Vicious Neon

C H A P T E R T W O

The cold metallic drive pressed into the flesh of Roxy’s palm like an open flame. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, but her expression smoothed into an impenetrable porcelain mask as she slipped the device into the hidden lining of her sequined bustier. She quickly smoothed her vivid magenta hair, took one stabilizing breath, and unlocked the dressing room door.

Standing in the hallway was Marco, Salvatore’s hulking lieutenant. His face was weathered by scars, his tailored suit bulging against concealed Kevlar and heavy firearms. His dark eyes flicked over her, searching for the slightest sign of hesitation.

— You took your time — Marco grunted, gesturing down the corridor toward the private elevator. — The Don doesn't like waiting, especially when he's closing shipment contracts.

— Perfection takes time, Marco — Roxy replied, letting a sultry, unbothered drawl coat her voice. She stepped past him, the click of her stilettos echoing off the polished concrete walls. — Tell me, does he ever get tired of the same vintage scotch?

Marco didn't laugh. He stepped behind her, trailing close enough that she could smell stale tobacco and gun oil on his coat. Every step toward the executive elevator felt like marching toward an executioner's block. If Ronin's EMP drive tripped any sensor on the way up, she wouldn't even make it to the penthouse floor alive.

They reached the reinforced elevator doors. Marco swiped a black magnetic keycard and pressed his thumb against a biometric reader. The light flashed emerald green, and the heavy pneumatic doors hissed open. The ride to the thirty-fifth floor was silent, marked only by the gentle hum of the lift ascending toward the city’s criminal epicenter.

When the doors parted, the transition was jarring. The penthouse was a fortress disguised as a temple of obscene luxury. Floor-to-ceiling panoramic glass showcased the neon-drenched sprawl of the metropolis below, washed in the perpetual glow of rain and holographic billboards. Polished obsidian floors reflected dim golden chandeliers, while armed sentries stood motionless in the shadows, their assault rifles held in low-ready positions.

At the far end of the hall, behind a massive desk carved from solid black marble, sat Don Salvatore. He was reviewing digital ledgers on a glowing glass terminal, his silver hair neatly slicked back, his sharp tailored tuxedo immaculate. Beside him sat a bottle of vintage cognac and a gold-plated revolver.

— Leave us — Salvatore commanded without looking up, his gravelly voice carrying an unmistakable authority that cleared the room. Marco and the two perimeter guards gave brief nods and exited into the adjoining security foyer, the heavy doors sealing shut behind them.

Roxy stood alone with the man who had ordered the slaughter of her bloodline.

— Roxanne... — Salvatore murmured, using the shortened stage name she had fed him months ago, unaware of how dangerously close it was to her real identity. He clicked off the terminal screen and leaned back, his predatory eyes slowly tracing the lines of her dress. — You were exquisite tonight. The whole floor was mesmerized.

— I aim to please, Don Salvatore — Roxy said, walking forward with deliberate, swaying steps. Her hands were relaxed at her sides, but her senses were dialed to the maximum. She noted the red LED glow of the secondary security console embedded beneath the edge of his desk—the terminal Ronin had instructed her to target.

— Come here — he ordered softly, extending a hand adorned with heavy gold rings.

Roxy crossed the vast floor and stepped behind his leather chair, resting her manicured hands gently on his tense shoulders. She began to knead the tight muscles of his neck with practiced gentleness. It took every ounce of her willpower not to dig her nails into his carotid artery.

— You seem tense tonight — she whispered near his ear, feeling the thick pulse point beneath her fingers. — Trouble in the lower district?

Salvatore let out a low, humorless chuckle, resting his head back against the chair to look up at her. His gaze was sharp, probing.

— Rats in the walls, little bird. Small-time competitors thinking they can intercept my northern cargo routes. Reminds me of that arrogant Vance family five years ago. They thought they could operate independently in my city without paying their dues.

Roxy’s fingers stiffened for a fraction of a millisecond. A cold, suffocating wave of adrenaline spiked through her blood, but she instantly forced her fingers to continue their rhythm, smoothing away any trace of reaction.

— Vance? — she asked with airy, detached curiosity. — I don't think I've heard that name before.

— Of course you haven't — Salvatore mused, swirling the liquor in his glass. — Because when I eliminate a problem, I burn it down to the ash. Father, son, records... wiped clean. Total erasure is the only true language this underworld respects.

Except you missed one, Roxy thought fiercely, her teeth grinding behind a sweet smile. You missed me, and your ash is coming sooner than you think.

— Pour me a glass, Roxanne — Salvatore instructed, nodding toward the crystal decanter on the credenza several feet away. — Then we can discuss your new contract for the upcoming gala.

— Right away, Don Salvatore — she replied softly.

This was the opening.

Roxy stepped gracefully around the marble desk, heading toward the liquor display. As she passed the main terminal, her hip brushed against the desk’s edge. With lightning speed and seamless choreography, her left hand dipped into the lining of her bustier, retrieving the micro-EMP drive. Her eyes flicked to the undercarriage of the desk.

There it was: the auxiliary data port, glowing with a soft, pulsing blue light.

She pretended to drop her silver lighter. As she crouched down in a fluid, elegant motion to pick it up, her fingers slid the micro-device straight into the terminal socket. It clicked into place with an almost imperceptible snap.

A faint, violet static sparked beneath the console. Across the room, the primary wall display flickered once before stabilizing. The micro-jammer was active, counting down the ninety-second window to scramble the biometric deadbolts.

Roxy scooped up her lighter, rose gracefully, and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. She turned around with a radiant, disarming smile and handed the glass to Salvatore.

— To absolute control — she toasted softly.

Salvatore raised his glass, clinking it against hers with a satisfied grin. — To absolute control.

He took a sip. Suddenly, the overhead chandeliers flickered violently. A sharp alarm chirp sounded from the terminal behind him, followed by the deep, resonant thud of the penthouse exterior locks unlocking simultaneously.

Salvatore’s smile vanished instantly. His eyes narrowed into slits as he slammed his glass onto the desk, grabbing the gold-plated revolver. — What the hell was that?

Before he could reach the emergency intercom, the massive reinforced glass balcony doors shattered inward with an explosive roar.

A storm of tempered glass crystals rained over the polished floor. Through the howling rain and billowing black smoke, a towering silhouette emerged from the abyss. The bleached skull painted across his lower face glowed pale under the lightning flashes. In his gloved hands, Ronin held a dual-suppressed tactical firearm, the crimson laser sight pinning Don Salvatore squarely between the eyes.

— Evening, Salvatore — Ronin’s voice cut through the howling wind like a butcher’s blade. — Your contract is due.