The Man I Swore to Kill

The call comes at 02:17.

Elena Vale is awake already.

She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, boots still on, jacket slung over the chair like she might leave again any second. Her gun rests on the nightstand where she cleaned it earlier, disassembled and reassembled out of habit, not necessity. Outside her window, the city hums low and restless, sirens threading the dark like warnings no one listens to anymore.

When the phone vibrates, she doesn’t jump.

She already knows.

“Vale,” she says.

There’s breathing on the other end. Someone choosing words carefully.

“Elena,” a woman says softly. “It’s Mia.”

The name hits her like a blow to the ribs.

She’s on her feet before the sentence finishes. “Where is she?”

A pause. Long enough to tell her everything.

“We’re at St. Andrew’s. You need to come now.”

Elena doesn’t remember the drive.

She remembers red lights she doesn’t stop for, tyres screaming as she takes corners too fast, the way her hands stay steady on the wheel while something inside her fractures quietly. She remembers thinking, absurdly, that she should have insisted Mia come home instead of following the lead alone. That she should have trusted her instincts instead of procedure.

By the time she reaches the hospital, she already knows.

They put her in a small room with grey walls and a clock that ticks too loudly. A uniformed officer stands by the door, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

“She was DOA,” he says gently. “Multiple gunshot wounds. Execution-style.”

Elena nods.

Execution-style.

Not random. Not messy.

“You said her name,” Elena says. “Say it again.”

The officer hesitates. “Detective Mia Russo.”

Elena closes her eyes.

Mia Russo. Her partner. Her best friend. The one who laughed too loud and swore too much and never backed down from a bad situation. The one who told Elena she’d never let this city swallow her whole.

Elena stands.

“Where is she?”

⸻

Mia looks smaller on the slab.

Paler. Too still.

Elena takes her hand. It’s cold.

“I told you not to go alone,” she whispers. “I told you.”

She presses her forehead to Mia’s, breathing shallowly, imprinting the moment into herself because she knows this will follow her forever.

“This doesn’t end here,” Elena says. “I swear.”

⸻

The case dies fast.

Evidence goes missing. CCTV cameras malfunction. Witnesses recant statements they never officially made. Elena is called into a meeting forty-eight hours later with two superiors who speak in careful, rehearsed phrases.

“There are bigger pressures at play,” one of them says.

“You need to let this breathe,” the other adds.

“My partner was executed,” Elena replies flatly.

“And if you push this the wrong way,” the first man says quietly, “you’ll join her.”

The threat is polite.

Clear.

That night, Elena goes home and spreads Mia’s files across her floor. Notes. Maps. Names. One location appears again and again in the margins of half-finished leads.

The Black Halo.

A nightclub. A front. A rumour.

Owned by Matteo De Luca.

She’s never seen him. No one has, not clearly. No photos that aren’t outdated. No recordings that aren’t distorted. Just stories.

Control. Discipline. Silence.

And now Mia is dead.

Elena picks up her phone and makes a call she’s been warned never to make.

“I want undercover,” she says when the line connects.

A sigh. “You know what you’re asking.”

“I want inside his world,” Elena says. “The slow way.”

Silence.

“You’ll disappear,” the voice says. “No backup. No badge.”

“I already have,” Elena replies.

⸻

Three months later, Elena Vale no longer exists.

In her place is Elena Riva.

Twenty-six. Recently moved. Questionable references. Clean enough to pass, messy enough to feel real. She dyes her hair darker, softens her posture, learns how to hold a tray instead of a weapon.

The club is louder than she expects.

Bass rattles through her bones, lights cutting through smoke and bodies packed too close together. The Black Halo isn’t flashy. It’s deliberate. Dark wood, low ceilings, shadowed corners. Everything designed to blur faces and sharpen instincts.

She starts on a Tuesday.

Carlo, the floor manager, looks her over like a problem he hasn’t decided to solve yet.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks.

“Yes,” Elena says easily.

“Where?”

She shrugs. “Places that don’t exist anymore.”

That earns her a look.

She’s hired on the spot.

The work is exhausting. Long nights. Heavy trays. Drunk men who assume things and learn quickly not to push. Elena keeps her head down. Watches. Listens. Memorises faces and routines.

And then, on her fifth shift, the room changes.

She feels it before she sees him.

The air tightens. Conversations soften. People straighten without knowing why.

“Elena,” Carlo mutters under his breath. “Eyes down.”

Footsteps. Measured. Unhurried.

She keeps pouring drinks, pulse steady, heart loud.

A man passes her. No entourage. No announcement.

Just presence.

She risks a glance.

Matteo De Luca is younger than she expects. Mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Dressed simply, no excess. He doesn’t scan the room like a predator. He already knows what’s there.

His gaze catches hers.

Holds.

Not leering. Not curious.

Assessing.

She drops her eyes immediately, heart pounding.

He doesn’t say a word.

But she knows.

She’s been seen.

Later that night, as she wipes down the bar, a glass appears in front of her. Empty.

“Vodka,” a voice says calmly.

She looks up.

Matteo stands there, close enough now that she can see the faint scar near his knuckle, the discipline in the way he holds himself.

“Yes,” she says, steady.

She pours. Slides the glass back.

He doesn’t drink it.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Elena,” she replies.

He studies her for a moment. “You don’t look like someone who should be here.”

She meets his gaze. “Neither do you.”

A pause.

Then, the faintest curve of his mouth.

“That,” he says, “is interesting.”

He leaves the glass untouched and walks away.

Elena’s hands don’t shake.

But her oath echoes louder than the music.

She came here to destroy him.

She doesn’t yet realise the danger isn’t the man watching her.

It’s the part of her that doesn’t look away.