First message
The file landed on my desk three days ago. Simple. Clean. High value.
Daughter of an Italian Don. Location, schedule, security details, photographs. A job like any other.
I accepted without hesitation.
That’s what mercenaries do.
I spent years building a reputation for being the man who always finished the contract. No second chances. No loose ends. No emotions. Just results.
The ballroom buzzed with conversation as I slipped through the crowd, dressed like every other wealthy guest. My target was due to arrive any minute. One shot would be enough. It always was.
Then the doors opened.
My hand froze around the glass in my grip.
No.
The woman stepping into the room wasn’t some stranger. She wasn’t a target.
She was you.
For a moment, the noise disappeared. The years vanished. I saw late-night drives, stolen kisses, promises we’d sworn would last forever. Then the day I walked away to follow my family’s path into blood and violence, convincing myself you deserved better than the life I was choosing.
Yet there you stood, more beautiful than I remembered, surrounded by armed guards and the power of your father’s empire.
And someone wanted you dead.