A Ball Drenched in Blood

The first bullet didn’t come with a sound.

It came with death.

Then came the second, third—dozens more, raining from nowhere. Bullets whizzed from invisible corners, tearing through velvet curtains, chandeliers, and flesh alike.

Within seconds, the masquerade turned to mayhem.

Trained guards from both the Kuznetsov estate and the Italian Mafia were down before they could even raise their weapons. Some screamed orders. Others never got the chance.

The air was pierced with gunfire and shrieks. Wives in glittering gowns dropped their wine glasses, diving behind marble pillars. Blood spilled beside champagne.

No one could tell where the snipers were.

That was the terror.

And it was planned.

“Sniper!” someone shouted—but too late.

A man slumped near the buffet. Another collapsed by the orchestra pit.

Among the chaos, Lilia Kuznetsov, Sergei’s first wife, pulled a silver pistol from beneath her gown. Calm but alert. Years married to a mafia king had taught her how to shoot before scream.

She scanned the upper balconies, crouched low and glided past a fallen man. Suddenly—

BANG!

A bullet zipped by, grazing a bronze vase near her shoulder.

She gritted her teeth. Her steps slowed.

Then—she spotted Mrs. Klara Petrov, the head maid, holding a matte black pistol like a soldier, her eyes sharp.

Their eyes met.

Two women, both dangerous. No words.

Then a flash. A sharp whizz. A bullet came slicing toward her.

But instead of ducking, Mrs. Petrov, the head maid and longtime rival, seized Lilia by the arm and shoved her into its path.

“Shit!” Lilia cried out, staggering as the shot buried itself in her shoulder. Her designer dress bloomed red, blood oozing through trembling fingers.

Mrs. Petrov just smirked — a cold, triumphant curl of her lips that didn’t last long.

Lilia’s eyes narrowed. Pain twisted her face, but she didn’t scream. Her arm shaky but deadly, she raised her pistol and fired back — clean and swift. The bullet sank into Petrov’s back.

“Aah!” Petrov gasped, falling forward with a grunt. The smirk slid from her lips as quickly as her strength drained away.

Lilia took a step, standing tall despite the blood soaking her side. “Now we’re in the same boat, Klara,” she spat, her voice laced with venom and victory.

“Bitch,” Klara whispered, her voice brittle, fading.

—

Down the hallway in a locked room, Avery sat in a cold corner, her breath ragged.

Blood dried on her face. Her black gown was ripped near the thigh. Outside the door, gunfire echoed like thunderclaps.

The man who tried to harm her—now lay still beside the bed, eyes wide, neck twisted. The floor was soaked.

Avery didn’t cry. She couldn’t. She simply stared ahead, heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

—

In the women’s restroom, Lisa was still locked inside. She sobbed quietly, curled up near a sink. Her red gown stuck to her like glue. The sound of bullets outside only made her sob harder.

—

In the east hallway, Roman Kuznetsov ran, limping, sweat pouring from his face.

CRACK!

A bullet tore through the air and struck the wall behind him. He ducked.

“What the hell?” he growled, his hands empty.

Another shot—closer this time—hit the pillar he leaned against.

“I thought this damn place was impenetrable!”

Rage took over.

He faced the dark, spread his arms wide like a madman.

“Come out, coward!” he screamed. “Stop hiding and fight like a man! You think this is funny? Face me, bastard!”

—

In a hidden room lined with surveillance screens, the figure sat—calm, almost amused. He wore black gloves, his face veiled in black hoodie.

He watched Roman scream on the monitor. Then tilted his head slightly.

“So pathetic,” the man murmured, voice low and emotionless. “He talks too much.”

It was as if the bullets had obeyed his words — four surgical strikes, no misses. All painful. None fatal. Just humiliating.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

Four bullets answered him.

He dropped to the ground with a strangled yell, clutching his wounds.

The sleek black cat hopped onto the desk, curling around the screen, eyes gleaming like green glass.

“Meow,” it purred, glancing between the dead-eyed man and the chaos on-screen.

The figure’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “You're right, Nyra. The game’s gotten boring. We play another day.” he said, stroking the cat's head.

He flicked a switch. The screens turned black.

Then he stood, coat trailing behind him as he disappeared into the shadows. The cat followed, tail high.

—

And just like that—the rain of bullets stopped.

No warning. No trail.

The snipers were gone. Vanished without a trace.

Silence fell. Not peace—just the kind that comes after war.

The once-beautiful ballroom was destroyed. Blood smeared the marble floor. Bodies scattered across the hall like discarded props. Wine mixed with blood. Shattered glass glittered on the floor like diamonds.

Smoke drifted from bullet holes in the ceiling.

