, politicians, men like you. If you're not accurate, you don't get a second try." Valentina finally took a sip of her whiskey, letting the slow burn trickle down her throat. Then, with the same quiet poise she always had, leaned forward, her elbows supporting her on the table. "I don't miss." Luca let out a breath, part amusement, part shock. "That's what I figured." He pounded the envelope. "All that in there. You've got three days. He's paranoid—above most. If you're not sharp on your feet, the window closes." She took the envelope, following the border with a thumb. Thick. It was more than an address and a name. That meant this was not just a contract—it was a statement. "Who hired the hit?" she asked. Luca's expression darkened. "Someone with a lot of influence. That is all you need to know." Valentina did not question. She had killed on behalf of strangers before, and she would again. She stood, pushing the envelope into her jacket. "You'll hear from me when it's done." Luca's sneer returned. "If you make it through it." Valentina didn't accord the comment the respect of a response. She turned and departed, disappearing into the city like a shadow disappears into the night. --- In her apartment, Valentina closed the doors and spread out her arsenal on the table—a Glock 19, a thin switchblade, and a silencer. Tools of the trade. She took off her leather gloves and finally opened the envelope. Inside was everything she needed: photographs, schedules, blueprints of Dante Romano's estate. She spread them out on the table, studying each one with professional attention. Dante Romano was youthful, mid-twenties at most, dark-haired and possessing a sharp jawline. Eyes—cold, calculating—hit her the most. Even frozen in a snapshot, they looked at her. Valentina settled back into her chair, breathing slowly out. She'd killed men like him before. Men of position, of prestige, of far too much haughtiness to realize their deaths were coming. This assignment seemed different, however. Not something she could say out loud—more of a voice in her head, a conditioned response after all these years of living. She pushed it away. Three days. Three days to kill Dante Romano. And she never missed.