Morning light was thin and pale when Ethan finally rose. The hotel—soon to be no longer "home"—was mostly empty now. His parents had left at dawn, leaving behind only the smell of coffee and a neatly folded note by the lamp.
Ethan—
We went ahead with the movers to get the place set up. Breakfast is on the counter.
Love you.
Mom.
He read it once. Then again. Then set it gently in the drawer, as if it might shatter.
The tray on the counter held two pieces of toast, eggs, and fruit arranged with maternal stubbornness. Ethan sat, quietly ate, and let the silence wrap around him like a familiar coat. No parent hovering, no footsteps, no chatter. Just him, a hotel room, and the faint rumbling of a world that would soon face the might of the Exemplars.
When he finished, he washed the plate, towel-dried it, and tucked it back in the cupboard. Rituals kept the mind in order. He pulled on a fresh shirt, zipped up the small suitcase that held the last of his belongings, and slid his laptop out of its padded sleeve.
He sat cross-legged on the bare mattress, booting the machine.
The world flickered open.
Encrypted drives. Layered identities. An arsenal of digital masks.
One click brought up the Luc Moreau interface—sleek, black, red-lettered, humming with criminal precision. Another click loaded his burner communication tree.
Today wasn't for Isaac Maddox.
Today belonged to Luc.
He reached into his backpack, fingers closing around a cheap flip phone. Burnable. Untraceable. Disposable. Perfect.
He activated the voice modulator clipped to the underside of the laptop and pressed it to his throat. His pulse vibrated against the device as he cleared his voice and let the accent settle in—French, smooth, refined, with a hint of something sharper beneath.
Predatory velvet.
He dialed.
The phone rang twice.
Then a voice answered—low, guarded, dangerous.
"Yeah?"
Delilah.
Hidden in the safehouse on the Upper East Side—a quiet, polished apartment with too much marble and too little warmth. The apartment that once belonged to Robert's mistress before Luc had quietly "relocated" her to a new place. A safehouse born of convenience.
Ethan smiled.
"Ma chère," he purred. "It has been… how do you Americans say—too long."
A beat. Then Delilah exhaled sharply, annoyance threaded through relief.
"Luc. You finally called."
"You sound disappointed," he said, amused. "I would hope my absence makes the heart grow… sharper."
"The word is colder," she replied.
Ethan's laugh was soft, cultured. "Then allow me to warm it."
She didn't speak, but he could feel her attention sharpen, like a blade turning toward him.
"Well, enough of this play. I called," he said, "to commend you."
"For what? For killing Norman Osborn or for hiding from Rose?" she asked.
"Both were necessary," Ethan said. "One required skill. The other required wisdom. You showed both. And the Rose… well." He waved a hand even though she couldn't see. "His bounty is a small inconvenience. I am already making arrangements to see it disappear."
Delilah went quiet.
Not grateful.
Not reassured.
Just listening.
Because she understood exactly what Luc was capable of—and what it meant that he was choosing to stand between her and a man like the Rose.
"What do you want, Luc?" she asked.
He smiled. "Your company."
A narrowed silence followed.
"You're giving me another job."
"Oui."
"What kind of job?"
"A vacation," he said smoothly. "Canada. Revelstoke, to be specific. Afterward, you can take a few days to relax and go to Montréal if you want."
Delilah snorted. "What the hell is in Revelstoke?"
Ethan's tone dropped—cooler, quieter, almost reverent.
"A secret facility, poorly named The Facility. But to answer your question, a mother and a child."
That caught her off-guard. He heard it in her breath.
"What kind of child?"
"One whose existence should not be possible," Luc murmured. "The product of a misguided experiment. A weapon, if left in the wrong hands. A girl who has never known a life outside pain. I'd like you to lead a team and rescue them to return to the States with them in tow."
Delilah's jaw tightened. "Human trafficking?"
"Worse."
She didn't respond, but something in her stiffened. Old instincts. Old wounds.
Ethan continued.
"She is eleven. Maybe twelve. Her name is… irrelevant right now. But she has a mother—a surrogate, really—who tried to give her as normal a life as possible. The facility plans to dispose of her when they're finished analyzing the child."
Delilah's fists clenched on the other end.
"And you want to what? Kill the people running it?"
Luc's voice softened—barely.
"No, ma chère. I want to save them while killing those who run the facility. The order is essential as saving them is the most important part of this. The killing of the people running the facilities, not so much, but you must kill the man named Zander Rice, and you must do so from afar."
Delilah blinked.
Luc Moreau had yet to ask her to save people. He had promised to give her this city's underworld for the occasional favor. The most recent was to kill Norman Osborn, which she did without question, since he planned to gas the city, something that would eventually affect her, too.
"You expect me to believe that you, of all people, care for a single mother and daughter? What do you really want with them?" she asked.
"I do not require your belief," he said. "Only your acceptance. As for why that's my business, ma chère."
Her breath eased in, slow and uncertain. "Why me?"
"Because you must be stir-crazy and want to see new sights," Luc said. "And because I plan to hire a few mercenaries to form a team you'll be leading on this mission. I was hoping you'd be able to form a connection with them. It'll prove useful for later. I mean, what kind of crime boss doesn't have a few mercenaries they know to call upon?"
A long pause.
She didn't deny it.
He pressed on.
"This will not be a simple extraction. Their security is… formidable. Plus, there will be a few things to watch out for later. But I will provide what you need. Transportation. Weapons. New identities for the targets to leave Canada. And when you return, your bounty will be completely gone."
Delilah leaned back in the safehouse chair, one leg stretched out, the other pulled close. Her hoodie hood still up, hiding her hair, her eyes scanning the polished apartment that still smelled faintly of lavender—leftover perfume from Robert's mistress. This wasn't her home. It wasn't anyone's home. It was a holding pen in silk wallpaper.
Ahe had promised her own kingdom, yet all she got was hiding and evading the Rose. Of course, she knew that he couldn't deliver so soon, but here was Luc speaking as if he were handing her a kingdom.
"What do you get out of this?" she asked.
"Nothing much," Luc said simply. "The girl's mother is a brilliant scientist who works in a rather unique field, and I wish to offer a job. I simply thought saving her and her daughter might help when it came time to make said offer."
She exhaled. "You're building something and you need her."
"Oui."
"And you want to use me to get her for you."
"Oui," he said again, without shame. "But, Delilah… I also intend for you to benefit greatly from this. I believe this mission will take a week or two, and when you return, you'll have the keys to your very own criminal organization."
Delilah swallowed once.
He could hear it.
"You want me to believe that you can do it this quickly," she said quietly, almost disbelieving.
Luc's laugh was soft, airy. "Non. You seem to underestimate me, ma chère. Besides, belief is for children."
"That's not comforting."
"It shouldn't be," he replied. "Comfort tends to dull the blade."
Silence stretched—a long, taut line between New York and wherever Luc pretended to be calling from.
Finally, she said, "When do I leave?"
Luc's smile sharpened. "Immediately."
"I need an extraction route."
"You will take the 11:15 train to Revelstoke," Luc said, voice smooth as cold wine. "It leaves in two hours. Seat 4C. You'll find a safehouse in a small town just outside the city limits—quiet, inland, forgettable. I want you there."
Delilah leaned back against the marble counter, hoodie shadowing her eyes. "Why a small town?"
"Because you need four days to familiarize yourself with the area," Luc replied. "The terrain, the people, the rhythms. You must know the place better than the facility's guards know their own halls."
Four days. She absorbed that silently. He wasn't sending her to kick down a door on day one. He wanted scouting, planning—preparation. Almost… respect.
Luc continued, "Once there, you'll find a duffel bag in the bedroom closet. Firearms, comms, forged papers. Your alias will be Marie Chevalier."
