The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne, the dimly lit study barely illuminated by a flickering cigar resting in the crystal ashtray. Vittorio Mancini, the father of Mrs. Russo, lounged in his leather chair, fingers tapping against the wooden armrest in satisfaction.
"Heh, bastards still fear me," he muttered to himself, taking another sip of his drink. Even at his age, his influence still stretched far—at least, that was what he believed. The years of abuse, of using his power to manipulate and destroy, had made him feel invincible.
A cold gust swept through the room. The study door was locked, but a shadow slithered through the darkness, moving like death itself. Vittorio blinked, his sluggish mind registering too late that he was no longer alone.
Vesper stood behind him, a specter clad in black, silent and still as the night. The blade glinted under the faint light as he let it hover just over the old man's shoulder, savoring the moment before making his presence known.
"Enjoying your last drink?" The voice was a whisper, low and deadly.
Vittorio jerked in his chair, eyes widening as he turned to see the masked figure looming over him. The fear was instant, his breath hitching as he fumbled for the drawer where he kept his gun.
A sharp kick to his wrist sent the drawer slamming shut, his fingers nearly crushed in the impact. The pain was immediate, and he let out a strangled cry, cradling his hand as he looked up in horror.
"W-Who sent you?" he gasped, heart pounding wildly.
Vesper didn't answer. Instead, he pressed the tip of his knife to the old man's chest, right above his heart, pressing down just enough to let blood bead at the surface. Vittorio whimpered, all his bravado crumbling in an instant.
"You should have died long ago," Vesper said, his voice as cold as the steel in his hands. "You lived too long. Hurt too many. Today, I balance the scales."
With a swift, merciless slice, Vesper slashed across Vittorio's chest, carving deep enough for agony but not enough to end him quickly. The old man screamed, a wet, gurgling sound as blood soaked into his pristine silk shirt.
Vesper grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look at his own reflection in the large mirror across the study. "See yourself. Weak, pathetic. Your sins won't be buried with you."
Vittorio's breaths came in ragged gasps. "P-Please," he stammered, his eyes darting to the study door, hoping—praying—that someone would come.
No one would. Vesper had ensured that.
"Mercy?" Vesper chuckled darkly. "Not for you."
With a final, brutal movement, he plunged the knife into Vittorio's throat, twisting it as the old man's eyes rolled back. The gurgling stopped. The body slumped.
Silence.
Vesper wiped his blade clean on Vittorio's shirt, then carefully placed the engraved knife into the corpse's open palm, letting the world know exactly who had been here.
By the time the Russo family received the news, Mrs. Russo's reaction was one of pure shock—an act for the world. The city mourned the loss of a 'respectable' man.
But behind closed doors, she simply sat in silence. Mr. Russo clenched his fists, knowing what his wife couldn't say out loud.
Vesper had done what they never could.
In De Luca's penthouse
Salvatore De Luca sat in his dimly lit office, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid swirling as he gritted his teeth. The recent destruction of his warehouses had sent a ripple of chaos through his empire. His shipments—millions worth of weapons and illicit goods—had gone up in flames, and the message was clear. Vesper. The ghost of the underworld had struck again.
He exhaled sharply, the weight of his loss pressing against his temples. The reports from his men were useless; CCTV footage was wiped clean, guards dead before they could react. It was a slaughter—silent, methodical, and terrifyingly precise. And now, his associates were growing restless, their trust in his dominance shaken.
"Bastard," Salvatore growled under his breath. He slammed the glass on the table, the impact sharp against the tense silence of the room. "I want his head."
His right-hand man, Nico, stood at the edge of the office, arms crossed. "We've sent out feelers, but there's nothing. No one knows where Vesper comes from or how he moves."
Salvatore clenched his jaw. "Then we're looking in the wrong places."
Yet, amidst the seething rage consuming him, another thought gnawed at him—one he despised acknowledging. Leona Vale. He had met her briefly, watched her from afar, and found himself… intrigued.
She wasn't like the women in his world—those who threw themselves at power, desperate for control and wealth. No, she was different. Playful, stubborn, and infuriatingly unafraid of him. When she had smiled at him, teasing in her own way, it had been a rare moment of warmth in the ice-cold abyss of his existence.
And then there was the chocolate.
A simple gesture, yet it stayed with him, lingering like an itch he couldn't scratch. She had kept it, unbothered by the dangerous game she unknowingly played. Salvatore found himself scowling, frustrated by his own fixation. He had never been one to dwell on a woman, especially not when his empire was bleeding.
Nico's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "We have another issue."
Salvatore lifted an impatient brow. "What now?"
"The Morettis and Russos have tightened their security. They're expecting retaliation."
A slow smirk spread across Salvatore's lips. "Good. Let them anticipate me." His expression darkened. "But I won't strike where they expect. No, I'll take something… far more valuable."
His fingers tapped against the wooden desk as an idea began to form. Perhaps it was time to shift his attention from Vesper to a different weakness.
Leona Vale.
