A Don And His Donna

I wake up before the sun, jolting upright so fast that the bed lets out a groan. I drag a hand over my sweaty face and look around, taking in the grimy motel room. Sunlight is pouring through the gap in the pale curtains, cutting stripes across the cracked carpet and the peeling paint of the walls. The faucet in the bathroom drips steadily, and I let out an annoyed groan. I let out a heavy sigh and remind myself that I only have to beat myself into shape for today—just get the work done and be finished with it for once and for all. But tonight felt like one of the longest, most insufferable nights I’ve ever had. I’m not usually this nervous on mission days; if anything, I try to keep it light and effortless, give my mind something airy to hold onto so it doesn’t collapse under pressure. But this isn’t just another mission. This is life or death, and not in the usual, predictable way. My other hits had danger, sure, but they also came with structure—patterns, contingencies, a clear list of things that could go wrong and the escape routes I’d carved into each one. This? This is rushed, half-planned, practically a suicide run. No survival guarantee, no proper intel, no comforting web of what-ifs I could map out and control. So I guess that explains why my chest feels tight, why my hands won’t stop clenching, why I’m hovering somewhere between ruthlessly focused and absolutely on edge. To shut the chaos up—even temporarily—I pushed myself off the creaky mattress and grabbed the grey hoodie draped over the chair. I pulled it on over my sports bra and slipped into matching grey sweatpants, then grabbed my duffel bag, the kind that would pass for a gym bag if anyone bothered to look inside. I stepped out of the cold room—Russian winter is a f*****g b***h—into the cramped hallway, locked the door behind me, pulled my hood over my head, slung the bag over my shoulder, and jogged down the hall, out into the dark. It was the ungodly hour of four. The streets were quiet, that every sound was sharper—the scrape of my shoes against frozen asphalt, a distant dog barking, the faint rumble of a trash truck somewhere far off. My breath came out in clouds, puffing in rhythm with my steady jog. I stuck close to the walls, slipped down alleys I’d memorized over the past month, moving like part of the city instead of a hunter stalking its prey. I kept my eyes sharp, scanning the few early risers, the stray cats, the flickering streetlights. Two blocks from the estate, I slowed. The guards were exactly where I expected—same faces, same routine I’d been observing for thirty days. South gate, two at the camera posts, dog patrolling in its loop. I flattened against a fence and counted them again, just to be sure. My pulse ticked faster, but it wasn’t fear. It was thrill of hunt. Today could not go wrong. I stepped carefully onto the frozen grass that led to the cliff overlooking the estate. Rocks and overgrown weeds offered cover. The wind cut through my hoodie, icy against my neck, but I welcomed it—it kept my nerves sharp. I dropped my duffel to the ground, unzipped it, and pulled out the compact air drone I’d been using for weeks to map this part of the estate. I set it down, checked the controls quickly, and launched it. The small hum of the propellers was almost swallowed by the wind as it rose, climbing into the pale morning light. I watched the feed on my tablet: guards moving in their patterns, vehicles rolling in and out, windows and balconies. My eyes scanned every inch of the estate, making sure nothing had changed. Everything was exactly how it should be. A small, quiet relief passed through me, and I exhaled slowly, feeling my shoulders drop for the first time since waking. Today was going to be a long one. But at least, for now, nothing had gone wrong. Marco De Luca will die tonight. I let that thought settle heavy on my chest. That's when I noticed a Rolls-Royce sliding into the compound through the front gate. I adjusted the angle of the drone lower, keeping it tucked beneath the cliff’s shadow so none of the cameras—or the men—would notice it. I zoomed in, but the feed was grainy in the washed‑out morning light, and one of the guards stepped forward to open the door, blocking most of the view. I clenched my jaw and held the drone steady. A second later, the guard shifted, and I finally caught a glimpse of who stepped out. A woman. Tall. Expensive-looking. Polished enough to belong on a magazine cover, not in a criminal compound at four in the morning. She wore stilettos, a short black dress, and sunglasses despite the weak sunrise. That was all the drone could catch before she moved under the awning, but it was enough. She definitely wasn’t part of the routine I’d mapped for a month. I cursed under my breath, pulling the drone back the second she disappeared inside. Who the f**k is she? She definitely belonged to some influential family—money practically dripped off her—but I knew Marco’s circle inside out. I’d spent weeks digging through names, faces, scandals, deals. And I’d never seen her. Not once. The drone hummed closer, a dark speck against the pale sky, and I kept my eyes locked on the feed until it blinked out. I switched to line‑of‑sight just in time to see it descending— And then it stuttered. “What the—” The propellers jerked, caught, and