Emergency alarms blared as Kuznetsov’s elite medics arrived from the underground infirmary—designed for attacks like this.

They moved fast.

Roman was carried out—barely conscious, his mouth still spitting curses.

Lilia groaned on a stretcher, blood staining her gold gown.

Klara Petrov was wheeled behind them, pale but still breathing.

Dozens of others were carried out. But when the surviving Italian mafiosos saw their boss—lifeless on the floor, chest riddled with bullets—everything changed.

Shock shifted into fury.

“He’s dead,” one of them whispered. “Our boss is dead.”

In a Russian stronghold.

In public.

In front of allies.

This wasn’t an attack. It was humiliation.

And in the mafia world, humiliation demands revenge.

The moment the Italians carried out their fallen Don, chaos began to settle, but rage burned like wildfire in the veins of his second-in-command.

Lazaro Ricci’s boots echoed against blood-slick marble as he stood among the shattered glass and lifeless bodies. His voice was thick with fury as he addressed the stunned Kuznetsov guards. “This alliance is finished. You failed us.”

He turned to Ivan, who stood calmly with his usual smirk, sucking on a pink lollipop like the massacre was a Monday morning errand.

“We promise humiliation in tenfold,” Lazaro vowed, eyes burning. “Your father, your bloodline — we’ll make sure none forget what happened tonight.”

Ivan tilted his head, amused. “You know how Silence operates. They’re not after you. They're after us. You just got in the way.” He took a slow lick. “And trust me, if they really wanted all of you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here making speeches.”

“You arrogant bastard!” Lazaro snapped. “Relay this message to Sergei: We will return. With fire.”

With that, he ordered the remaining Italian mafiosi to gather their dead and injured. They carried the Don’s body like a shattered flag of war, eyes filled with venom. They vanished into the night with blood on their hands — and revenge in their hearts.

Avery stumbled out of the side hallway, her head pounding, dress ripped, and dried blood crusted along her temple. Her breathing was shallow, but her mind raced with one thought:

Lisa.

She pushed through the lingering smoke and overturned tables, past bodies and bullet holes, until she heard it — soft banging, muffled whimpers.

“Lisa?” Avery called out.

The noise grew louder.

She followed the sound to the locked ladies' restroom door. “Lisa!” she shouted.

No answer. Only crying.

Avery’s pulse kicked up. She braced herself, then slammed her foot into the door.

Once. Twice. CRACK. The door gave way.

Inside, Lisa sat on the floor, curled into herself like a lost child. Her mascara streaked down her cheeks, her hands trembling.

“Oh God…” Avery whispered, rushing forward.

She crouched and pulled Lisa into a tight hug. Her arms trembled, but her voice stayed firm. “Stop crying. War time’s over.”

Lisa didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then she pulled back slightly and looked up at Avery, her tear-stained face full of shock. “You… what happened to you?”

Avery looked down. Her gown was slashed at the side. Her skin bore dried smears of blood. Her hair was tangled and her eyes hollow.

Avery chuckled dryly, bitter and short. “Roman and some Italian guy... they tried to—” She stopped herself, jaw clenching. “They almost did something bad. Then the snipers hit. I guess I got lucky.”

Lisa swallowed hard. “They’re not just snipers.”

Avery raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Lisa leaned back against the wall, her voice hushed. “The ones who attacked… they weren’t random. That was Silence.”

Avery blinked. “Silence?”

Lisa nodded. “A mafia group, or something worse. No one knows who they are. No name, no face. Just destruction. They’ve been haunting the Kuznetsovs for ten years now.”

“Why?”

“No one knows. But they always strike without warning. And when they do…” Lisa looked away. “It’s brutal. They disappear like shadows.”

Avery fell silent, absorbing the weight of it all.

Lisa’s gaze grew darker. “And this was just the beginning.”

Avery turned to her slowly. “You’re serious?”

Lisa nodded. “Whatever game started tonight… it’s not over.”

They both stood slowly, holding onto each other for support as they walked through the ruins of what used to be a glamorous masquerade.

The chandelier lay shattered.

Blood trailed like ribbons across the dance floor.

Smoke curled up from cracked furniture.

The party was over.

Midnight had swallowed everything.

As they walked toward the corridor leading back to their rooms, Avery muttered, “So many secrets...”

Lisa exhaled. “And no one to trust.”

*

As the morning rose, sunlight touched the earth gently. To normal people, it was a bright new day.

But to the Kuznetsovs… it was a day of reckoning.

Inside the VIP ward of the Kuznetsovs’ private infirmary, Roman lay half-dead on the sterile bed.

Thick bandages wrapped his body like a corpse that forgot to die. Pain pulsed in waves. He couldn’t move—only watch.

In front of him, a hologram hovered, flickering faintly.

It showed Don Sergei Kuznetsov—the old mafia godfather.

Bald head, one blind eye, a deep scar dragging down his cheek like an insult life couldn’t erase. Smoke curled from his pipe in lazy tendrils. Half-naked women lounged around him like trained pets, unmoving, silent. The kind of silence that came with power.

Roman scoffed.

“Old man, you seem to be having fun,” he spat, voice hoarse with pain. “While I’m lying here, body full of bullets, your empire falling apart.”

Sergei didn’t blink. He took a slow drag, exhaled like he had all the time in the world.

“You talk too much, boy.”

His Russian drawl was calm, graveled, and cold.

“You’re lying in bed, shot full of holes, still yapping like a puppy that thinks it’s a wolf.”

Roman’s fists twitched. His whole body burned.

“Silence came back yesterday. Nearly wiped us out. Even the Italians are turning against us. That bastard’s haunted us for ten years, and we still don’t know why—”

Sergei cut in, voice low, deadly.

“Silence didn’t come back yesterday. He never left.”

Roman's mouth twitched.

“You think your generation owns these streets?” Sergei leaned forward, his one good eye gleaming. “We were born in the blood. Drank from it. You… you wear suits and play soldier.”

Roman sneered. “And you just sit there like a rotting king, pipe in your mouth, whores in your lap.”

Sergei’s smile dropped. His voice turned sharp.

“Watch your tongue, Roman. You may be my blood, but that don’t make you immortal.”

He leaned back. Exhaled smoke.

“I’m leaving Bulgaria.”

Roman’s eyes sharpened. “You’re coming back?”

“To America,” Sergei said, casually, like saying he was changing shoes.

“When?”

Sergei chuckled—dry, tired, dangerous.

“When rats start walking in daylight. When traitors think the devil’s gone soft. That’s when I return.”

He flicked ash onto a girl’s thigh. She didn’t flinch.

“Get stronger, Roman. You bleed too easily. Or don’t bother waking up.”

The hologram cut off.

Silence filled the ward. Only the beeping of machines and the tightness in Roman’s jaw remained. His anger burned. But deep underneath it… was fear.

*

That night, Avery couldn’t sleep.

Her mind spun like a storm—so many questions, too few answers. Her head felt hot, like it could burst. She just needed space… quiet… air.

Without thinking, her feet led her to the rooftop—the highest point of the estate, quiet and open to the night sky. The wind was cool up there, rustling her short hair gently as she stepped forward and leaned on the railing, staring into the stars.

“I can’t believe I almost got raped. Twice.” Her voice trembled with disbelief, yet simmered with anger. “If I had powers right now, I swear—”

“Keep your thoughts to yourself.”

She froze.

That voice—cold, low, emotionless—cut straight through the wind.

Her eyes snapped around, adjusting to the dark… and then she saw him.

Perched near the edge like some shadowed phantom, black hoodie blending perfectly into the night. Calm, dangerous, untouchable.

Kieran.

Of course it was him.

He took a slow drag from the cigarette between his fingers, exhaling smoke like he didn’t care that the world had almost ended.

Avery rolled her eyes. “It’s Mr. Dickface again. Why the hell do we keep meeting? Are you following me?”

He turned his face slightly toward her, eyes gleaming faintly. “I think it’s the other way around, stepmom,” he said, his voice annoyingly calm. “You’re the one always clinging to me. do you badly want to be screwed?”

Her jaw dropped. “Cling? To you? Please. I’d rather become a nun than let a psychopath like you lay a finger on me.”

“Are you so sure?” he asked, standing up slowly, a dangerous smirk curling his lips. “You talk a lot for someone who keeps ending up in my space.”

She instinctively stepped back. “Try anything stupid, and I’ll throw you off this damn roof.”

“We’ll see,” he murmured, taking a slow step toward her. “With a mouth like yours… maybe you deserved what was coming to you.”

Avery’s back hit the railing. Her breath caught. For a moment, she saw the glint in his eyes, unreadable, cold… maybe even testing her.

Then he leaned slightly closer, smoke curling between them.

Neither moved.

Neither blinked.

And then—

*

Across the mansion, Lisa wandered around her chamber. Her pink pajamas hung loosely on her as she walked in slow circles, still shaken from the masquerade massacre. Her eyes were swollen from tears, her heart still thudding as if the bullets hadn’t stopped.

She passed the mirror.

Then the window.

Then—

A hand shot out of the dark.

Fingers tangled into her hair. Yanked.

She screamed—

But the darkness swallowed it.