An assassin's mark

CHAPTER 1

RAVEN'S POV:

The silencer coughs once, a soft, almost child-like, like a suppressed sneeze in a quiet library, and the mark drops like a sack of wet cement, his body folding in on itself with an undignified thud.

His cheek smacks against the cold marble floor of his penthouse kitchen, the impact echoing slightly in the vast, open space, and blood starts pooling immediately, dark and viscous, spreading out in lazy, irregular fingers under the harsh, unforgiving glow of the pendant lights hanging like judgmental chandeliers above the island counter.

The river view through the floor to ceiling glass windows mocks the entire scene, Manhattan's skyline glittering indifferently in the distance, a million twinkling lights that seem to say, "Another life snuffed out in this city? Who gives a damn?" I step over him without a second glance, my boot narrowly avoiding the edge of the stain as it creeps toward the grout lines.

It is done, lingering on the dead is a luxury I can't afford, it's the living who pay the bills, and tonight's payout will keep me afloat for months.

I wipe the dagger on the hem of his silk robe Armani, by the feel of the smooth, expensive fabric, probably costing more than what most people make in a month and slide it back into the thigh holster strapped securely under my leather romper.

The material clings to me like a second skin, black and molded to every curve and muscle I've honed over years of this brutal life. It's practical for jobs like this, flexible enough for quick movements, tight enough to conceal the tools of my trade without restricting a sudden draw or twist.

The romper's zipper runs low, exposing just enough cleavage to distract if needed, but tonight it's all about efficiency, not seduction.

The knives at my waist shift with each deliberate step I take two slim throwing blades, balanced perfectly for a mid-air spin that could pin a fly to a wall from twenty feet, and one serrated beast for when things get up close and messy, the kind that tears flesh more than it slices clean.

They click faintly against my hips, a rhythmic, almost comforting reminder that I'm always armed, always ready. In this line of work, hesitation isn't just a mistake, it's death's open invitation, and I've danced with that bastard too many times to let him lead.

Placing a call across to my boss to inform him of a successful mission,i stepped out from the room.

No alarms blare through the building's speakers. No security team comes rushing in with guns drawn, I made sure of that earlier, the doorman downstairs took a fat envelope of crisp hundreds to develop a sudden case of selective blindness.

He didn't even blink when I slipped past him in the lobby, just nodded like we were old acquaintances sharing a dirty little secret. Money talks louder than loyalty in this city, especially when it's stacked high enough to bury your morals under a pile of green.

I've learned that the hard way, over too many nights like this one, where the line between right and wrong blurs into nothing but survival. The rich think they own everything.

I ghost through the service corridor, hood pulled up low over my face to shadow my features, boots silent on the scuffed concrete floor that smells faintly of bleach and forgotten garbage.

The air here is cooler, heavier, a stark contrast to the polished luxury of the penthouse above, where everything was pristine and sterile until I painted it red.

Elevator dings softly as I hit the button, doors sliding open with a mechanical hiss that always reminds me of a snake uncoiling. I step in, punch the basement level, and lean against the mirrored wall, watching the numbers tick down like a countdown to freedom.

My reflection stares back from the panels, pale skin flushed slightly from the adrenaline, eyes shadowed and empty under the harsh fluorescent buzz, lips pressed into a thin, determined line.

I look like what I am, a ghost in the machine of this ruthless world, slipping through cracks no one else bothers to notice, a woman who's learned to turn her emptiness into a weapon.

Down in the basement garage, rows of gleaming Bentleys and Porsches sit like sleeping beasts under dim, yellowish overhead lights that cast long, eerie shadows.

The air's thick with the faint tang of exhaust fumes and motor oil, a mechanical scent that clings to my clothes as I weave between the vehicles, keeping low to avoid any stray cameras. I hit the side exit, pushing through a heavy metal door that groans in protest, and step out into the alley.

My Honda parked two blocks away on a dimly lit side street, no custom rims or flashy decals, no license plates that scream "look at me." It's the kind of car that blends into traffic like a chameleon, forgettable in a city full of distractions.

That's how you stay alive as an assassin, become invisible, disappear into the noise, leave no trace except the cooling body upstairs and the echo of a silenced kill.

Outside, the rain comes down in relentless sheets, cold and sharp like a thousand tiny needles pricking my skin through the leather. The town at night is a beast on its own, it doesn't care if you're triumphant after a kill or shattered from a bad memory, it just keeps pounding away, indifferent to the blood on your hands or the hollow ache in your chest that never quite fills.

I melted into the alley shadows between towering brick buildings graffiti-ed with faded tags and peeling posters, heart rate holding steady. Always steady after a clean kill.

It's like my body's got its own internal ledger, tallying up the souls without asking if I want to keep count.

The rain slicks the pavement, turning it into a mirror that reflects distorted city lights, red from stop signs, yellow from streetlamps, blue from distant sirens.

The sound of it pattering against trash cans and fire escapes creates a white noise that drowns out the distant hum of traffic, making the world feel smaller, more isolated.

Ten years. Ten fucking years since that godforsaken hotel suite bathroom, and the memory still claws its way into my dreams, waking me gasping for air like I'm drowning in my own sweat. The tile was ice cold against my bare back, the kind of chill that seeps deep into your bones and lingers long after the bruises fade.

His breath was hot and heavy with champagne, reeking of entitlement and excess, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn't shove off no matter how hard I fought.

I said "no" over and over, the word turning into muffled screams against his palm clamped tight over my mouth, his fingers digging into my cheeks like vices.

The rip of my dress echoed in my ears, fabric giving way easily, as if my body was just another thing to be torn apart for his convenience. He grunted through it all, low and animalistic, like it was nothing to him, like I was nothing more than a convenient outlet for whatever rage or lust boiled inside him that night.

The pain was sharp, invading, a violation that went beyond flesh, it shattered something inside me, left me hollow.

Then blackness swallowed me whole, merciful in its way.

I woke up alone on that same tile, thighs sticky with blood and his cum,my body aching in places I didn't know could hurt so profoundly, my stomach already churning with the seed of what would become Lila, a life forced into existence from that single act of cruelty.

I didn't report it. Who would believe a nobody like me, a nineteen-year-old waitress scraping by on tips, against a rising star like Damien Blackwood, heir to a fortune and already making waves in the business world? The cops would've laughed, or worse, blamed me for being in that hotel party in the first place.

So I buried it deep, let it fester into hatred, and rebuilt myself from the fragments.

Gave birth in a dingy free clinic under a fake name, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of angry bees, the doctor's hands cold as he placed her in my arms. I held her tiny, wrinkled fist in mine and made a vow right there, sweat still drying on my forehead from the labor.

She'd never know that kind of pain.

I'd kill anyone who tried to inflict it on her.

I'd become the monster if it meant keeping her safe, turning my emptiness into armor, my fear into fuel for the life I lead now.

Lila, my daughter, she's my anchor in this endless storm of emptiness, the one thing that tugs at the void inside me and makes it feel a little less infinite, a little more bearable.

Those storm-gray eyes, his eyes, damn it to hell, staring up at me most mornings over a bowl of cereal, full of innocence and questions I dodge with half smiles and quick distractions.

She thinks I'm a "travel consultant," always jetting off for mysterious meetings in far flung cities.

She doesn't know the late nights are spent with a gun in hand, the bruises hidden under long sleeves come from close calls with targets who fight back harder than expected, or that the stacks of cash tucked away in the safe are stained with other people's blood, earned from contracts that would make her nightmares pale in comparison.

She plays piano like it's pure magic, her little fingers dancing over the keys in our cramped Brooklyn apartment, filling the air with notes that almost, almost make me forget the ugliness of it all.

I listen from the hallway sometimes, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed, my throat tight with something I won't name because emotions like that are weaknesses in my world.

Tears are for people who still have hearts that beat for more than just survival, for people who haven't learned that love is a liability when you're living on the edge.

The offshore account just ticked up another six figures from this job.

Enough to cover her private school tuition for the year, the therapy sessions she doesn't know are for the "nightmares" I must have passed down through my genes, maybe even a bigger place someday where she can have a room with a view that doesn't overlook garbage-strewn alleys and shouting neighbors.

Enough to keep us running, keep us hidden from the past that always feels like it's one step behind.

I duck into O'Malley's, a grimy dive bar three blocks from the hit. The door creaks as I push through, the interior hitting me with a wave of stale beer, cigarette smoke clinging to the walls despite the smoking bans, and the low hum of muted conversations from patrons who look as worn and battered as the barstools they've claimed.

Neon signs buzz like angry wasps overhead, "Budweiser," "Open Late," flickering red and blue across scarred wooden tables etched with initials from years gone by.

The place smells like regret and cheap liquor, the kind of spot where dreams go to die slow.

I slide onto a stool at the end of the bar, away from the cluster of drunks nursing their pints and sharing slurred stories.

"Whiskey neat," I mutter to the bartender, a grizzled guy with tattoos snaking up his arms like vines and eyes that see too much but say absolutely nothing.

He pours without a word, slides the glass over with a nod. I knock it back in one go, the burn racing down my throat like liquid fire, chasing away the lingering ghost of Damien's cologne from my mind sandalwood mixed with leather and raw power, the scent that still turns my stomach after all this time, triggering flashes of that night every time it hits me unexpectedly.

Damien Blackwood. Twenty nine now, the same age as me, but living in a world so far removed from mine it might as well be another planet.

CEO of Blackwood Enterprises, a sprawling empire of high-rise real estate developments, cutting-edge tech startups, and whatever else he sinks his ruthless claws into to turn a profit.

The society pages paint him as the elusive bachelor, the visionary tycoon who turns failing companies into gold mines overnight with a single signature. "Ruthless negotiator," they call him, like it's a badge of honor, a compliment for how he crushes rivals without a second thought.

I call him the monster who shattered me into pieces and left me to rebuild alone, the reason I traded my old life, a waitress scraping by on tips and dreams of something better, for one where I load a gun one handed in the dark, where I strip for cash in seedy clubs to blend in as "just another girl," where I sell my body when the assassin gigs dry up because survival doesn't come cheap and pride is a luxury for the living.

Does he remember that night? Or is it just a blurry, drunken haze in his polished existence, one more wild party among hundreds, a conquest he forgot by morning light, filed away as a youthful indiscretion? I hope it's blurry.

I hope it nags at him in quiet moments, a shadow in the corner of his mind that makes him wake up sweating, wondering why he feels that vague, unsettled unease.

Not enough to piece it together, not yet.

I want to be the one who forces the puzzle into place, who makes him confront the girl he broke and the life he created in the process.

I want him to look into my eyes and see the emptiness he carved out, staring back with a vengeance.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, Lila's school calling. I answer quickly, my voice dropping to that soft, protective tone I reserve only for her, the one that feels foreign in my mouth after a night like this.

"Mom?" Her voice is small, sweet, cutting through the bar's noise like a lifeline thrown into choppy waters.

"Hey, baby. Is everything okay?" I keep my tone light, but my grip on the phone tightens, knuckles whitening.

"Yeah. Just missed you. When are you coming home?" There's a hint of whine in her words, the kind that tugs at the remnants of my heart.

"Soon. I promise. Practice that piano piece for me, okay? The one with the fast fingers?"

"Okay. Love you, Mom."

"Love you more, kiddo."

The line goes dead, and the emptiness crashes back in, colder than the rain drumming against the bar's window.

I toss cash on the counter, too much, but who cares tonight? I got up and pushed out into the storm.

Water soaks through the leather as I walk fast toward the subway entrance, heading home, the pavement slick and reflective under my boots, mind already shifting gears from killer to avenger.

Damien's face from the news reel earlier tonight, smirking at some high-society gala, arm casually around some socialite who doesn't know the devil she's dancing with. Untouchable, they say. Not for long.

Eclipse, his private club downtown.

High-roller event tomorrow night.

Exclusive crowd, escorts and dancers on the menu, auctioned off for "private entertainment" to the highest bidder.

I've worked spots like that before under aliases, wig, colored contacts, face half masked in shadow like I do for kills to keep my identity buried.

They won't recognize me. I'll sign up as a last-minute addition, let the bids climb higher and higher, let him win the night with me if his ego demands it.

Then, when we're alone in whatever lavish penthouse suite he drags me to, when his hands start wandering like they own everything in sight, I'll draw the knife from my waist.

Press it to his throat with steady pressure. Make him relive every brutal second of that bathroom tile, the cold, the pain, the violation.

Make him beg for mercy he doesn't deserve, his voice breaking as the memories flood back.

And when the fear finally shatters that cold, mean mask of his, when his ruthless facade cracks wide open, I'll decide,Let him live long enough to learn about his daughter, to feel the weight of what he created and abandoned in one thoughtless act?

Let him grapple with the guilt that should have haunted him all these years?

Or end it there, watching the light fade from those storm gray eyes that mirror Lila's, knowing I took back what he stole from me ten years ago?

I smile into the rain, small, sharp, the first real spark of life I've felt in years, cutting through the numbness like one of my blades.

Tomorrow, Damien.

Tomorrow, I start collecting what's owed.

Game fucking on.