VOW OF NYX

Chapter 9 – Forged in Shadows

The city hadn’t changed. The streets were still slick with the aftermath of rain, neon signs buzzing with indifferent life. But she had.

‎Nyx moved through the alleys like a shadow with purpose, her steps silent on the wet pavement. Eyes sharp, fingers brushing the hilt of her knife, every movement measured. She no longer startled at sudden noises, no longer flinched at sudden touches. The woman who had once hesitated, who had trusted, who had faltered — she was gone.

‎At the safe house, Zara was already waiting. She looked up at Nyx, a flicker of worry crossing her face.

‎“Sei in ritardo,” (You’re late) Zara murmured in Italian.

‎Nyx didn’t respond at first. She moved past her sister, dropping her pack with deliberate calm.

‎“Nessun dettaglio superfluo. Solo fatti.” (No unnecessary details. Only facts.)

‎Zara frowned but complied, outlining the target’s guard rotations and weak points. Nyx absorbed every detail without a flicker of expression, then set the plan:

‎“Ventidue cento ore. Nessun errore. Nessuna pietà.” (Twenty-two hundred hours. No errors. No mercy.)

‎That night, they struck. Nyx’s precision was unmatched — silent kills, quick infiltrations, flawless execution. By the time the target was neutralized, the northern sector was secure. Zara had followed her sister’s lead in awe and unease.

‎When it was over, they retreated to a rooftop overlooking the city. Wind curled around them, carrying the distant hum of traffic. Nyx stood at the edge, eyes scanning the streets below.

‎Zara joined her, hesitant.

‎“Non sei la stessa, Nyx.” (You’re not the same, Nyx.)

‎Nyx didn’t look at her. “Sto bene.” (I’m fine.)

‎Zara shook her head. “Non mentire a me. Posso sentirlo.” (Don’t lie to me. I can feel it.)

‎Nyx’s jaw tightened. Silence stretched between them.

‎Zara stepped closer, her voice softer. “Parlami. Ti prego.” (Talk to me. Please.)

‎For a long moment, only the sound of the wind answered. Then, slowly, Nyx spoke — still in Italian, her voice low and detached.

‎“Avevo una sorella… di sangue. Ci hanno vendute entrambe a un gruppo chiamato ‘La Morte Nera’.” (I had a sister… by blood. We were both sold to a group called La Morte Nera.)

‎Zara’s breath caught. Everyone in the underworld knew the name. La Morte Nera was not just a gang — they were a legend, a shadowed empire. Whispers claimed they were as old as the Venetian blood feuds, born from a brotherhood of executioners who traded loyalty for power. They didn’t just control the underworld; they ruled it. Smuggling, assassinations, human trafficking, political blackmail — every major crime syndicate paid them tribute or perished. Entire families vanished for defying them.

‎Nyx’s voice remained steady.

‎“Inizialmente… ci volevano come prostitute. Ma hanno visto qualcosa in noi. Ci hanno addestrate invece. Lame, armi, veleno… ogni ombra era una lezione.” (At first… they wanted us as prostitutes. But they saw something in us. They trained us instead. Blades, guns, poison… every shadow was a lesson.)

‎Her eyes stayed fixed on the horizon.

‎“Poi… una missione. Dovevamo eliminare un obiettivo. Io ho fallito.” (Then… a mission. We were to eliminate a target. I failed.)

‎Zara’s lips parted, but before she could speak, Nyx’s mind slipped into the memory.

‎The room was dark, lit only by the yellow flicker of a single hanging bulb. The smell was unforgettable — sweat, steel, and the copper tang of blood. She and her sister had been thrown inside like discarded meat, wrists bound, knees raw from being dragged across concrete.

‎The door opened, and in stepped Matteo “Il Carceriere” Russo — the Warden. One of La Morte Nera’s highest lieutenants. His reputation was whispered like a curse; they said he could break a man without laying a finger on him, and a woman without leaving a mark.

‎He circled them slowly, like a wolf sizing up prey.

‎“Queste non sono solo carni da vendere,” (These are not just flesh to be sold) he had murmured.

‎“Hanno occhi che guardano come lame.” (They have eyes that see like blades.)

‎From that day, the training began.

‎Weeks without sunlight. Grueling drills until muscle tore. Every mistake met with pain. They learned to fight blindfolded, to disarm a man with a paperclip, to kill without a sound. They learned to smile at their targets before the kill, because fear in the last second was currency to La Morte Nera.

‎

‎Nyx remembered the first time she took a life — a rival gang courier, barely seventeen. Matteo had stood over her shoulder, whispering:

‎“O lo uccidi adesso, o uccidiamo tua sorella.” (Kill him now, or we kill your sister.)

‎Her hands hadn’t trembled. The sound of the blade was cleaner than she expected. Her sister’s quiet sob afterward was louder than the kill itself.

‎And then came the night it all ended — the failed mission. The punishment. The ropes biting into Nyx’s arms as she was forced to kneel. Her sister screaming her name until her voice broke. The slow, deliberate cruelty of La Morte Nera as they made Nyx watch — every strike, every wound, each breath drawn out just to prolong the pain.

‎The bulb had swayed overhead, casting light and shadow across her sister’s lifeless eyes. And in that moment, Nyx’s heart had turned to stone.

‎

‎Nyx’s voice returned to the present, steady but hollow.

‎“Quel giorno… qualcosa in me è morto con lei.” (That day… something in me died with her.)

‎Zara’s voice was barely above a whisper.

‎“Mi dispiace… così tanto.” (I’m so sorry.)

‎Nyx didn’t turn to her, didn’t soften.

‎“Non serve la pietà. Serve sopravvivere.” (Pity is useless. Survival is not.)

‎Zara’s hand fell to her side, but her gaze lingered, full of quiet understanding. She saw now that Nyx’s coldness wasn’t born overnight — it had been forged in blood, loss, and the cruelty of La Morte Nera.

‎And as the wind swept around them, Nyx’s eyes stayed fixed on the city. Somewhere out there was the man who had carved a fresh wound into her soul. One day, he would pay — slowly, and without mercy.