Chapter 1

Misha

"He-he-," the man in the restroom spat blood on the floor; maybe I shouldn't have stabbed him in the gut before he revealed where my brother had been for the previous five days, but you see. I can get impatient at times. That's what got me here in the first place, so I suppose one must always face the consequences of their actions or something along those lines.

"Spit it out, and I'll do it right away," I said calmly as I waited.

"Isaac Bortsov took him," 

"The head of the Russian mafia's drug operation? Are you certain? why?"

"I'm not sure!" His British accent come out thick as he tremble. "Please, please, please," he begged.

"But you were the one who told them where he was," I pointed out.

He whimpered and closed his eyes.

"Why?" My fingers tighten around my knife, and the heat of my rage rises up my spine. I applied pressure to his wound.

"They put a price on his head." He gasp. "I owe them money!" He sobbed.

"You have no idea what they want with him."

"No! No! Please!"

"Is he still alive?"

"Yes!"

"What are they doing with him?"

"I'm not sure!"

I pressed harder on his wound.

"I'm telling you the truth!" "Please don't kill me, please!" he wailed. He cried out, bloodied and pale. He couldn't help me with anything, so I might as well put him out of his misery.

"Sure," I said before stabbing him in the heart. I watched as the light in his eyes faded.

"I'm sorry, buddy, but I can't risk them finding out." As I stood over the dead body, I muttered. I heard a click as I took my handkerchief from my dress pocket to clean my knife. The door knob rotted and the door open. Cleaning up another dead body would be a nightmare. I double-checked that it was locked. I turned around carefully, my knife still dripping blood, and there he was, dressed in a expensive black tux, his dark red hair slick on his back, and the most striking green eyes hidden behind a masquerade mask. He looked me in the eyes and then pointed to the dead body. I can threaten him, but snuffing him out would be more clean. It was a shame, because he was attractive, with a square jaw and a fine, trim, stubbled, lean body but a muscular, strong build.

I expected him to take a step back in shock and flee, but instead he quietly shut the door and walked to the mirror, unbuttoned the front of his coat, and adjusted his sleeve.

"Carry on, love," he said in his thick Italian accent, running his hand through his hair.

I make a move towards him.

"Don't need to threaten me," He looked me in the eyes—the eyes of a predator, sharp, fiery, and ready to swallow anything that stood in their way.

"No." His voice is cool. "I advise you to continue, fix this pasticcio, and forget about me; threatening me will not serve you well."

I take a step back, relaxing my tense muscles, and return my gaze to the body. My black mask gives me an advantage; he has no idea who I am and does not appear to be on the good side of the spectrum, but security is required.

He smirked as I nodded in agreement. The devil's smirk has an effect on me. I approach the mirror and take a seat beside him. We locked our gazes, anticipating each other's steps, moves, and the intent in each other's eyes, and I knew when he drew his breath, and he knew when I drew mine. Our surroundings shook with energy; such a charge could break the air.

"If you don't mind," I said quietly, and dragged my knife up his sleeves before anyone could break the spell. A thick shine of blood now shimmers in the light on his perfect—now not-so-perfect—tux.

"Be a gentleman and clean up the pasticcio," I crookedly said. He leaned into my ear, his perfumed scent metallic, his eyes dangerously glinting as he examined the smear on his sleeves.

"You can't afford my services."

I lean away, realising that, even with my heels, I've only reached his chin; his face has only gotten closer to mine. Our lips are now perfectly aligned. I could feel his heat, his dangerous aura, and his body poised to sever me in half if he so desired. Inside, I felt myself clench.

"I just did," I said against his lips as I walked away. I reinserted my knife into the straps of my thigh, pushing the slits of my elegant black dress back. I entered the ladies room, picked up the leather bag, hid it there, and undressed in one of the stalls. bringing out the same mask and dress that I was wearing. I slip into the gown, pull up the elegant black gloves, touch up my make-up, and pull my blond hair up as usual. I gathered my belongings and returned to the charity ballroom. Everyone was dancing after the charity event; all the elegant, wealthy, and dangerous people were present. I'm curious who he is. Was it a good idea to leave him alive? Most likely not. Unfortunately, it is too late. I, like everyone else, handed in the bag at the guards' podium and walked back to the ballroom. picking up a glass of champagne. I sipped my way through the noise, dance, and music. 

How did my brother become involved with the Russian mafia? Jack would never do anything for them after what happened to his father. He is not an idiot; he must be held captive. When, where, and how? He was captured; how will I get him out of there?

The music eventually stopped; it was well after midnight, and I had not seen him. I shook my head I was blending in, not looking for him, when the thought came to me. Why would I seek him out? I don't even know who he is, so I rolled my eyes at myself. I'm acting ridiculously.

I exited the event hall, returned to the corridor, picked up my bag, and slipped through the glass door. I went down the back alley and turned around to find Dumster. I took the small whisky bottle and lighter from the large leather purse, drank a gulp, and then poured the remainder into my dress, gloves, and mask. I dump it all and light it after removing my blond wig and releasing my hair from the net. I run my finger through my long brown hair, relaxing the head, as I watch them burn.

Killian

People have recoiled in my presence, regardless of who they were or how dangerous they were. What I have never seen is someone daring to outwit me. Her blue eyes twinkle, her blond hair is styled elegantly, and her lips are close to mine, plump, ripe, and ready to be kissed until swollen and red. That was something I wanted to do. She moved like a tigress, holding a bloody knife in her hand, and her eyes were cool. There was no fear, no flinching, and she was at ease in her own skin, implying that she has killed before; the question is why? I'd eventually catch her, but I needed to get to know her first, so I went to the dead man. Mr. Richard Tywin had died in the men's room of my opulent Hotel. He was barreled and fat, with short blond hair. Along with his other illegal ventures, he ran many clubs and elite establishments in the city, but he was no friend of ours. He was proud of his English heritage, and now he's been murdered by a woman. There are worse options. He should consider himself fortunate.

I took out my phone.

"Boss," my right-hand man, Alex, said as he answered the phone.

"There is a mess here in the men's room."

"I'll send someone to sort it out."

"I need you to look at it first; I want to know everything there is to know about it."

"Of course," 

"Good,"

"And send my car, I'd like to return home,"

"The car will be there in ten, boss."

I cut it off.