The penthouse smelled of lemon polish and expensive, uncirculated air. It was a sterile glass box perched thirty stories above the grime of Santa Fortuna, isolated from the noise of the street.
Arpika stood by the wet bar, her back to the panoramic window. She was wearing a dress of severe, dark silk, high-necked and long-sleeved. It wasn't designed to show skin; it was designed to hide bruises. The fading yellow marks on her arms and the healing split on her lip were covered, but she could still feel them pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
She checked the bottle of Blue Label scotch one last time. The seal had been broken and re-glued with surgical precision. She had spent two hours in the lab with a pipette, injecting the solution Kevin had unknowingly left on his workbench. It was a paralytic. Colorless. Odorless. Fast.
She checked her watch. 9:00 PM.
The elevator chimed.
Arpika didn't flinch. She didn't smooth her hair or practice a smile in the reflection of the glass. That version of her, the girl who prepped and posed and pleaded, was dead. She had died in Mancini's art wing, strapped to a chair.
The doors slid open. Five men walked in.
They were Mancini's top earners, the lieutenants who managed the heavy logistics for the old man's empire. They looked exactly as she expected: expensive suits that fit poorly across broad shoulders, eyes that scanned the room for threats and found only a girl.
Russo was in the lead. He was a heavyset man with a thick neck and a reputation for breaking fingers over late payments. He looked around the empty penthouse, his suspicion warring with his arrogance.
"You came alone," Russo said. His voice was gravel, echoing slightly in the large, empty room.
"Trust is a currency, Russo," Arpika said. Her voice was level. No purr. No seduction. Just a statement of fact. "I told you I wanted to talk about the future. Bringing a guard dog implies I don't think I can handle you."
Russo smirked. He liked that. He liked thinking he was the danger in the room. He gestured to the other four men to relax. They spread out, claiming the leather furniture, confident in their numbers.
"The Corvini don't know you're here," Russo stated, walking toward the bar.
"The Corvini think in quarters and fiscal years," Arpika replied. She picked up the bottle. "I'm thinking about next week. Mancini is old. You know it. I know it. When he goes, the vacuum will kill half of you. Unless you have a bridge."
She poured five glasses. Neat. Two fingers of amber liquid in heavy crystal tumblers.
"And you're the bridge?" Russo asked, leaning his hip against the marble counter. He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on the high neckline of her dress. "You're the pretty little thing that got caught. I heard about that. Heard you cried."
Arpika didn't react. She didn't blush or look away. She handed him the first glass.
"I did," she said simply. "I cried quite a bit."
She handed glasses to the others. Marcos took his with a grunt. Silas swirled the liquid, sniffing it before taking a sip. They were comfortable. They were in a private penthouse with a girl they considered a failed assassin, a pretty broken toy looking for a new protector.
"To the future," Arpika said, raising her own empty hand.
Russo grinned, a wolfish, ugly expression. "To new management."
They drank.
Arpika watched. She watched the liquid travel down Russo's throat. She watched Marcos toss his back in one gulp. She watched the younger one sip politely.
She counted backward from ten in her head.
Ten.
Russo placed the glass on the counter with a heavy clack. "So. The deal. What's the buy-in?"
Seven.
"The buy-in," Arpika said, taking a step back, putting distance between herself and Russo's reach, "is steep."
Five.
Russo frowned. He reached for his tie, loosening the knot. "Is it hot in here? Air feels thin."
Three.
Marcos tried to stand up from the sofa. His legs didn't work. He fell forward, his knees buckling, crashing into the coffee table. Glass shattered.
"What the—" Russo started, but the words slurred into a thick, wet mumble. His hand went to his holster, but his fingers were numb, clumsy sausages that couldn't find the grip.
Zero.
Russo collapsed against the bar, sliding down to the floor. His eyes were wide, terrified, darting around the room, but his body was a statue. Behind him, the other four were in various states of collapse. Silas was slumped in the armchair, looking like he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. The young one was on the floor, gasping for air that his diaphragm was struggling to pull in.
The room went silent. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the shallow, ragged breathing of five paralyzed men.
Arpika stood over Russo. She looked down at him. His eyes screamed at her, begging, threatening, bargaining.
She reached into the small clutch purse on the counter and pulled out a suppressor-equipped 9mm pistol. It was heavy, matte black, and ugly. A tool.
She walked to the center of the room.
"I wanted to scream when they tied me to that chair," Arpika said. Her voice was conversational, low. She wasn't speaking to them as an audience; she was simply annotating their end. "I wanted to beg. I used to think that if I said the right words, if I smiled the right way, I could talk my way out of gravity."
She walked over to Marcos, who was face down amid the shattered glass of the coffee table. She nudged him over with the toe of her heel so he was facing up. He stared at the ceiling, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
"But words don't work on gravity," she said.
She pointed the pistol at Marcos's forehead.
Phut.
The sound was like a book being dropped on a carpet. A small red dot appeared. Marcos stopped breathing.
Arpika stepped over him. She moved to Silas.
"Mancini laughed at me," she continued, moving with a terrifying lack of urgency. "He told me I was a beautiful lie. He thought that was clever."
She looked at Silas. He was trying to blink, trying to communicate something. She didn't care what it was.
Phut.
Silas slumped further into the chair.
The young one on the floor was trying to crawl, dragging his useless body by his chin, scraping his face against the rug. Arpika watched his struggle for a moment. It was pathetic. It was biological.
"I'm not a lie anymore," she told him. "I'm the truth."
Phut.
Three down.
She walked back to the bar. Russo was still propped up against the cabinet, his face turning a mottled red as he fought the paralysis. He was the biggest target. The most important one.
Arpika knelt in front of him. She didn't mind the expensive silk of her dress touching the floor.
She leaned in close, just like she had with the landlord when she was thirteen. But she wasn't looking for leverage this time. She was looking for the light to go out.
Russo's eyes were locked on hers. He was crying now, silent tears tracking through the sweat on his face.
"You're wondering why," Arpika whispered. She reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, a gesture of mockery that mirrored a lover's touch. "You think this is business. You think this is the Corvini taking territory."
She shook her head slowly.
"This isn't business, Russo. This is hygiene. You and your boss put your hands on me. You thought I was something you could break and discard."
She pressed the cold muzzle of the suppressor against his temple. The metal made a small indentation in his skin.
"He took something from me that wasn't his," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt loud in the dead room. "Now I'm taking something from all of you that isn't yours."
Russo squeezed his eyes shut.
"It's called the future."
Phut.
Russo's head snapped to the side. He slid sideways, leaving a smear of red on the white cabinet.
Arpika stood up. Her knees cracked slightly. She looked around the room. Five bodies. Five empty glasses. No struggle. No mess, other than the necessary exit wounds.
She walked to the window and looked out at the city. The lights of Santa Fortuna glittered below, indifferent and beautiful. Somewhere out there, Mancini was sleeping, or drinking, or laughing, thinking he had won a victory against a group of amateurs. He didn't know that his limbs had just been cut off. He didn't know that the girl he dismissed was no longer playing a game he understood.
She turned back to the room. She placed the pistol back in her clutch. She picked up the bottle of Blue Label, a waste of good scotch, but evidence was evidence, and tucked it under her arm.
Arpika walked to the elevator and pressed the call button. She caught her reflection in the mirrored doors.
She looked tired. Her eyes were hard, flat, and empty. The beautiful lie was gone, replaced by something cold and sharp.
She adjusted her dress, ensuring it covered the bruises.
The elevator dinged. She stepped inside and let the doors close on the slaughter.