the whole thing tilted violently to the left. Before I could adjust the controls, the drone spiraled once—twice—and came crashing down into the frost‑bitten grass with a sharp, ugly crack. “Oh, fuck.” I sprinted the short distance, heart punching my ribs—not from fear of being caught, but from pure, blistering irritation. The drone lay twisted on the ground, one propeller snapped clean off, the camera hanging by a wire. Perfect. Just perfect. The single thing I needed to confirm Marco’s routine—dead six hours before the hit. Someone shot it out of the f*****g sky. There was no other explanation. I lifted the wreckage, turning it in my hands just long enough to spot the small, perfect hole burned clean through the metal casing. A bullet. A precise one. No hesitation, no warning. Great. I hurled the broken drone off the cliff, watched it vanish into the darkness below, and wiped my palms on my sweatpants. Whoever fired that shot had seen the drone. And if they’d seen the drone, they might’ve already traced the trajectory. They could be coming for me right now. Either way, this night just got a hell of a lot more complicated. I didn’t waste another second. I broke into a run—I didn’t take the route I came from; that would’ve been suicide if anyone was tracking. Instead, I made a beeline straight into the thick forest opposite the mansion, branches snapping under my shoes, cold air slicing into my lungs. There was a high chance there were cameras scattered through this side of the forest, so I kept my hood low and tried to adjust my posture—broader shoulders, longer strides, the kind of gait that reads more “male jogger” than “female assassin.” How convincing it was? No clue. Probably not very. But it was worth a shot. I pushed deeper into the woods, breath fogging in the icy air, twigs snapping under my shoes. Then, in the distance, a sound that made my stomach drop straight to my shoes: Shouts. And the barking of hunting dogs. “f**k me,” I muttered, picking up speed. They were setting a hunt. Perfect. Exactly what I needed on hit day. This forest wasn’t just thick—it was a damn maze. Twisty paths, dead ends, dips and pits formed by roots and old storms. Great for hiding. Even better for flushing someone out. The dogs’ barks got sharper, clearer—closer. My pulse kicked harder, but my head stayed cold. They are sweeping the area. Which meant I had minutes—maybe less—before a search team spread through the trees. I dodged around a fallen trunk, boots sliding slightly over frozen mud, and forced myself not to look back. Looking back was for people who had the luxury of panic. I needed to think. Move. Disappear. Because if they caught me out here, alone, while they just shot down a drone. The mission would be over before it even started. And so would I. The forest sloped steeper and steeper toward another cliff edge—one I hadn’t scouted before. I’d avoided this side because of limited time and a high chance of cameras, and now that brilliant decision was coming back to bite me in the ass. I had zero mapping of this place. No mental layout. No exits. Nothing. The sounds behind me grew louder—branches cracking, men shouting orders, dogs barking sharp and vicious as they picked up my trail. They were gaining. Fast. My thighs burned, my stomach ached, but stopping wasn’t an option. I pushed harder, lungs scraping raw in the cold air. Then I reached it—a brutal incline, practically a vertical drop covered in loose dirt and roots. I skidded to a halt at the edge, every instinct yelling the same thing: I don’t have f*****g time for this. Rounding the slope would take too long. They’d be on me before I made it ten meters. I could either risk the steep descent and pray I didn’t snap my neck on the way down… Or I could get caught. Easy choice. I took one step back, tightened my grip on the duffel strap, and muttered to myself, “Don’t die. Not yet.” Then I launched myself down the incline. I didn’t stick the landing. The second my foot hit the slope, the ground gave out. Loose dirt, frost, and dead leaves slid under me like a damn avalanche. I lost balance instantly and went rolling—hard. My shoulder hit first. Then my hip. Then my back. Everything blurred—trees, sky, mud, sky again. I tried to grab a root, but it ripped right out of the ground. I rolled again, faster, the world flipping like a bad camera feed, my bag smacking me in the ribs with every turn. And then— Crack. My torso collided with a tree trunk so hard I saw white. The hit folded me around the bark, a brutal, sickening crack ringing through my ribs. Pain blasted through my middle—sharp, crushing, immediate. My mouth opened but nothing came out. The air had been punched out of me like a switch had flipped. I dropped to the ground in a heap, knees buckling, one hand clawing at the dirt, the other pressed to my stomach as if I could keep myself from splitting in half. For a long second, all I could do was gasp like a fish out of water. Then the ringing in my ears faded—and I heard it. The shouts I forced in one shallow breath, then another. Pain was fine. Pain meant I was alive. I pushed myself upright, grit sticking to my palms, hoodie smeared with dirt and leaves. Every muscle in my torso screamed, but I didn’t have the luxury to listen. But the barking was at the top of the steep I just jumped from. It