Delilah raised a brow. "French?"
Luc chuckled. "I have a type."
A small laugh escaped her before she could kill it. "Fine. What else?"
"Do not talk to anyone on the train. Keep your hat on. When you arrive in the town, walk straight to the safehouse—no detours. The keys will be inside the fuse box."
A soft pause, then:
"In four days, your team will join you."
"Team?" Delilah repeated. "I don't usually share my workspace."
"You will this time."
His tone left no room for debate.
"You'll be receiving support from a broker—Mikhail Kovac. 'Mack.' Northbridge Solutions."
Luc's voice warmed with a kind of predatory fondness. "He is the best. Ex-intelligence logistics officer. Speaks three languages. Smuggles IDs under the guise of security consulting. He'll be the one handling the extraction for you all. If he says he can move a ghost across a border, believe him."
Delilah frowned. "I've never heard of him."
"That's why he's one of the best," Luc said. "The most effective men are the ones who don't exist."
She couldn't argue with that.
Luc continued, the cadence slowing as he revealed the roster:
"Your team will consist of three operatives Mack is bringing in."
Delilah crossed her arms, silently bracing.
"First—Taskmaster."
Her expression didn't change, but her pulse quickened. Everybody had heard the name.
"A strategist beyond compare," Luc murmured. "Photographic reflexes. He can imitate any fighting style he sees. Efficient. Perfect for leading entry and extraction."
"Or for turning on me if he doesn't like the pay," she muttered.
Luc's tone smiled. "That's why you will like the second member more—Silver Sable."
Delilah blinked. "Her?"
"Yes," Luc said, amused by her surprise. "The Wild Pack is currently between UN contracts. Mack can secure a diplomatic-mask job through a Symkarian attaché. With her, you'll have discipline and firepower."
Delilah swallowed. "…you're building a war team."
"And the third," Luc said softly, "is Domino."
This time she didn't hide her reaction.
"Domino? As in that Domino?"
"The very one," he purred. "Loose ends with Weapon X. A personal hatred for laboratories of this nature. She'll say yes for the fun of setting fire to her enemies."
Delilah exhaled slowly.
Taskmaster. Silver Sable. Domino.
This wasn't a team.
This was a scalpel forged from three different worlds—mercenary, diplomatic, and mutant.
"And I'm supposed to lead them?" she asked.
"You will," Luc said simply. "Mack will supply the team, but you will command them. They will arrive four days after you. Use that time wisely. I hope to see your excellent leadership capabilities, chère."
Delilah pushed a hand through her hair, grounding herself.
"And the kid?" she asked.
Luc's voice dropped a note—something colder, grimmer.
"You will know her when you see her. Eyes like emerald glass. Hands scarred from their experiments. She is dangerous and has been conditioned to attack certain individuals. If you are marked with the wrong scent, she will try to kill you. So plan wisely."
Delilah stiffened. "That's a weapon, Luc."
"Yes," he murmured. "But even weapons deserve choices."
Silence.
"And you know this," he added, "from your own past."
Something in her chest tightened. She hated that he knew her past and that he was right.
Luc's tone softened—unexpectedly gentle, devastatingly so.
"And you, Fiore… deserve a future. I intend to give you one."
Her breath caught.
Because no one—not the Rose, not the Maggia, not even her father—had ever said she deserved anything.
She swallowed hard. "…I'll do the job."
"I never doubted it," Luc said. "Mack will send schematics within twenty-four hours. Weapons arrive second day of your arrival. The mercenaries on your fourth."
She hesitated, then said, "Luc… what am I walking into?"
"A graveyard trying to call itself a laboratory," he said softly. "And you are there to interrupt the funeral. Good luck, chère."
Another long silence.
Finally, Delilah whispered, "I'll pack."
Luc smiled. "Remember, seat 4C, chère. Ticket's under the name be Marie Chevalier. Don't be late."
He ended the call with a soft click—clean, final.