A bitter cold had settled over the Blood Circle's main base that afternoon, a cold that seeped into the stone and silenced the usual banter of the men. Vittoria stood on the upper veranda wrapped in an aura of casual menace and dressed in a floor-length coat of luminous black fur. A thin cigarette balanced between her fingers, its smoke snatched away by the icy wind. Below, in the courtyard, a convoy of black SUVs rumbled to life, their headlights cutting through the gloom as members in heavy jackets rolled out to retrieve an incoming shipment.
Elias stood beside her, waiting for orders that did not come. Martha, as ever, was a motionless shadow a few steps behind.
"Such a cold day today," Vittoria remarked, her voice almost conversational as she took a slow drag. The smoke curled from her lips like a phantom.
"Yes, Miss," Elias replied, his single eye scanning the activity below, looking for anything that warranted attention.
"Anybody who dies today is so unfortunate," she added, her gaze distant, fixed on some point beyond the walls. The statement hung in the air, an insinuation wrapped in frost. It was obvious she had no intention of elaborating. She turned her head slightly, looking at Elias as if noticing his tension for the first time. "Go have a drink, Elias. You look so worn down." She reached out and patted his shoulder, a gesture that might have been affectionate from anyone else but from her felt like a dismissal. Then she turned, the heavy fur swirling around her ankles, and walked back into the warmth of the mansion, Martha following behind her.
Elias remained on the veranda, the cold suddenly feeling personal. He didn't like that. He hated this new habit of hers of holding her cards so close that not even he, her father's most trusted lieutenant, could glimpse them. He knew she trusted him with her life and the life of the organization. But this… this deliberate concealment of her intent, it didn't sit well. He felt it was about Miguel Writhwood again, but without a word from her, he could do nothing.
---
Vittoria walked into her private quarters, the heavy door closing behind her. She had already sent Martha on an errand; now alone, she shrugged off her heavy fur coat to reveal the blue Superman-printed pajamas she wore underneath. The room was warm, but the atmosphere was one of grim preparation.
Her large desk was filled with weird things: a bowl of sea salt, a stack of leather-bound books about myths and supernatural behavior, a large bowl of holy water she had ordered, and a small bronze dish holding the fine, grey ash of a crafted effigy she had burned at midnight.
Her movements were efficient, devoid of hesitation. She opened a drawer and retrieved a box of custom-made . 50-caliber rifle bullets, their casings gleaming dully. Without ceremony, she emptied the box into the bowl of holy water. The bullets sank with a soft plink, and she watched as tiny bubbles clung to the metal. She let them soak, the silence in the room profound. After several minutes, she retrieved them one by one with a pair of silver tongs, then rolled each one meticulously in the salt, then through the bed of cold ash, coating them until they were no longer gleaming metal but matte, gritty objects of wrath.
She took her favorite sniper rifle from its case, a beautiful, brutal instrument of death. With methodical care, she loaded the ash-and-salt-coated silver bullets into the magazine, the click-clack of the action the only sound. As she worked, an aura settled around her, a palpable vibration of lethal intent.
She didn't change out of her pajamas; she simply disassembled the rifle and packed it with practiced ease into a black duffel bag. She shrugged the heavy fur coat back on, the weight warm and concealing. She informed no one, not even Martha, as she left; she bypassed the armored cars and chose a powerful, black motorcycle. The engine snarled to life, a raw, aggressive sound in the quiet afternoon, and she rode out alone, a lone assassin, vanishing into the grey city.
---
In the futuristic splendor of M.W. Enterprises, high above the city in his soundproofed glass office, Miguel was enduring a different kind of torment. He sat behind his desk, his golden eyes looking at the woman before him with an expression of profound, soul-crushing boredom. Even the ever-present gentle smile on his lips seemed off.
Elizabeth Harrington, his 'fiancée,' walked around as she rattled on. She was dressed in a short, glittering, and revealing dress despite the cold.
She was shivering subtly, goosebumps visible on her arms, but her primary concern was impressing him. She was laying out an elaborate array of covered dishes on a side table, each presentation more elaborate than the last.
"…and this coq au vin, Miguel, darling, I simmered the rooster for eight hours. The wine is a '45 from my father's cellar. And these truffles, I had them flown in from overseas this morning…" Her voice was a practiced melody of cloying sweetness. Elizabeth, a degree-holder in pharmacy (a degree quietly purchased by the Harrington family fortune), had no interest in practicing. Her new vocation was impressing Miguel Writhwood. It was a forced engagement, a merger of corporate empires, so she had to make him love her, and she had been winning since the old Miguel had been soft-hearted, easily manipulated by her displays of domestic devotion. She had learned how to weaponize his kindness, and just like always, she expected concern, praise, and perhaps even his jacket draped over her shoulders like always.
This Miguel, however, simply watched. He said nothing. He didn't pick up a fork. He didn't smile. He looked at her as if she were an insect performing an inexplicable dance.
After a long, increasingly awkward silence where her chatter died in the sterile air, she finally had to ask, a brittle laugh in her voice. "Is… everything fine, Miguel?"
"Not really," he said, the pleasant smile still fixed in place. "You are really stepping on my nerves."
She blinked, then let out a tinkling laugh, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, that's a funny joke! Come on, darling, dig in before it gets cold!" She gestured eagerly to the feast.
He stood up instead. In a fluid motion, he crossed the space, his hand closing around her upper arm, her eyes filled with confusion, and the laugh freezing in her throat. Then suddenly he slammed her. As if she weighed nothing, he whipped her body down on the polished concrete floor with terrifying force. Her head resounded with a sickening, wet crack. The shock on her face was paramount before her eyes rolled back and she lay utterly still, a dark pool of blood beginning to halo her blonde hair. The elaborate dishes still lay on the table, undisturbed.
"What a mood killer," Miguel sighed, his voice tinged with genuine irritation. He picked up a handkerchief from his desk and began to wipe his palms, as if he'd touched something unclean.
At that exact moment, the panoramic bulletproof glass of his office was pierced by a bullet that struck him squarely between the shoulder blades, the impact punching a fist-sized hole through his crisp white shirt and vest, turning the cloth crimson.
He staggered a single step forward, caught off guard by surprise. A slow, truly playful smile finally, finally erased the bored mask and stretched across his face...