took me six seconds—maybe less—to roll down the incline and slam into a landing that knocked the breath out of my lungs. Seven seconds for me. For them? At least fifteen. Maybe twenty, with how steep it is. Which means I have— No time. My ribs throb, my palms sting, gravel is stuck in my skin like tiny needles, but I push up anyway. I need to move. Now. Before those dogs clear the ridge. Before their handlers spot the trail I carved with my stupid, desperate tumble. I take a shuddering breath. Then I run. I burst out of the tree line so fast I nearly skidded face‑first onto the pavement. A road. A road—here, of all places. For a long moment I just stared at it, chest heaving, taking in the absurdity of the situation. What kind of psychopath builds a private road at the edge of a cliff where the forest drops into nothing? I can tell it is a f*****g private road because it wasn't in the f*****g map I've spend nights obsessing over. The answer was obvious. The kind of psychopath who owned that mansion and controlled everything within a mile of it. I had only ever known about this place in theory. The cliff below had a road once, abandoned and supposedly shut down decades ago. No one was supposed to use it, certainly no one was supposed to renovate it and use it as a private path to and from a criminal empire. But somehow, against every expectation, they had done exactly that. My stomach twisted at the thought that I might already be walking into death, and I hadn’t even come face-to-face with him yet. Marco De Luca. Just thinking the name made my chest tighten and my muscles tense, but there was no time to let fear take over. I forced myself to take a step, then another, then broke into a run in the opposite direction of the mansion, or at least where I thought the mansion was, because right now I couldn’t be sure of anything, not even the path I was taking, not even the slope beneath my feet, not even the shadowed trees that scraped at my shoulders and made me flinch with every branch that caught my hoodie. I ran because standing still meant I would be caught, and if I was caught, the mission was over, and my life along with it. I ran and ran, every part of my body burning like someone had set a match to my veins, and my left shoulder was starting to slide down from the joint with a sick, grinding pull that made me want to scream. I kept a firm grip on my upper arm, fingers digging into the muscle, trying to shove the bone back into the place it belonged, even though every step sent a bolt of pain shooting up my neck. It hurt everywhere—my ribs, my thighs, my scraped palms, my skull pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to crack open from the inside— f**k, I can’t die now—not after breaking my goddamn bones to survive, not after clawing my way through that forest like a feral animal. But like I said, this place is a goddamn loop. Every tree looks the same, every turn looks familiar, and I can’t even tell which direction leads back to the city or which leads straight to the mansion. Anger surges up in, I hate how pathetic I’m being right now. I’ve survived worse than a broken joint, worse than a pack of trained hunting dogs behind me, worse than men with guns and night‑vision scopes. But it’s the emptiness in my head—the sudden blankness where plans should be—that’s making my pulse spike harder than the pain ever could. I never regret taking a contract. Not once. But I do regret letting those trigger‑happy assholes who hired me set the deadline. They wanted it done tonight, no delays, no prep, no second passes. And like an i***t, I agreed. I walked into this with barely a preamble, no backup, no exit route, nothing but a half‑finished plan and a countdown ticking louder with every step I take on this cursed road. The stupidity of it burns hotter than the pain. I shake my head hard, trying to force the fog out. I don’t get the luxury of panic. Panic gets you killed, and I’ve already come too close for comfort, but I keep moving because stopping means letting Marco win before I even get within ten feet of him. I came to a halt when I noticed a huge gate at the end of the road. It wasn’t the mansion itself, but it was close enough, a fortified threshold that marked the start of someone’s private territory. The metal was black, polished, and massive, the kind of gate designed to make anyone approaching feel unwelcome. And it was heavily guarded. Two men leaned against the stone pillars on either side, rifles slung casually across their chests, eyes scanning the road in lazy sweeps. Their posturing made it look effortless, like standing here was all they’d ever wanted to do with their lives—except the way their gaze flicked toward the forest at intervals told me they were alert enough to catch any intruder foolish enough to think they could slip by. I crouched instinctively behind a low stone wall on the roadside, the cold seeping into my hoodie and sweatpants, the edge of the cliff just behind me. My shoulder screamed at every small movement, but I ignored it. I exhaled slowly. The mission isn't f*****g over unit I say it is. And Marco De Luca wasn’t expecting what I had left in my bag. I reached inside my bag and pulled out my Sig Sauer P365XL, the only thing in this entire mess that felt like a guarantee. Compact, matte black, reliable in any