Thirteen years ago, a man lived three lives.
A quiet life with a wife and a child.
A public life as a billionaire who smiled for cameras and signed checks.
And a life bound to shadows — an assassin so precise the Agency named him Agent 90.
His name was Jason Mackenzie.
His wife was Julia.
His daughter, Azalea, was three years old.
He moved through his worlds without faltering.
In Washington, he was a trusted operative — the kind of silent perfection the CIA called on when a mission needed to be clean and invisible.
In the underworld, he was myth. Executers whispered about him: the best at slipping into rooms like a ghost, the best at killing without a trace.
His siblings — two brothers and a sister — were formidable. But none touched his level.
Julia never knew. She saw the husband who made breakfast, fixed squeaky gates, and kissed her forehead in the mornings. She would have been proud to know the truth, but that truth lived behind masks and false names.
The mission was supposed to be simple in its cruelty: infiltrate and eliminate Lorenzo Russo — cartel lord, trafficker, the Don of IL Branco, a wolf pack that devoured cities whole.
Jason lived inside that world for four long years, trusted like family. He sat at the Don's table as a consigliere, learning routes, faces, weaknesses, and loyalties. He was the one chosen to end Russo.
It should have been the final note in a life filled with dirty music.
But betrayal is always watching.
One night, in a quiet corner of the mansion where loyalty had a price, Jason told a fellow agent that the Don's life would end tonight.
Someone heard.
Someone ran to tell Lorenzo.
Jason saw the betrayal as it unfolded. He followed the informant straight to the Don's office — but before he could escape, a single guard lifted a gun and fired two warning shots into the air.
The mansion snapped awake.
Guards flooded the hallways. Jason fought — because he always fought — but even shadows can tire. They tackled him, drove a needle into his neck, and sedated him until the world folded into black.
He woke chained to the ceiling of the torture room.
The first punch from the consigliere landed with a sound like a door slamming shut. Lorenzo's boot followed, crushing breath from his ribs.
"So, Jay," Lorenzo said, voice smooth as oil, "you're CIA? You came here to kill me, yes?"
The room laughed.
"You should have stayed pretending to be a businessman," Lorenzo continued. "Now your family will die slowly with you. They will die asking why."
He called Jason mio fratello with a grin as wet and sharp as a blade.
Jason spat blood and defiance. "They aren't here. They don't care about you, Fratello."
Lorenzo leaned in like a priest at a funeral.
"Non succederà, Jason… perché sarai a sei piedi sottoterra."
That's not happening, Jason. Because you'll be six feet under.
The torture began.
Electric currents burned through his body, each shock writing new pain into his muscles. Jason begged. The room did not.
When they unchained him, he collapsed in a bloody heap. They beat him until the floor turned red beneath him.
Then Lorenzo crouched and asked, almost gently, "Any last words, mio fratello?"
Jason laughed through broken breath.
"Can I call someone?"
They handed him a phone.
He spoke to Julia in their hidden language:
Neem ons kleine meisje mee en ga naar de escaperoom. Geen vragen. Dit is mijn afscheid. Zorg goed voor jezelf, mijn liefste.
Take our little girl and go to the safe room. No questions. This is my farewell. Take care of yourself, my love.
He ended the call and deleted the number.
"Anything else?" Lorenzo asked.
Jason looked up, smiling through blood.
"Morirai, bastardo."
You will die, bastard.
Lorenzo leaned close and whispered,
"Ci vediamo all'inferno, amico mio."
See you in hell, my friend.
Then he fired.
The bullet found Jason's heart. His pulse stilled.
"Get rid of the body," Lorenzo ordered.
He expected nothing to come after this — no consequences, no ghosts, no storms.
He had killed a man. He believed he had erased a life.
But he had overlooked one thing.
The little girl who survived would grow in his absence into a storm carrying her father's name like a blade.
And one day, that storm would come for him.