Black Rose. Midnight. Ask for Luca.
Simple. Clean. Loaded with threat.
I dressed for war. Tight jeans. Combat boots. A long coat hiding steel at my hip. Hair in a tight bun. Eyes sharp.
The bouncer didn't say a word when I gave my name. He just opened the door, stepping aside like he hadn't just scanned me from boot to brow.
Inside, the place pulsed like a heartbeat. Velvet walls. Gold chandeliers. A blend of seduction and violence in every corner. The scent of liquor, perfume, and smoke hung heavy.
And somewhere in that storm was Luca.
I found him in the back, sitting at a blackjack table with no cards, no chips—just power. Mid-30s. Scar along his jaw. Watchful eyes. I didn't need to be told he was ex-military. He wore discipline like a second skin.
"You're Killian's girl?" he asked without looking up.
"I'm nobody's girl," I said.
That earned a twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile. "Fair enough. Sit."
I did.
He slid a folder across the table. "One of our couriers went dark. Supposed to deliver a package last night. Never checked in. GPS last pinged at a junkyard south of Redbridge."
"Why me?" I asked, flipping open the folder.
Luca poured himself a drink. "Killian wants eyes he can trust. Or at least eyes no one else owns yet."
I didn't flinch. "What's in the package?"
"Don't open it."
That told me everything.
This was a loyalty test wrapped in a bulletproof envelope.
"Bring it back," Luca added. "Unopened. Unquestioned."
I nodded once. "Anything else?"
"Yeah," he said, finally meeting my eyes. "Try not to get yourself killed. Killian's curious about you. That's a rare thing."
I left without answering.
The junkyard was dark, wet, and reeking of rust and oil. I moved slow, quiet. Gun drawn. Every shadow looked like a trap.
I found the car half-buried under a tarp, engine still warm.
And I found the courier.
Dead.
Throat slit, hands tied behind his back, face frozen in shock. Whoever got to him had done it quick—and messy. A warning.
The package was gone.
Shit.
I scanned the area, saw tracks leading toward the fence. Someone had been watching, maybe still was.
I followed the trail out into the alley, heart hammering. A van screeched around the corner just as I stepped into the open.
I ducked behind a dumpster, gun raised.
Footsteps.
Voices. Male. Two of them.
"She said meet at the warehouse by one," one muttered. "We're already late."
"Relax. We've got the stuff."
I waited until they passed, then followed—quiet, careful, deliberate.
They led me to an abandoned warehouse five blocks away.
Inside, I spotted the crate.
Metal. Unmarked. Same size as the one described in the folder.
I watched through a broken window as the two men argued with a woman in a red coat. I couldn't hear them, but the tension was obvious.
Then she slapped one of them.
He pulled a knife.
She pulled a gun.
One shot. One body dropped.
She didn't flinch.
I didn't wait.
I snuck around to the rear entrance, using a broken panel to slip inside. My goal wasn't confrontation—it was retrieval. But the second guy spotted me when I grabbed the crate.
"Hey!"
I fired first. Shot him in the thigh. He screamed, dropped his weapon.
The woman spun around, eyes locking with mine.
Pretty. Cold. Russian.
I didn't know her name, but I knew the look in her eyes.
She was a Blackthorn rival.
She raised her weapon, but I was already moving.
We exchanged three shots before I ducked behind a steel pillar. The crate was too heavy to run with.
I needed a distraction.
I grabbed a metal rod from the ground and hurled it through a side window. It shattered with a loud crash.
She looked.
I bolted.
Snatched the crate. Fired a blind shot behind me. Kicked through a side door and sprinted like hell.
Didn't stop until I reached my car.
My hands shook as I placed the crate in the trunk. But my mind was ice. I had what Killian wanted.
And I'd seen the face of someone I knew would return.
When I arrived at the Black Rose again, blood on my sleeve, Killian was waiting.
He stood by the back exit, lit only by the glow of a single overhead lamp. No guards. No smile.
Just him.
I tossed him the crate.
He caught it without a word.
"You didn't open it," he said.
"No."
"You saw who took it?"
I nodded. "Woman. Red coat. Russian. Cold eyes. Killed one of her own."
His jaw tightened just slightly. "Natasha."
"You know her?"
"I will soon."
We stood in silence. Then he said something that stopped me cold.
"You could've run."
"I could've died."
"Most people would've chosen the easier option."
"I'm not most people."
He stepped closer, closing the distance between us. "No. You're not."
The air between us cracked like tension on a tripwire. He was too close. I should've moved. I didn't.
"Why are you really here, Rena?" he asked quietly.
"To survive," I said.
He studied me. "Try again."
"To win."
That earned me his first smile.
Not warm.
Wicked.
Approving.
"You'll need to bleed for it," he said.
"I already have."
His eyes darkened.
Then he turned and walked away.
Leaving me with a truth I hadn't wanted to admit.
I was in.
Not just in his operation.
But under his skin.
And he was getting under mine.