Raven's POV
The room smelled of sweat and expensive cologne, the kind that clung to men who thought they could buy anything, even me.
His moans filled the air, desperate and ragged, like a song played too loud. I straddled him, my thighs slick against his hips, my movements deliberate, each roll of my hips a calculated stroke to push him closer to the edge. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging into my skin like he could own me. Like I wasn't a ghost he'd never hold.
"Fuck, baby… just like that," he panted, his voice raw, eyes half-lidded with lust. "Don't stop. Please… God, yes…"
I didn't answer. I never did.
My hair clung to my face, damp with sweat. My nails raked across his chest, leaving red trails that bloomed like signatures of his surrender. His body trembled beneath me, so close to breaking. His name was Richard Holt, forty-six, married, CEO of a pharmaceutical empire built on expired pills that killed children in war zones. He thought I was his fantasy. He didn't know I was his executioner.
His eyes locked onto mine, wide and glassy, like I was his salvation. I smiled, slow and sharp, because I knew this was his last moment alive.
He didn't see the blade I slipped from under the pillow. He was too drunk on me, too lost in the way my body moved, the way I moaned his name like I meant it. Poor bastard.
I leaned down, my lips brushing his, slow and teasing, tasting the whiskey on his breath. His hands tightened, his groan muffled against my mouth as he came undone.
"Shh," I whispered into his ear, my voice a velvet blade. "You came too soon."
The knife sliced across his throat in one clean motion, like cutting through warm butter. His eyes widened, a gurgle escaping his lips as blood sprayed, hot and thick, splattering my stomach and thighs. His hands twitched, clawing at my waist, then fell limp. The room went silent, save for the soft drip of blood onto the silk sheets.
I exhaled, rolling off his lifeless body with a sigh. Silence like this, after pleasure, before disposal, was the kind I loved most.
Standing, I was a vision of contradiction: soft curves, full lips, wide eyes, all drenched in crimson. I walked to the bathroom, the mirror reflecting a siren painted in slaughter. I wiped Holt's blood from my chest with a damp towel, tossing it onto his face with a flick of my wrist.
"Goodnight, loser," I muttered.
My name is Raven, and I kill men for a living. Not just any men, powerful ones, greedy ones, the kind the world wants erased. Men like Holt, whose lies cost lives. I don't kill out of rage. I kill with strategy, precision, seduction. My body is my weapon. My smile, my bait. And no one sees it coming.
Holt was my seventh kill this year. Quick, clean, efficient. But tonight, I wasn't in the mood to play. I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water strip away the blood and the echoes of his moans. The phone rang as I stepped out, steam curling around me like a lover's ghost.
I didn't need to check the caller ID. Only one person had this number.
"Cleanup's on the way," the voice said, female and robotic, a burner line Victor used to keep his tracks clean. "Well done, Raven. You've outdone yourself again."
"I always do," I said, toweling my hair, my voice flat despite the pulse of dread in my chest.
A pause, then:
"Your next assignment is tomorrow. Level five priority."
My stomach tightened. Level five was the highest classification, global stakes, high risk, the kind of job where death waited on both sides. The kind they didn't give to women like me unless they were desperate. Or unless they knew I was the only one who could pull it off.
"Name?" I asked, keeping my tone steady.
"Lorenzo De Luca. Sicilian bloodline. Controls five ports, three cities, half the cocaine trade in Western Europe. Code name: Viper."
I sat on the edge of the bed, Holt's corpse cooling beside me, his blood soaking the pillow. My pulse didn't quicken, but something dark and electric sparked beneath my skin. Lorenzo De Luca. The Viper.
A name whispered in fear, even by men like Victor. I'd heard the stories, how he'd gutted his own uncle to claim his throne, how his enemies vanished into Lake Como, their bodies never found.
"I thought he was off-limits," I said, reaching for the cigarette on the nightstand. I lit it, the flame casting shadows across Holt's glassy eyes.
