Chapter 2: Don't Pull the Trigger

Ivana's POV

I didn't move an inch. I stayed flat behind the stock of the rifle, my eyes glued to the scope, watching the tiny crosshairs rest perfectly over Alpha Alfonso's left temple. I was genuinely convinced someone had hacked headquarters.

"Stop joking," I hissed into my collar mic, my thumb steady against the steel receiver. "I'm seconds away from dropping him. The line of sight is clear, wind is zero, and I'm pulling the trigger on three."

"I'm not joking, Sokolov," the Director’s voice came back, cold and flat. "Abort.”

"No," I growled out, the absurdity of the command making my jaw tighten. I wasn't throwing away hours of prep, risk, and a high-paying hit just because some suit at headquarters suddenly had a change of heart. I was a professional. When I took a job, I finished it.

I started counting down in my head, tightening the pressure on the trigger millimeter by millimeter.

Three.

Two...

"If you pull that trigger..."

The Director paused, the slight crackle of static filling the silence before he delivered the blow.

"...your brother dies."

The world snapped completely still.

My finger froze instantly. The cold metal of the trigger felt like a block of ice against my skin. For the first time in ten years, my heart gave a violent, painful thud against my ribs.

I pulled away from the scope so fast my vision blurred. I sat back on my heels in the dark gantry, my chest heaving, a sudden wave of blistering heat washing over my skin.

"What the hell did you just say?" I snarled, my quiet whisper laced with toxic venom.

"You heard me," he replied, unbothered by the rage vibrating through the line. "Pack up your gear and leave the building immediately. No questions asked. No detours taken. You have twenty minutes to report back to headquarters. Go."

The comms clicked dead.

I stared into the dark rafters of the ceiling, my breathing coming in shortbursts. I wasn't scared—I was utterly, blindingly furious. But I wasn't stupid either. If there was even a tiny chance he wasn't bluffing, I couldn't risk the shot.

I stripped the rifle down in eight seconds flat, shoving the parts back into my concealed duffel bag. My mind was racing at a thousand miles an hour, twisting around a hundred questions. Why the sudden pivot? Why does someone suddenly need Alpha Alfonso alive? And how the hell did my past catch up to me today?

I slung the bag over my shoulder and slipped out toward the fire exit leading to the rooftop escape route. Just as my hand hit the crash bar of the metal door, a muffled crack echoed through the shaft above me.

A suppressed rifle shot.

Someone else took the shot. One of the competitors on the open bounty had lined up their angle.

I froze, instinctively peeking through the narrow glass slit of the service door down to the main floor. The bullet was aimed dead center at Alfonso’s chest. A split-second disaster.

Then the impossible happened.

Alfonso didn't duck or scream. He didn't even look up at the rafters.

Before the round could smash into his sternum, the head of his personal security detail casually shifted his shoulder forward, stepping directly into the bullet's path. The Kevlar plate under his suit took the impact with a dull thud. But what made my blood run cold was Alfonso himself.

In the exact millisecond the shot was fired—before anyone in the crowd even registered the sound—Alfonso tilted his head less than two inches to the left, his dark eyes casually sweeping the exact ceiling beam the sniper was hiding in. This man was a monster. He had tracked the bullet's origin before it even landed.

He didn't panic. He simply adjusted his cufflinks, bored by the attempt on his life.

That single movement answered why the man had survived three major mafia wars. He wasn't lucky. He was a terrifying, hyper-aware beast.

I pulled back from the door and ran. I hit the back alley, blended into the evening, and caught a private transit cab straight back to the central agency facility.

The entire ride was a blur. The order kept looping in my head like a warped tape. Carry his heir. Carry his heir. What kind of sick, twisted joke were they playing?

When I slammed open the iron doors of the headquarters basement, expecting a team of handlers to corner me, the air felt... off.

It was too quiet. The floor was usually buzzing with tech analysts, weapons handlers, and contract brokers. Tonight, the few people standing near the monitors kept their heads glued to their desks. The second I walked past, two junior agents deliberately turned their backs, refusing to make eye contact with me.

They already knew. Everyone in this damn building knew something I didn't.

I pushed straight into the Director's private glass office without knocking.

The Director was sitting behind his wide wood desk, his hands clasped over a single, thick black folder. I got no "good job getting out clean." He simply reached out and slid the folder across the polished surface toward me.

Stamped on the front in bold red ink was a single title:

PROJECT HEIR

A breathless laugh burst out of my chest. I chuckled, shaking my head as I crossed my arms. "Are you out of your mind? Is this some sort of exam I gotta figure out? Because if it is, you're failing miserably."

"Open it," he said flatly.

My smile faded. I stepped up to the desk, pulled the folder open, and began flipping through the pages.

Inside were photographs of Alfonso. Detailed medical records. Blood work panels. Advanced genetic compatibility match charts. And under my own name—a full, comprehensive biological profile, down to my childhood medical history. Attached to the back was a legally binding surrogacy and lineage agreement, complete with my legal name printed at the bottom line.

I hadn't signed a single thing.

This wasn't an impulse decision made while I was out earlier. This paperwork had been drafted weeks ago. The compatibility tests had been processed long before I ever heard of the whole taking down Alfonso gig. 

An unsettling chill settled deep in my stomach. The realization hit me like a punch.

I was never sent there to kill Alpha Alfonso. The open bounty, the contract, everything.... It was all just bait to get me into position. To test my obedience.

I looked up from the paper, my eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as I glared at the man across the desk. "What exactly aren't you telling me?"

The Director stared at me flatly,but he didn't answer. I don't think he was planning on it at all. 

Instead, he reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out a small, glossy photograph, and pushed it across the wood, letting it rest right beside the contract.

I looked down.

It was a recent photo. Clear, crisp, taken outside a sunlit park. A teenage boy with my exact dark eyes, wearing a simple gray jacket, looking directly into the camera lens with a faint smile.

My breath caught in my throat. The air vanished from my lungs.

"Luka..." I whispered, my voice cracking for the first time in years. "I... I buried him. I saw the fire. I thought he was dead."

"He isn't," the Director said, his tone as cold and unfeeling as concrete. "He’s been in a private medical facility under our care for the last four years."

He leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the desk, his gaze locking into mine.

"He can stay alive..." he paused, letting the silence stretch between us. "...if you become Alpha Alfonso's surrogate.”