Ravenous Revenge

Chapter One-Lyssa

I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat. My chest aches, my lungs clawing for air. My eyes well up, but I force the tears back.

"Calm down," I whisper. "It's just a nightmare."

But it's not just a nightmare. It's a memory I can't escape, no matter how many years pass. It haunts me in my sleep because dreams are the one place I can't numb the pain.

Sitting up in my queen-sized bed, I allow myself the rare indulgence of feeling. My emotions don't get a chance to surface. In my line of work, I'm not allowed to be human—just a machine made of flesh and bone. But I'm alone now, so I let the dam break. Tears spill into the darkness of my room, each sob a weight I can no longer hold.

I try to stop them, but my thoughts inevitably wander to the moment when everything shifted.

The memory drags me back fifteen years.

I woke up disoriented, dizzy, and cold. My limbs felt heavy, like they weren't my own, and fear settled deep in my gut. The room around me was unfamiliar, sterile, clinical—nothing like the warm, comforting home I had known. Panic surged as I tried to move, but my legs refused to obey.

"Where am I?" I croaked. "What happened?"

An older woman, plump and gentle-looking, with soft blue eyes and snow-white hair, hovered around the room, cleaning something on the counter. My vision swam, and I could barely focus on her face.

"I want my mama... papa..." My voice faltered, desperate. Images of their lifeless eyes flashed before me. No! Mama! Papa! Words got stuck in my throat.

The woman turned toward me. Calm, soothing. "Oh, you're finally awake, umnitsa."

Her words were a balm, but I recoiled. Stranger. Mama said never to trust strangers.

"Where am I? What happened? Where's mama and papa?"

Her expression softened, but her eyes were unreadable. She took a few slow steps toward me and sat beside the bed. I wanted to pull away, but my body wouldn't cooperate.

She cupped my shoulders and helped me sit. "I'm sorry, umnitsa. No one here will hurt you. You're safe. You're at the Romanov home."

The name Romanov struck a distant chord in my memory. I glanced around the sparse room—just a bed, a dresser, the quiet hum of the air. The unfamiliarity settled like a weight in my chest.

"My mama and papa... they're... gone," I whispered. Pain gnawing at me.

She looked at me with sorrow in her eyes. "Da," she said softly. "Your parents are gone. What do you remember?"

I hugged myself, trembling. "I remember the blood... so much blood. I remember my parents, lying there. Their eyes..." My voice cracked. "They had no life. I remember an evil man. Who was he?"

Her gaze hardened. "I'm not sure, umnitsa. But the boss is working on it. Your papa was very important to us. We'll find the man who did this, and we will make him pay."

Her words ignited something in me. Rage, raw and burning. Revenge. At ten, I didn't understand everything about it, but I understood the need. I wanted him to suffer, to feel the same loss. I wanted him to hurt like I hurt.

"I want revenge," I said, my voice shaking. "I want him to pay for Mama and Papa. I want him to hurt. I want him to be scared of me—of knowing I'm coming."

A man walked into the room. Big. Broader than anyone I'd ever seen. His shoulders filled the doorway, his face serious. Short beard streaked with gray, cold blue eyes sharp and unreadable.

When he crouched to my level, rough hand on my shoulder, I felt something strange: safety. Not warm, like Papa's hugs, but solid, unbreakable.

It was my Uncle Dimitri.

"Well, Lyssa," he said, voice smooth, a dark promise in it. "That can be arranged. Tomorrow, you start training. Together, we will kill all the monsters. Including the one who murdered your mama and papa."

My name is Lyssa Volkov, and I am an assassin for the Russian Bratva.

Trained by my uncle, the Pakhan himself, I've spent years perfecting every way to kill—from silent accidents to gruesome art. None of it matters, though. Not really. Because all of it leads to one thing: avenging my parents.

At ten, I began training under Uncle Dimitri. He taught me every conceivable way to kill, every method of manipulation, psychological torment, and death. Over the years, I mastered it all. And I'll admit it—I enjoy it. Killing soothes me. Calms the demon inside. I don't just embrace her; I rely on her.

But only vengeance can truly silence her.

I know my parents would have wanted something different for me. A better life. Maybe I could've been a doctor, saving lives instead of ending them. But that dream died with them, alongside innocence. The pain of that night still cuts deep, and only death—my death-dealing—numbs it. Killing is no longer a purpose. It's an addiction. The blood, the screams, the desperate pleas—they give me a high I can't live without.

My time has finally come. After years of searching, we've found the d'yavol himself: Antonio Rossi, the retired Don of the Italian mafia.

The sight of his name in the file evokes something primal within me. This is the man who tore my family apart. Uncle Dimitri left a note—short, impersonal, infuriating:

"Kill the old Don. Report back when the job is done."

Kill him? No. Death is too merciful. I won't just take his life—I'll take his legacy. Tear down his empire brick by brick. Make him watch it crumble. Only then will I end him. And I'll savor every second.

I sip coffee, flipping through the file. Antonio Rossi: Born September 12, 1966. Tall. Medium build. Salt-and-pepper hair. Hazel eyes. Typical Italian man—unremarkable except for the trail of blood and power he left behind. He's retired, letting his son take the throne. Rumor says he still pulls the strings.

I turn the page. Freeze.

Ares Rossi.

Tall. At least 6'4. Broad shoulders. Lean, muscular build radiating power. Sharp, commanding face. Strong jaw, slightly crooked nose, lips made for sin.

His eyes hold me. Deep forest green, dark, endless. They pull me in. Worship you one second. Destroy you next. My breath catches imagining them staring at me—hungry, desperate, worshipping... or blank, before I take him.

A shiver runs through me. My hand drifts down, almost without thought. Dark fantasies spin in my mind. Ares Rossi. My way in. My key to his father's empire.

God help me—my new obsession.

I pull back to reality as the climax washes over me. Heart racing, body humming, mind sharper than ever. This isn't lust. This is a strategy.

I down the coffee and stride to the shower. Water pounds my skin. One thought echoes:

Ares Rossi, you're mine.