"Not anymore," the voice said. "Someone wants him gone. Quietly, and slowly. They want him to trust you. Crave you. Sleep with you. Then you break him. Burn his empire, and kill him."
I exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. "And they want it done… with sex?"
"They want him obsessed. Make him think you're his. Then slit his throat."
My eyes drifted to Holt's gaping neck. Another mark, another death. But Lorenzo De Luca wasn't just another mark. He was a legend, a king who hunted hunters. And I was being sent into his den.
"Where's the starting point?" I asked, my voice calm, betraying none of the storm inside.
"Club Serpent. Midnight tomorrow. Be seductive. Be dangerous. Be unforgettable.
This could cost you everything, Raven."
The call ended.
I crushed the cigarette against the nightstand, the ember hissing out. Everything. As if I had anything left to lose. Five years ago, I'd been a desperate nineteen-year-old, scraping by in a hospital waiting room, watching my sister Lily waste away. The doctors said she'd die without a miracle. Victor offered one, a deal. He'd pay for her treatment, save her life. All I had to do was become his weapon.
I'd thought it was temporary. One job, maybe two. But five years later, I was still dancing, still killing, still chained to Victor's threats. Lily was alive, but she wasn't free.
She lived in a guarded apartment, watched by Victor's men, a prisoner to ensure my obedience. Every kill I made was for her. Every smile I faked, every blade I drew, was to keep her breathing.
But Lorenzo De Luca? This wasn't just a job. This was a suicide mission.
I stood, slipping into a black silk robe, the fabric cool against my skin. The hotel room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in with the weight of what came next. I glanced at Holt's body, his blood pooling like spilled wine. He'd been easy. Greedy, predictable. Lorenzo wouldn't be. He'd see through me if I faltered, if I let the mask slip.
A knock at the door startled me. Three sharp raps, deliberate. Not the cleanup crew, they'd come silently, like ghosts. My hand slid to the knife tucked under the mattress, my grip steady.
"Who is it?" I called, my voice low, edged with warning.
"Open the door, Raven." Victor's voice, gravel and malice, cut through the silence.
My jaw tightened. He wasn't supposed to be here. I crossed the room, knife hidden behind my back, and cracked the door. Victor stood in the hallway, his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tattoos snaking down his forearms. His dark eyes scanned me, cold and calculating, like a predator sizing up prey.
"You're sloppy tonight," he said, stepping inside without invitation. His gaze flicked to Holt's body, then back to me. "Blood on the sheets. Amateur."
"I got it done," I said, my voice flat. "What do you want?"
He shut the door, the click loud in the quiet room. "To make sure you understand what's at stake tomorrow." He stepped closer, too close, his breath sour with vodka. "Lorenzo De Luca isn't some horny CEO you can fuck and forget. He's a king. He'll smell your lies before you open your mouth."
"I've handled worse," I said, holding his gaze, though my pulse hammered.
He grabbed my jaw, his fingers bruising.
"Don't play brave, little bird. You fuck this up, and Lily pays. You want me to visit her again? Break those pretty fingers she loves to draw with?"
Fury surged, hot and sharp, but I didn't flinch. "I'll get it done," I rasped, my nails digging into the knife's handle behind my back.
He smirked, releasing me with a shove.
"Good girl. Seduce him. Make him want you. Make him trust you. Then slit his throat. And if you feel anything, anything, for him…" He leaned in, his voice a hiss. "I'll carve your heart out and send it to Lily in a box."
I didn't blink and didn't breathe, until he turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him. My hands shook, not from fear, but from the rage I couldn't afford to unleash. Not yet.
I sank onto the bed, the knife clattering to the floor. Lorenzo De Luca. The Viper. A man who'd built an empire on blood and betrayal. A man I was sent to kill. But Victor's desperation, his venom, told me this wasn't just about money or power. This was personal. And if I wasn't careful, it would be my blood on the sheets next.
I lit another cigarette, the smoke curling like a warning. Tomorrow, at Club Serpent, I'd dance for a king. I'd make him want me. I'd make him burn.
And then I'd have to kill the man who might just see through me.