Black Roses For A Killer Wife

The rain in Manhattan didn't wash away sins; it only made the blood slicker on the pavement.

Sloane Volkov—known to the underworld as the "Black Rose"—stood in the shadows of an alleyway across from L'Eclat, a club so exclusive its entrance didn't even have a sign. She adjusted the hem of her gown. It was a masterpiece of deep, bruised purple silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. To the casual observer, she was a socialite waiting for a car. To the man she was hunting, she was death incarnate.

Hidden against her inner thigh, held by a lace garter that bit into her pale skin, was a suppressed Heckler & Koch. It was a cold, heavy weight—a familiar comfort.

She checked her watch. 11:45 PM.

The Syndicate’s orders had been absolute: Julian Vane is a liability. Erase him. Leave the flower.

Sloane took a steadying breath, the damp city air filling her lungs. She hadn't seen Julian in ten years. Not since the night the orphanage burned down—the night he had pulled her through the flames and told her to run while he stayed back to fight. She had spent a decade thinking he was a ghost. Discovering he was alive was a shock; discovering he was her target was a cruel joke played by the universe.

She stepped out of the shadows, her heels clicking rhythmically on the wet cobblestones. She bypassed the velvet rope with a look that could freeze a heartbeat, and the bouncer stepped aside without a word.

Inside, the club was a blur of jazz, expensive perfume, and the low hum of dangerous men making dangerous deals. She spotted him immediately.

Julian sat at a secluded corner booth, draped in shadows. He looked different—harder. His jaw was lined with a three-day stubble, and his tailored charcoal suit couldn't hide the breadth of shoulders that had clearly seen their share of violence. He was peeling an orange with a small, silver folding knife, his movements surgical and slow.

Sloane slid into the booth opposite him. The air between them didn't just chill; it ignited.

"You're late, Rose," Julian said. He didn't look up. He flicked a coil of orange peel onto the table. "I almost thought you'd developed a conscience."

"I don't have a conscience, Julian. I have a contract."

Her voice was like velvet over glass. She reached into her clutch, not for her gun, but for a cigarette she had no intention of lighting. Her hands were steady, a professional’s pride, but her heart was thudding a traitorous rhythm against her ribs.

Julian finally looked up. His eyes were the color of woodsmoke, piercing and predatory. He didn't look like a victim. He looked like a man who had been waiting for the executioner just so he could ask for a light.

"Ten years, Sloane," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly register that sent a shiver down her spine. "And this is how you greet me? With a silencer and a scowl?"

"You broke the rules, Julian. You stole from the Volkov family. No one survives that."

"I didn't steal," he said, leaning forward. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and expensive gin—hit her, triggering a flood of memories she had spent years drowning. "I took back what was mine. And right now, the only thing I want back is standing in front of me, pretending she doesn't remember what it felt like to breathe together."

Sloane’s hand dropped to the slit in her dress. Her fingers brushed the cold steel of the Glock. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Julian didn't flinch. Instead, he reached out, his hand moving with lightning speed. He didn't grab her arm; he placed his palm flat on the table, inches from hers. "You want to kill me? Do it. But do it while looking into my eyes, not like a coward in an alley. Show me the woman I saved is still in there."

The tension was a physical cord stretched to the breaking point. The music in the club seemed to fade into a dull roar. Sloane’s finger hooked around the trigger through the fabric of her dress. She saw the pulse jumping in Julian’s neck. He was daring her. He was loving the danger.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the club burst open.

Four men in long overcoats entered. They weren't the Syndicate. They were Russians—the Sokolov crew. And they weren't here to talk.

"Change of plans," Julian hissed. He stood up, grabbing Sloane’s wrist.

"Get off me, I have a job to—"

Thwip. Thwip.

Two silenced rounds embedded themselves into the leather padding of the booth where Sloane’s head had been a second ago. The room erupted. Socialites screamed, diving under tables as the jazz band scrambled for cover.

Sloane didn't hesitate. She kicked the table over to provide a shield, her gown tearing as she drew her weapon in one fluid motion. She fired twice, dropping the lead gunman before he could clear his coat.

"I thought you were here to kill me!" Julian shouted over the chaos, drawing his own weapon—a heavy .45 that looked like an extension of his arm.

"No one kills you but me!" Sloane retorted, pivoting to catch a second shooter in the shoulder.

They moved in a deadly, synchronized dance they had never practiced but seemed to know by instinct. Julian took the left, Sloane the right. They were a symphony of violence, back-to-back in the center of the room.

As the last of the gunmen fell, the fire alarm began to wail, drenching the club in a cold, artificial mist from the sprinklers. Sloane stood there, chest heaving, her purple dress soaked and clinging to her body, her hair plastered to her face.

Julian turned to her. Water dripped from the tip of his nose. He looked at her weapon, then at her face. The hunger in his eyes had nothing to do with the gunfight.

"The Syndicate didn't send those men," Julian said, stepping into her space. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "They were sent to clean up both of us. You’re a liability now, Sloane. Just like me."

The realization hit her like a physical blow. The hit on Julian wasn't a test of loyalty; it was a setup to get them both in the same room for a massacre.

"We have to go," Julian said, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck, his thumb grazing her jawline. "My car is outside. We leave now, or we die in this club."

Sloane looked at the door, then back at the man who was supposed to be her target. She reached into her clutch and pulled out a single, preserved black rose. She dropped it on the chest of the man she had just killed.

"The job is done," she whispered, her eyes locking onto Julian’s. "But the war is just beginning."

He didn't wait. He grabbed her hand, their fingers interlocking—forged in the heat of the hunt—and pulled her into the rainy night.