The night stretched long over Chicago, veiling the city's darkest secrets behind its flickering lights. In a luxury penthouse nestled above the skyline, Luca sat in front of the wide glass window, whiskey in hand, a cigar lit but barely touched. The sound of the city did little to distract him from the storm brewing in his head.
He had tried. God, he had tried.
Three different women in three weeks. Models. Strippers. Flirty temptresses who once had the power to make him forget the world. But every time he reached to touch, to take, to sink himself into someone else and drown his longing, it failed.
Because it wasn't her.
Every time, her face—Rose's face—flashed in his mind. That calm innocence, those eyes that had once looked at him like she feared him, yet trusted him at the same time. A woman who worked for him and had no idea what grip she had on the monster inside him.
He had started sending gifts to her. Designer dresses. Perfumes she never wore. A custom gold bracelet engraved with her name in cursive.
Every gift sent with no expectation of thanks, just an attempt to fill the void. A reminder to her—and himself—that he was still watching her.
Rose didn't respond. Not once. But she never returned the gifts either.
Luca took another gulp of whiskey, frustration settling deep in his gut.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" he muttered.
---
Across the city, chaos had begun to unfold.
In a dim apartment that smelled of tobacco and gun oil, Moga, known in the underworld as the "Death Angel," sat cross-legged in lace lingerie. Her red hair tumbled wildly around her shoulders, a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Inked tattoos wrapped her thighs, her arms—each one a memory of blood, betrayal, and war.
Her phone buzzed. The screen lit up: Unknown Number.
She answered.
"Death Angel, in two hours, the target will arrive at the State Capitol Conference to deliver his speech. The photo has been sent. You already know what to do. Headshot. Clean. No mistakes."
The voice on the other end was deep, gravelly, no emotions. Pure business.
"Copy that," Moga replied, her tone crisp and lethal.
Her phone chimed again. The image of a bald-headed politician in a black suit popped up. Smiling, shaking hands with voters. She stared at the photo long and hard.
"Time to work," she whispered to herself.
In less than ten minutes, she had packed her gear.
Her red hair was tied back into a tight ponytail. She slid into a black, tactical assassin suit, zipped up to her chest. She opened a hidden panel in her closet, revealing an arsenal of weapons, and selected her favorite long-range rifle. She loaded the bullets with quiet precision, checked her Bluetooth earpiece, grabbed her mask, and vanished into the night.
---
The Capitol Conference Center was teeming with security and flashing lights. Reporters flooded the lawn. Police surrounded the area. Inside, anticipation grew.
High above the noise, on the 16th floor of an abandoned building adjacent to the conference, Moga lay flat on her stomach, eye fixed on the sniper scope.
She exhaled slowly, steadying her aim.
Her target emerged. Bald head. Sharp suit. Flanked by two security guards.
Moga smirked. "Perfect."
Just as she tightened her finger on the trigger, a pregnant woman stepped onto the stage. Her hand slipped into the target's.
Moga froze.
For a moment, the building disappeared. She saw her mother's bloodied face. The wailing echo of sirens. The lifeless body of her father. Her mother—seven months pregnant—slumped over with a bullet in her belly.
Moga blinked, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"You've got this, Morgana. Pull yourself together," she whispered.
She reset her aim. But her grip shook. Just as she pulled the trigger—
BANG!
The instant the bullet veered off course and slammed into the guard's skull, chaos detonated like a bomb.
Screams pierced the air. The crowd scattered in a frenzy. Agents pulled the bald-headed politician to the ground, shielding him with bodies as others returned fire blindly toward the sniper's location.
"Sh*t!" Moga hissed, yanking the rifle from its perch. Her heart pounded like war drums. The mission was compromised.
Red lights flared across nearby rooftops—snipers had spotted her.
She didn't hesitate. She grabbed her gear, slung the case across her back, smashed through a maintenance door, and sprinted down the stairs, boots pounding metal. A voice crackled through a nearby radio:
"Target is female. Red hair. Moving southeast—Level 19 stairwell!"
"F**k!" she spat, kicking the stairwell door open into a hallway. Alarms shrieked. She stripped off her mask mid-run, ditched it into a vent shaft, and crashed into a boutique two buildings down.
Breathing hard but steady, Moga peeled off her assassin gear in a fitting room, tossed on a sundress, heels, and a wide-brimmed hat. She let her hair fall, tousled it, slid on designer sunglasses, and calmly walked to the counter, buying a lip gloss.
Outside, two patrol officers passed right by her.
They didn't recognize the woman who'd just triggered a national security lockdown.
She smirked, stepped into a yellow cab, and disappeared into downtown traffic—leaving behind a city on high alert
---
Back at her apartment, Moga poured a full glass of vodka. Her hands trembled.
The TV was already blaring.
"BREAKING NEWS: ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT AT CAPITOL CONFERENCE. ONE GUARD DEAD. TARGET SURVIVES."
Her photo wasn't released. Not yet.
She downed the drink.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She sat down heavily on her couch, sweat trailing down her temple.
And she waited—waited for the knock at the door. The backlash. The punishment. Or worse, the man who hired her to call.
---
Meanwhile, Luca's penthouse had turned into a war room. His right-hand man, Vito, stormed in with urgency.
"Boss... we've got a problem."
Luca barely turned his head. "What now?"
Vito tossed a tablet on the table. "That politician in Capitol Hill? Someone tried to take him out today. Missed. But we're hearing whispers. It wasn't just a random hit."
Luca's jaw clenched. "Who?"
"The Death Angel."
Luca stood up sharply. His drink shattered as it fell from his hand.
"Moga? She's in Chicago?"
Vito nodded. "That's not all. There are rumors she's not just here for the hit. Word is, she might be looking for you."
A silence fell.
Luca's thoughts spiraled. A missed hit meant someone would clean the mess—soon. And if Moga was here, it wasn't just business anymore.
And then there was Rose.
He glanced at his phone—an unsent message to her still open on his screen.
He couldn't afford mistakes. Not now.
"Tighten security," he said quietly. "I want eyes on every major street. If Moga's here, we find her first."
Vito nodded.
As the door closed behind him, Luca sat back down, rubbing his temple.
One moment he was battling his craving for an innocent girl who had no idea of the world he lived in.
The next, he was potentially the target of the deadliest assassin in the underground world.
And the worst part?
His biggest fear was no longer dying.
It was Rose being caught in the crossfire
What do you think about moga ?
Do you think there's more to LMD suite?
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Please your support means alot to me...
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