weather—small enough to hide, powerful enough to end a life in one clean squeeze. I tugged off my torn hoodie, the fabric stiff and matted with dried blood. The morning air hit my skin like ice, but I ignored the shiver and bent over the bag again. My fingers closed around the pair of German‑made daggers—I slid one into each sock, the metal cool against my ankle. Then I tore the hoodie in half, hissing as the movement tugged at my shoulder. I wiped the stinging gashes on my stomach and arms, clearing the dirt and blood as best as I could. One cut on my thigh was worse than I’d thought; dark blood was still seeping down my leg, warm against the freezing wind. I gritted my teeth, pulled off my sweatpants long enough to wrap a strip of the torn hoodie around the deep wound, and tied it tight enough to make sparks dance behind my eyes. Then I tore another piece, looped it around my left shoulder, and yanked until the joint stayed in place instead of sliding out of the socket with every breath. The makeshift sling steadied the arm, but the pain was still a live wire running from my collarbone down to my ribs. I stood there on the side of the road half-dressed, bleeding, freezing, armed like a lunatic—and took a long, steadying breath. My body hurt everywhere, but I was functional. Barely. And barely was enough. I kept my pace light and tossed the duffel bag and torn scraps of fabric deep into the forest. The patrol team would be sniffing around soon, following the dogs straight down the slope. Anything with my blood on it needed to disappear, fast. Staying low, I circled the open stretch around the gate, slipping back into the tree line before any of the guards could notice movement from the corner of their eyes. I moved deeper into the forest just long enough to keep out of sight, then pushed through a cluster of thorny branches and emerged near the side of the outer wall surrounding the estate. The wall was higher than I expected—easily twenty feet, probably more. Smooth stone, no footholds, no decorative bullshit I could climb, just a clean vertical stretch that told me exactly how unwelcome outsiders were. I swallowed a curse and stayed pressed close to the trees, tracing the perimeter. I needed a way in. A crack, a blind spot, a service door, anything. The problem? De Luca’s security was too damn meticulous. Cameras were placed in a neat, alternating pattern along the top of the wall, each one covering the gap the last couldn’t. Whoever designed the system was either paranoid or brilliant. Probably both. I kept my footfalls light, shifting my weight carefully so I didn’t snap a twig or crunch dead leaves under my shoes. My shoulder throbbed harder with every step, but I pushed through the pain, eyes scanning the wall, the trees, the ground—anything that could give me leverage. Nothing. Just darkness, stone, cold air, and the slow, steady sweep of the surveillance cameras. I exhaled slowly, forcing the frustration down before it made me reckless. If I couldn’t get over the wall, maybe I could slip under something. Or find an access point no one bothered guarding because they assumed no one would be stupid enough—or desperate enough—to try. And right now, desperate was exactly what I was. The low rumble of an engine cut through the silence. Not from the front gate—this one was deeper, somewhere behind the estate. A back gate. A service route maybe. I moved farther into the forest, keeping the building in my line of sight while slowly climbing the steep incline. The higher I went, the more of the structure I could see through the gaps between the trees. From above, it looked less like part of the mansion and more like a godown—a warehouse tucked into the estate, probably for storage or deliveries that didn’t need to be seen by polite society. I kept rounding the perimeter, breath fogging out in front of me, my legs screaming but still moving. The engine noise grew clearer—heavy tires on gravel, a slow crawl, the unmistakable clatter of a delivery truck. Eventually, through a break in the trees, I saw it. The back gate. Less decorative, more functional, guarded but not nearly as theatrical as the front. But that wasn’t the part that made me question myself. The road didn’t end at the building. It went straight through it. They had built a goddamn building right in the middle of the road—like the structure had swallowed the entire path. Trucks drove in through one side and, I guessed, came out the other. A tunnel disguised as storage. My heart dropped. This wasn’t just a warehouse. It was a checkpoint. A controlled choke point. Every vehicle that entered the estate would be screened the moment it passed under that roof. No one got in or out without them knowing exactly who, what, and why. And it probably lead straight to De Luca mansion that is if there aren't any other checkpoints in the middle of the f*****g door. A fortress hidden inside another fortress. Perfect. Just f*****g perfect. What the hell do they do enough to have a f*****g checkpoint on an abandoned road on a cliff? But it also meant something else: If I could get inside that building, I wouldn’t need to scale any walls. I just had to survive long enough to reach it. And that was starting to look like the hardest part of the day. I fire at one of the cameras mounted high on the wall, the silencer swallowing