The breaking news flashed across television screens and online headlines with bold, urgent letters:
"Murder at Mancini Estate: Vittorio Mancini Found Brutally Slain"
Reporters swarmed outside the grand gates of the Russo estate, eager for a statement. The news anchors, dressed in crisp suits and poised with feigned solemnity, spoke into the cameras, their voices dripping with intrigue and shock.
"In a shocking turn of events, Vittorio Mancini was found dead in his home last night. The forensic reports confirm that he was murdered in cold blood—stab wounds, excessive blood loss, and a scene so gruesome the authorities have yet to disclose the full details. What's most chilling? The signature 'V' carved into his chest, unmistakably marking the work of the infamous and elusive assassin, Vesper. Who was behind this kill? And more importantly, why?"
Speculation flooded the media. Commentators and experts debated the motives behind the murder. Some pointed fingers at rival mafia families, while others whispered that the Russo family might have finally taken action against one of their own.
Inside the estate, the atmosphere was suffocating. The heavy silence in the grand dining hall was interrupted only by the distant murmuring of television reporters still airing theories and false assumptions.
Mrs. Russo sat frozen, her normally poised demeanor cracking at the edges. Her hands trembled, gripping the arms of the chair as she stared at the screen, watching as her father's name became a subject of public scrutiny. The man who had haunted her past was now dead, and yet, she felt no grief—only a swirling mess of emotions she couldn't decipher.
Her husband, Mr. Russo, stood near the fireplace, his jaw clenched as he watched his wife, sensing her turmoil. He had known the kind of monster her father was, had seen the bruises she once carried, had heard the hushed, painful confessions late at night. And now, the man was gone—by the hands of Vesper.
Dante and Valerio stood near the entrance, exchanging tense glances. Valerio's mind was already working, putting pieces together, but there was something unsettling about this kill. Unlike other murders by Vesper, this one felt… personal.
Dante, unable to hold back, finally spoke. "What are the odds that Vesper took him out for a reason other than a contract?"
The words hung in the air, thick with implication.
Mrs. Russo let out a slow breath before finally speaking. Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of decades of pain. "None of you knew him like I did," she admitted. "He deserved it."
Valerio turned to his father, watching the way Mr. Russo barely reacted, as if he, too, had come to terms with it before it had even happened. This wasn't just a murder—it was an execution long overdue.
And yet, in the back of Valerio's mind, something twisted, something unsettling. Because no matter how justified the kill might have been… Vesper never moved without reason.
So why now?
Dante stormed into the grand study room, his footsteps echoing against the marble flooring. His mother, Isabella Russo, stood near the window, her face still pale from the recent tragedy, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the fabric of her dress. Mr. Russo sat in his chair, rubbing his temples, exhausted from the news that had shaken their family.
"You expect me to just believe that my grandfather was some monster?" Dante's voice was sharp, filled with disbelief. His usually mischievous eyes were ablaze with frustration, locked onto his mother's unflinching face.
Isabella sighed deeply, turning to face her son. "Dante, I know you loved him. I know he spoiled you and always treated you kindly, but you have no idea the kind of man he really was."
Dante clenched his fists. "That's a lie! Nonno was nothing but kind to me! I refuse to believe that he was anything else!"
Mr. Russo finally lifted his gaze, his expression grim. "You think we would make this up? You think we'd want to taint your memories of him?"
Dante's breathing grew heavy. He looked between his parents, his entire world shifting beneath him. "Then why didn't you ever tell me before? Why now, after he's dead?"
Isabella's expression hardened. "Because you were a child, Dante. You didn't need to know the filth that man was involved in. He wasn't just a bad man—he was cruel, manipulative, and dangerous. He hurt people, innocent people, and we couldn't stop him. Only Vesper did."
Dante's jaw tightened at the name. "Vesper," he repeated bitterly. "You're standing here, justifying his death? The same assassin who has been tormenting our family?"
Mr. Russo exhaled sharply. "Tormenting? He cleans up what the law won't. Your grandfather was no saint, Dante. He was the kind of man who destroyed lives without a second thought."
Dante shook his head, stepping back, his hands running through his hair in frustration. "I don't know what to believe anymore," he muttered. His voice had lost its anger, replaced now with something more painful—doubt.
Isabella stepped closer, reaching for his arm, but he flinched away. "I understand this is hard for you, but you need to stop idolizing him. You only knew what he let you see. The real man? He was a nightmare."
Isabella Russo stood frozen in the grand living room, her trembling hands gripping the edges of her dress as her husband's words echoed in her ears. Her father was dead. The man who had tormented her for years, the man who had stolen so much from her—gone. She should have felt relief. Instead, an unbearable wave of grief crashed over her.
Tears blurred her vision as she staggered backward, barely catching herself against the couch. Her breath hitched, and before she could stop it, a broken sob escaped her lips. The memories rushed in—memories she had buried so deep, they almost felt like they belonged to another life.
"You don't understand," she whispered, her voice strangled with emotion. "You never did."
Dante, his expression tight with frustration, stepped closer. "What don't I understand, Ma? That he was a monster? That he hurt people?"
Isabella squeezed her eyes shut. "It's not just that." She swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "He took something from me. Something I could never get back."
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating.