Octavia
Stepping out of the helicopter, the wind tearing through my hair, I nod toward the man waiting beside the landing pad.
“Adriano.”
He inclines his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
Adriano is only a few years my senior—twenty-six to my twenty-two—but there’s a collected austerity about him, a defined jaw and eyes that miss nothing.
He started as one of my father’s soldiers, loyal to the Bellanti name in every possible way, born into this world, raised by a man who still serves as a soldier in our family.
Years ago, my father placed him at my side, turning him into my shadow, the first man instructed to answer directly to me.
In practice, he’s both my guard and the closest thing I have to a second in command.
A rather transparent attempt at preparing me for the future.
My father talks about legacy as though it’s a given that I’ll take the reins one day. And he isn’t wrong.
I will.
This is mine. My family, my people. I’ll be damned if I let anyone else try to take it from me.
Traditionalists would choke on the idea of a woman leading a mafia empire. Half the old men would probably combust at the mere suggestion. But that’s a problem for another time.
“Our target is waiting for you,” Adriano says, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. “He’s being held in the old industrial building outside Hertford.”
A slow smirk curves my lips, the familiar thrill unfurling in my chest.
“Then let’s not waste time.”
He opens the door of the waiting SUV for me, and I slide inside.
The driver, a man in his late fifties, catches my eye through the rear view mirror and gives a single, respectful nod before pulling away from the helipad the moment Adriano settles beside me in the back.
Night has settled over the British countryside, the fields slipping past the windows in long, shadowed sweeps, the soft hum of the engine the only constant in the dim interior.
I glance at Adriano. “Where was the rat hiding?”
“Paris,” he says. “He figured crossing borders would keep him hidden.”
Idiot.
My eyes drift back to the window, watching the sprawl of city lights gather on the horizon as we near London’s outskirts.
“And how did we find him?”
“The usual way.”
Which means the dark web.
“You verified everything?” I ask.
Adriano nods once. “All of it checks out.”
I don’t reply.
Instead, I let my head fall back against the seat, the gentle sway of the car letting my thoughts slip where they please, whether I welcome them or not.
For a moment, I’m no longer in the SUV at all.
I’m somewhere far darker… a place I never wish to revisit, yet am dragged back to again and again, without mercy… without a damn choice.
His warm breath ghosts against my ear.
My stomach pitches.
His weight crushes down on me, too heavy and suffocating.
I heave.
The snap of his belt…
Acid floods my mouth.
“Kukolka,” he whispers.
The sound of that name rips through me. Revulsion rises so violently I can’t hold it back.
I vomit.
I jolt back into the present on a sudden inhale, my eyes snapping open.
Adriano watches me closely, concern flickering in his gaze, though he’s wise not to give it a voice.
I slow my breathing, count to three, and force the images back into whatever locked box they belong in.
Futile, really.
They always find a way out.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, catching the way he’s still watching me like a hawk.
He doesn’t believe a word of it, but he gives an accepting nod.
I try to pull myself together, but my fingers still tremble. The smallest weak point in my control, and I can’t seem to stop it.
I drag my focus back to tonight.
Tonight is not about the past.
It’s about removing another stain from the world and bleeding off the anger lodged deep in my chest.
I failed with Markev, but I intend to rectify that.
Every man I hunt ends up where he belongs, dead, erased from the earth without a trace, no longer taking the same air as his victims.
I make sure the disposal is pristine, the scene untouchable.
I leave nothing behind.
Nothing unaccounted for.
But that night, I left too much.
Too much evidence.
Too much vulnerability.
Too much of myself.
My blade stayed with him, my face was visible.
And worst of all, I let him get close.
And I didn’t kill him.
The drug should have dropped any normal man for hours. But not him, it seems.
I drag a hand through my hair, irritation skimming down my spine. I’ll get him, when he least expects it, because I have to.
That’s my purpose in this world.
Deliver justice.
Remove rapists who believe they can commit something so grotesque and still walk free.
The SUV turns off the main road, pulling me from my thoughts as it follows a quieter lane.
A large, abandoned industrial structure emerges from the darkness ahead.
I straighten, my shoulders settling and my pulse steadying as that familiar calm begins to move through me.
I cannot stop the smirk that tugs at my lips.
You may call me Octavia.
But what I prefer, is Death.