the crack of the bullet. It still makes my pulse jump. That probably alerted the guards—f**k, they’re fast—because the surveillance team must’ve patched the feed instantly. Men pour out like hornets: guards sprinting along the side of the building, others spilling out from inside, a few abandoning their posts at the gates. I slip deeper into the woods, keeping to the shadows as I circle toward the back wall. My breath ghosts against the cold bark of trees as I move. Only two guards are stationed there now, rest of them might have moved outside to check the disturbance I caused. They look tense, but their posture is angled wrong, toward the perimeter—toward the forest and the cliffs—completely unaware of the wall behind them. Where I’m hiding. It’s a perfect shot. So I shoot the one closer to me, and he falls with a heavy thud, but the other, who had already advanced a few steps to peer over the cliff, doesn’t have time to react; just as he turns, I fire again. I grab their holstered guns and shove them into my sweatpants before slipping through the small door right beside the massive gate. I look up and cameras are almost everywhere. They must be tracing my movements now and sending signals to the guards. I’m f****d. But I couldn't help giving the tiny camera blinking red, a small wave. The check post is cramped and reeks of sweat and gun oil, but I don’t slow down; I slam my shoulder into the first guard as he turns, knocking him into the desk hard enough to rattle the monitors, then wrench his rifle out of his hands before he can even register what’s happening, because if I stop for one second—one breath—I’m done, and I’m not giving these assholes the satisfaction of watching me drop. More footsteps hammer toward me from the corridor, overlapping shouts crackling through radios, boots scraping, guns c*****g, and the whole place lights up with red alarms, but I tighten my grip on the rifle, wipe the sweat from my mouth with the back of my hand, I rummage through the cabinets lined along the wall, like a rabid animal, yanking open drawers and kicking through cabinets until I’m staring at a damn arsenal—guns, loose gunpowder, grenades, F1s, even a f*****g Besozzi of all things—what the actual f**k is this place? There wasn't any information about Marco owning a hole arsenal flooded with equipments from around the world I grab a grenade just as the door that probably leads outside starts to swing inward, and without a second f*****g thought I yank the pin and hurl the grenade toward the doorway at the exact moment it opens and the shots start firing. The grenade hits the floor and rolls between their boots, and I don’t wait to see their faces twist when they realize what it is; I dive behind the nearest steel cabinet just as the blast erupts, a violent, bone‑shaking roar that turns the doorway into a storm of fire and debris, sending bodies, bullets, and chunks of concrete flying back into the hall, and the shockwave slams me against the cabinet hard enough to knock a curse out of me, but I push myself up through the ringing in my skull because I know that explosion only bought me a few seconds before the next wave comes sprinting in, guns blazing and ready to tear me apart. I crawl under the stacked barrels and boxes, all of them swaying from the impact of the grenade, but I keep dragging myself forward until I reach the other side of the storage room, and the absurdity of the whole damn situation hits me so hard I almost laugh—if there are more people, the snake won’t die—and that’s exactly what I am, a f*****g snake refusing to die, so I roll out from under the barrels and land on my knees, my side burning like someone is melting it from the inside out, but the adrenaline surges harder, sharper, and that’s when I notice the bikes lined up neatly along the far section of the checkpoint, untouched by the chaos exploding around them. I don’t think—thinking will get me killed—I just shove myself toward them, every jolt of pain in my ribs screaming for me to stop, but I grip the edge of a crate to pull myself up, stumbling into a half‑run because if I can reach those bikes, if I can get even one of them started, I might just tear out of here before the next squad bursts through the smoke to finish what the last idiots couldn’t. I make a run for it-not letting myself second guess—it’s worth it—and skid into a small contained area where files are stacked in messy towers, and while keeping one eye locked on the doors in case anyone comes barreling in, I rummage through the drawers and cabinets for keys, my hands shaking as my fingers close around several of them at once . Fucking f**k. I grab as many as I can, shove them into my pocket, and sprint back toward the clearing where the bikes are parked, my boots slipping on dust and debris, and just as I reach the front row of bikes—the moment I’m close enough to taste freedom—the front gate bursts open. I’m suddenly hyper aware of every sound—the scraping metal of the gate, the shouts of men outside, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the whisper of wind over the barrels I just crawled under—and then he steps out. Only one man, but it might as well be a hundred. Marco De Luca. My stomach drops. I realize there’s nowhere left to run—and whatever comes next, I’m not walking out of this alive........