Chapter 1
CORDELIA
It had been the longest fucking day of my life.
I released a slow, controlled breath as the man convulsed and struggled. His loud gurgling noises ceased simultaneously with his hands tearing at his throat.
For a further few minutes, I held my position—my knee jammed into the centre of his back, the garrotte biting deep as I kept the wire taut, my hands crossed behind his torso.
Once I was certain he was dead, I uncrossed my hands, stepped to the side, and let his body drop with a thud.
I pressed the button on the wide metal cuff, sitting snugly on top of my glove, and the Teflon-coated piano wire—thin, lethal, and a foot-long—retracted smoothly into its casing.
The bead at the end clicked perfectly into place, camouflaged by the cuff’s sleek design.
I blew out a disgusted breath as I glanced down at his mottled red-and-blue face and bulging eyes, petechiae blooming in the whites and corners like crimson freckles.
The garrotte is silent yet effective, extremely discreet, and leaves little or no evidence behind…
a perfect choice for an assassin like me.
I felt no remorse for the man lying at my feet, Alexander Katsanos. A flesh trader. A drug baron. And all-round general jackass. He had pissed off Drakos in some way, and, as they say, payback’s a bitch.
It had only taken me two days to gain Katsanos’s trust and wrangle an invitation to his secret beachside retreat.
One wine-soaked lunch at a fancy restaurant, a few coy smiles, and he dismissed his bodyguards for the afternoon.
After all, what threat could a beautiful woman possibly pose? They saw elegance; I saw execution.
That was the trick—being that “someone” others viewed a certain way. A smart beauty, with sexual magnetism; it was simply letting my prey believe the flirtatious mask was the sum of my substance, and that they had nothing to fear.
The safe bet who turned out not to be so safe at all. She’s the one you never see coming.
Standing in my spiked heels, I reached a good five-eleven.
My black lace underwear clung to me like a promise I didn’t plan to keep, and the long black velvet gloves reaching to my elbows made the illusion complete.
I dragged a hand across my mouth, gagging at the thought of his tongue plundering mine and his hands pawing inside my bra.
The only redeeming parts of the night? The food—and the fact I didn’t have to sleep with him.
I slipped my black cocktail dress back over my head, tucked a single black dahlia between his lips, and grabbed the keys to his Porsche. I slid into the leather seat and peeled out, tires smoking as I tore away, heading for the cheap hotel on the far side of town.
They called me The Black Dahlia—a little cliché—but let’s be honest: I was the best assassin in the world.
Dumping the car, I raced to my room, and once through the door, I pulled off the blonde wig, removed the contact lenses, and changed into my black leather pants, a fitted long-sleeved top, biker jacket, and boots, tossing every scrap of evidence into my backpack.
Then my phone rang. Drakos.
Of course.
‘Yes,’ I snapped.
‘Hello, little flower.’ My jaw tightened at the nickname.
‘Start packing. It looks like you’re going back to your motherland…
Meet me as soon as the plane lands, we’ll go through the schedule.
You’d better not let me down…’ He paused, inhaling deeply.
‘I’m afraid there will be consequences if you don’t succeed.
Failure is not an option.’ And the line went dead.
The bastard. I hated him with the intensity of a thousand suns. One day, I’d kill him—I was sure of it—but right now, I needed to keep him sweet. Drakos was a wily cunt, and I had too much to lose to make the wrong move. But what consequences was he talking about?
Cursing, I tossed my phone into my bag and yanked back the curtain.
The hotel parking lot was deserted. Good.
I slipped out and made my way to the stolen Triumph Daytona 955i and gunned it towards the shitty apartment I’d paid for in cash on the other side of the island—far enough that no one would connect it to the hit.
On the way, I stopped at a payphone, booked a last-minute flight back to London, and dumped the wig, contacts, and everything I’d worn to kill Katsanos in a dumpster, making sure the dump was at least fifty miles from the crime scene. That’s the whole trick—out of range, out of mind.
Once at the apartment, I retrieved my fake passport from behind the air vent, pulled on a different wig, grabbed my backpack and duffle bag, and headed for the airport.
‘Welcome, Miss Graham,’ the airline assistant beamed brightly as he returned my fake passport and boarding card. I popped them into my compact backpack, and with a nod of thanks, made my way to the boarding gate, a feeling of foreboding hanging around me like a toxic cloud.
Drakos rarely used me—I was his prized possession—his queen on the board. So why now? Why again so soon?
I couldn’t allow the whole new level of “what the actual fuck is he up to” derail me. ‘Keep it together, Cordie,’ I muttered under my breath, but that dread in my chest continued, a godsdamned vortex swirling inside me.
* * *
Once I landed at Heathrow, I moved swiftly through customs and headed to the long-stay parking.
After securing my duffle and pulling on my helmet, I jumped onto my BMW R 18 and fired her up.
The deep, throaty growl of the engine vibrated through me, easing my nerves—if only a little.
I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Drakos.
Whatever twisted game he was playing, I knew I’d hate it.
I rode the road like an intricate dance, as though the road itself remembered me.
No surprise, really—I’d taken this route more times than I could count.
Two hours later, I rolled through the wrought-iron gates of my destination, St Xavier’s, and exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath as I rode down the mile-long drive.
Time to see the asshole that was my stepfather.
St Xavier’s sat nestled within a sprawling 250-acre campus in the heart of the British countryside, just outside London.
At its centre loomed a Grade II listed former Carthusian monastery—an architectural gem that had been tastefully expanded over time.
Colonnades framed the structure, symmetrical gables adding balance and grandeur, making the school appear nothing short of breathtaking… from the outside.
It catered for every need, with stunning lawns and gardens, sports pitches, Astroturf pitches, an athletic stadium, tennis courts, and even a private golf course. With cutting-edge tech, a sleek IT centre, and professional-grade art studios… on paper, it was perfection.
Drakos hid his shady dealings within the illusion of grandeur—a polished illusion to mask the filth. St Xavier’s was his stronghold in England. He was a snake, but a smooth son of a bitch, with endless resources and a masterful talent for hiding his dirt in plain sight.
The boarding school was in high demand amongst the rich—and occasionally criminally inclined—families worldwide.
It offered a prestigious, well-rounded education for students aged eleven to eighteen, blending traditional academics with a heavy dose of discipline.
All pupils were trained in self-defence as part of the curriculum, but a select few came for something far more specialised: to learn the art of assassination.
On the surface, St Xavier’s had all the hallmarks of a typical British public school—co-educational, house-based, and academically elite.
It flourished on league tables and boasted a sterling reputation.
But behind the polished facade, Scorpion House existed.
An elite, clandestine unit hidden within the school’s structure, Scorpion House was where the real training happened.
Ruthless, secretive, and utterly unforgiving.
Currently, only four students in the final year had made the grade.
The rest? Either transferred, reassigned... or eliminated.
Like me, my mother had been an assassin, one of the best in her time, and after her death, her husband, Drakos, became my guardian. That’s when my life became a downward spiral of chaos and torture. Literally.
Armed with a bad attitude and a raging headache—weariness dragging at my bones—I strolled up the wide stone steps and pushed open the ornate wooden doors, stepping into the vast entrance hall. An opulent cathedral of shadows and lies… the place oozed grandeur like perfume over rot.
I pulled off the wig and ran my fingers through my unruly curls, releasing a slow hiss of breath, just as a tall figure slithered from behind an ornate pillar.
Dimitris. Drakos’s douchebag nephew. A colossal ass-licker and all-round fuckwit.
Excellent at poisons, but otherwise a waste of perfectly good oxygen.
‘Well, look who it is,’ Dimitris drawled. ‘Miss “I’m the best in the world.”’ His gaze roamed over me like I was a stain on his loafers. ‘What on earth are you wearing? This is a prestigious establishment.’
I looked him up and down—sharp black suit, pale purple tie, with a matching pocket square like he’d just mugged a wedding planner. I shrugged. I dressed in scuffed leathers and black boots made for kicking in teeth.
‘Who made you Giorgio Armani?’ I gave him a flat look.
He was tap-dancing on my last nerve. Dimitris looked like he’d been kicked repeatedly with the ugly boot and left for dead.
‘Clothes can only do so much to enhance an ugly creep like you, Dimitris,’ I added.
‘You must have fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch of stupid on the way down, because I’ve told you repeatedly…
Stay. Out. Of. My. Way… Now, off you fuck. ’