The air in the conference room went dead still. Marcus had just ended a call when another one came through—urgent, panicked, broken.
He lifted the phone slowly, jaw tightening.
"This better be good," he said coldly.
"Sir—Dante Moretti's dead."
The words hit like a gunshot as the chairs scraped the floor. The other men in the meeting—each one a titan in their own right—fell silent.
"What did you say?" Marcus's voice dropped, low and lethal.
"We found him this morning; he was tied to a chair in his study. His wrists were bound, legs too, and worst of all, there was no sign of forced entry."
Marcus's expression didn't shift, but his fingers tightened on the glass in front of him until it cracked.
"Get the cars," he ordered.
Within minutes, the convoy tore down the wet asphalt, black vehicles slicing through the fog like blades. The mansion loomed ahead—Dante's marble palace, once a beacon of corruption and wealth, now a crime scene.
The iron gates stood open, swinging gently in the morning wind. The smell hit first—metallic, cold, final. Marcus walked in, silent, his men following.
They found Dante in the grand hall, slumped in his chair. His hands and legs were tied with surgical precision, the ropes cutting deep into flesh gone pale. His eyes were open, frozen mid-terror.
The silence was too suffocating.
Then one of Marcus's men whispered, "Boss… look."
On the table before Dante, a blade caught the early sunlight streaming through the window. The silver edge glinted red, stained, its handle marked with a faint symbol—the wolf insignia carved into the metal.
Marcus's eyes darkened. "The Silent Wolf," he muttered.
Another man swallowed hard. "Sir, that's an assassin that doesn't miss. Whoever he crossed… they sent a message."
Marcus stared at the blade for a long time, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.
"Or she," he said quietly.
The men exchanged looks but said nothing.
The Silent Assassin was a menace to them as she always had a way of cutting them down once they got the leverage.
He stepped closer, the floor creaking under his weight. "Cut him down," he ordered. "And find out who got close enough to make Dante bleed."
Outside, the media vans were already gathering, vultures waiting for the scent of scandal. Marcus ignored them. He just stood there, motionless, his mind running through names—faces.
Alexa's name flickered in the storm like a ghost.
Across town, Alexa stood on the roof of an abandoned building, the city sprawled beneath her like a breathing map of sin.
She pulled her phone from her pocket, dialed a number she knew by muscle memory.
It rang once. Then a smooth, deep voice answered, the Administrator's.
"Report."
Alexa's tone was calm, too calm. "The job's done. Dante Moretti won't be stirring any more trouble. I made sure his end wasn't quick."
There was a pause on the other end, a hum of approval. "Good. The more noise this makes, the more eyes shift away from us."
"I want my next lead," she said. Her eyes narrowed as she looked over the skyline. "You promised me progress. The closer I get, the closer I am to finding who took my parents from me. No distractions. No more half-truths."
The Administrator's voice was smooth, but there was a faint amusement beneath it. "Patience, Alexa. You're already closer than you think."
Her grip on the phone tightened. "Don't play games with me."
"Games?" The Administrator chuckled. "Oh, sweetheart, everyone's already playing. You're just the only one who doesn't know which side she's really on."
The line went dead.
Alexa stood there, the wind tugging at her hair, her heart pounding—not from guilt, but from a creeping realization that the web she thought she was weaving might already be spun around her.
And somewhere, across the city, Marcus was staring at the same blade she'd left behind.
His voice broke the silence in Dante's ruined study.
"Find The Silent Assassin."
Scene 2
The mansion was quiet when Alexa slipped through the back entrance. The moonlight had barely faded, and the house was still wrapped in that heavy silence before dawn. Her steps were light—careful, measured—but her mind was loud, replaying every word, every scream, every drop of blood that had fallen hours ago.
She shut the door behind her, exhaling a shaky breath. The familiar scent of old oak and lavender polish filled her nose. She was back—but the air didn't feel like home anymore.
"Alexa."
Her spine stiffened at the voice. She turned. Noah stood there at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets, eyes tired but sharp. He looked like he hadn't slept all night.
"Where were you?" His tone wasn't harsh, just… weighted.
Alexa forced a faint smile. "I needed air. It's been a long few days."
Noah stepped closer, his expression serious now. "Air? You've been gone for hours. Marcus came home not too long ago, and he wasn't in the best mood. The whole house feels… tense."
She met his gaze but said nothing. Silence stretched like a wire.
Noah sighed. "Look, I'm not trying to pry. But you need to be careful." He lowered his voice, leaning slightly toward her. "Marcus has started asking questions. He suspects someone's playing both sides. He's not saying names, but…"
"But?" Alexa asked softly.
"But I think he's looking at you."
The words hung there, heavy as a confession. Alexa's heartbeat skipped. Her face didn't show it, but inside—panic, calculation, and cold anger tangled together.
She kept her tone light. "That's absurd, Noah. Why would Marcus suspect me?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But his trust… it's fading. You've seen it. The way he looks at you lately—it's not the same."
Alexa looked away, staring at the intricate rug beneath her feet. "Maybe he's just tired. The man carries too many ghosts."
"Maybe," Noah murmured, but his voice said he didn't believe that.
He stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just… whatever it is you're caught up in, Alexa, keep your guard up. This house has eyes. And not all of them are friendly."
She nodded slowly, forcing a soft chuckle. "You sound like my shadow, Noah."
"I'd rather be your shadow than your eulogist," he said dryly, then turned and walked off toward the servants' wing.
When his footsteps faded, Alexa's smile fell. The exhaustion she'd been holding in finally showed in her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled slightly as she brushed her hair back. He suspects me? She had counted on time—time to build trust, time to move unnoticed—but that time was slipping.
Her hand brushed against the pendant on her neck—the hidden communicator linked to her handler—and she exhaled slowly. I can't let him see through me now. Not when I'm this close.
Then a sound—a faint click—echoed from somewhere behind her. Alexa froze.
On the far staircase, hidden by the shadows of the chandelier, stood Nina.
Her lips curled into a smile that was far too calm, far too sweet. She tilted her phone slightly, and on the screen—clear as daylight—was a picture of Alexa leaving the mansion hours earlier, dressed in black, face half-hidden by her hood.
"Careful, Alexa," Nina whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. "Wouldn't want Marcus to doubt you again."
She turned, phone glowing in her hand, her plan already spinning into motion.