1. One Night, One Kill

Amara pov:

Moscow at night is cold as a corpse and twice as merciless.

I crouched on the roof of an abandoned building, eyes locked on Dmitri Solokov’s fortress, more like a goddamn castle made of blood money and bullshit. The bastard lived like a king, but kings bled just like the rest of us.

The place was crawling. Guards with AKs, security cameras on every damn wall, snarling dogs that looked like they hadn’t eaten in days. But when you screw over half the underground world, paranoia becomes your best friend.

I checked my watch. Shift change in thirty seconds. Predictable as hell.

“Time to meet your fucking maker, Dmitri,” I muttered, pulling my hood up.

The second those guards moved, I did too, fast, silent, a shadow with a blade. Climbing the wall was a child’s play. Cutting the power to the cameras was a literal joke. By the time I slipped through an open window, I was already a ghost in his golden cage.

Inside, the place screamed wealth. Gold-lined walls, marble floors, a chandelier so big it looked like it was trying too hard. Every corner reeked of someone trying to forget the dirt they came from.

And there he was.

Dmitri. Sitting in his overpriced leather chair, sipping vodka like he didn’t have a damn target on his back. So casual. So stupid.

He didn’t even see me until I was right in front of him.

“Who the fu—”

Too late.

My knife drove into his shoulder, deep. He howled, dropping the glass, vodka spilled everywhere, soaking his custom white suit in red blood was fucking art to me.

He scrambled for the gun on his desk, but I kicked it away and then slammed him back into his chair.

“Yeah, scream all you want,” I said, twisting the blade just enough to make him choke on the pain.

“No one’s fucking coming.”

“Who sent you?” he gasped, face contorted, panic setting in.

I yanked the knife out. He groaned like a wounded dog.

“Doesn’t matter,” I growled, slamming him forward against the desk.

“I can pay you—triple! No—fuck it—ten times! Whatever you want!” His voice cracked like his pride.

I laughed because it was pathetic.

“You think this is about money?” I leaned down my mouth right next to his ear.

“This is about making you pay.”

He trembled under me. I saw it in his eyes, the moment he knew he was fucked.

I dragged him out of the chair, letting him crash onto the marble like the garbage he was. His knee slammed hard, and he screamed.

I grabbed his hair, forcing him to look at me.

“This is for the families you burned alive,” I whispered.

Then I stabbed him. Slow. Deep. Right in the gut.

He screamed like a dying animal, blood bubbling from his lips. I twisted the blade and pulled it out.

“This is for the women you sold.”

Another stab. He convulsed. Blood everywhere.

He tried to fight back, just for a second. Reached up to punch me. Swung wide and weak. Pathetic.

I caught his arm and bent it back until it snapped. He shrieked. All that defiance is gone.

“P-please…” he sobbed. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean—”

“Begging?” I sneered.

“That’s fucking rich coming from you.”

I pressed the knife to his throat, dragging it across. Slow. Jagged. His eyes widened. He gurgled, twitched, bled, and then he was still.

Dead.

Just like the monster he was.

I stood up, breathing heavy but steady. My gloves were soaked. The blood was warm, sticking to my skin like it belonged there.

I placed a detonator on his desk. Sixty seconds. Just enough time to vanish.

By the time the explosion lit up the night, I was already across the street, watching from a rooftop. The blast roared like a beast breaking free, flames licking up into the sky, painting it orange and black.

It was chaos. Beautiful, fiery chaos.

And I laughed.

It hit me out of nowhere. That sharp, bitter sound ripped out of my chest. I couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to.

I wiped blood from my cheek, smearing it across my face like war paint. My reflection in the broken window beside me looked half-angel, half-demon. But fuck, I felt alive.

The look on Dmitri’s face before he died played on repeat in my mind. The fear. The regret. The knowing.

I grinned, lips curling even as something dark twisted in my gut. That laugh wasn’t just victory. It was survival.

It was proof that I could still feel something. Even if that something was twisted as hell.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. Gloves left a red smear across the screen. Dialed the number.

They picked up on the second ring.

“It’s done,” I said, leaning back against the wall behind me. The cold wind bit at my skin, but I didn’t feel it. Not anymore.

“Dmitri?” the voice on the other end asked.

“Dead,” I said.

“And his palace? Let’s just say it got a bit of a facelift.”

There was silence. Then a low chuckle.

“You work fast.”

“Fast is what you pay for.” I inspected the blood crusting under my nails.

“Now… about my payment—”

“It’s already been transferred,” they said. “Usual place.”

“Good.” I hung up. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

Clients always wanted to gloat. Relive the violence like it made them powerful. But they didn’t do shit. I did. I lived in the blood. I slept in it. I woke up with it in my fucking lungs.

I turned away from the blaze behind me. Dmitri’s empire was burning. Just like he deserved.

Moscow stretched out ahead of me. Endless. Cold. Built on lies and bones.

Just like me.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, took one last look at the carnage, and disappeared into the dark.

One night. One kill. One more monster down. And still, the list goes on...