The Devil’s Thorn

Chapter 1

ISABELLA

T he wind bites.

Sharp and relentless, it cuts across my face like a warning, but I don’t move. I don’t flinch. My body has been still for over an hour—prone, belly pressed against the gravel rooftop, rifle gripped tight in my hands. A sniper’s stance.

Beneath me, the city breathes its usual chaos—horns, distant shouting, laughter that doesn’t reach this height. But none of that matters. The world narrows to one building, one window, one man.

Rafael Romanov.

He sits exactly where he’s supposed to. At the head of a long glass table, surrounded by men who would kill for him without blinking. Who have killed.

He’s calm. Composed. The kind of composed that can only be born in blood. The kind of calm I’ve spent my entire life preparing to destroy.

My finger rests near the trigger.

I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times. No, more . I used to dream about it when I couldn’t sleep. I used to mouth his name in the mirror like it tasted of vengeance.

I thought when I finally saw him again, my heart would race. That fury would surge, that grief would come roaring back like a monster tearing through my ribs.

But all I feel is… nothing.

A hollow calm that scares me more than rage ever could.

His face is sharper now. Older. More angular. He was just a teenager the night my life was burned to ash. Now he looks like a man carved from stone and precision. Even through the scope, I can see the chill in his gaze. That cold control.

He’s laughing.

Smiling at something one of his men said. It’s casual. Effortless.

Does he even remember what he did?

I think about the photo I found six months ago—the one I wasn’t supposed to see. Blurry, but unmistakable. Him, standing outside a black SUV. His father’s men all around him. Blood on the snow. I was ten. He was eighteen.

He was there.

And yet here I am. Kneeling above him, watching him breathe. Watching him move, untouched, unpunished.

Kellan’s voice crackles softly through the earpiece.

“You’ve got the shot, Iz.”

I say nothing.

“You want the call?”

Still, nothing.

Because the truth is…

I don’t know.

My body is ready. My training is second nature. I could pull the trigger, vanish into the skyline, and be gone before they even realize where the bullet came from.

But my heart?—

God, my heart is hesitating.

That’s the most dangerous thing.

I shift slightly, narrowing the focus of the scope. His eyes flick to the side as someone places a phone in front of him. For a second, the corner of his mouth tightens. Just a flicker. And then it’s gone.

But I saw it.

The monster cracked.

The smallest fracture. A flash of something human.

I press my cheek harder to the scope, teeth clenched. My finger edges closer to the trigger.

Do it. Do it now. Make him bleed. Make him feel even a fraction of what you’ve carried every goddamn day since they died.

But my finger stills.

Because what if I’m wrong?

What if that photo… the letters… the whispers in the dark… what if it’s all been a game?

A setup?

A lie?

My heart thuds once, low and sick in my chest.

I breathe through my nose. In. Out.

“Iz?” Kellan’s voice again. “We’re running out of time. The guards are cycling. You’ve got ten seconds or you back out.”

Ten seconds.

To decide whether to kill the man I’ve been chasing for fifteen years.

Ten seconds to become a murderer.

Ten seconds to let go of the only thing keeping me alive: the need for revenge.

I let out a slow breath. Then I lower the rifle.

“I’m not pulling the trigger,” I whisper.

Silence.

Then, Kellan again. “Copy that.”

I roll off the edge of the scope and sit back, legs folded, rifle resting beside me. My pulse is steady. Too steady.

I don’t feel relief. I feel something worse.

Unfinished.

I reach for the small black locket tucked under my shirt, the one I’ve worn since I was seven. Inside is the last photo of my family—before the blood. Before the fire.

I press it to my lips.

I’ll find the truth. Even if it kills me.

I stay still for a few more seconds, long after I’ve lowered the rifle. The cold presses into my skin, slicing through my clothes, but I barely feel it. It’s not the wind that makes me shiver. It’s the weight of hesitation.

Why didn’t I shoot him?

That question loops in my head, over and over, like a curse I can’t shake. I should’ve pulled the trigger. I had the chance. He was right there. It could’ve ended.

But something about the way he looked…

Something about that flicker—so brief, I almost convinced myself I imagined it.

Could a man who watched my family die have eyes so human?

I tuck the rifle into the case with mechanical efficiency, every motion precise. Muscle memory. No room for mistakes.

I zip it up and rise to my feet, knees stiff, fingers colder than they should be. The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I move toward the roof access.

“You good?” Kellan’s voice filters in again, low and calm.

“I’ll be better when I know,” I answer.

I don’t need to clarify what I mean. Kellan always knows what I mean.

The stairwell is dim, echoing with each footstep. I take them fast, needing to move. The adrenaline’s fading, and in its place comes the ache. Not physical. Something else. Something deeper.

I shouldn’t feel this. I shouldn’t feel anything when it comes to Rafael Romanov.

But I do.

And that’s a problem.

The alley behind the building is empty when I push out the rusted door, hood already pulled over my head. The city feels different at night—darker, hungrier. A stray cat darts past my boots. Headlights flicker in the distance. A black SUV waits in the shadows, engine running low.

Ash leans against the hood, arms crossed, black jacket stretched over a frame built for breaking bones. His gaze snaps to me the second I step into view.

“You hesitated,” he says flatly.

Not a question. A statement.

Kellan’s in the driver’s seat, tapping something on the tablet in his lap. He doesn’t look up.

I stop in front of them, dropping the rifle case to the ground beside me. The echo of that moment still coils around my ribs like a vice.

“I didn’t have enough,” I say.

Ash’s jaw tightens. “You had a clean shot.”

“Clean shots don’t mean shit if you kill the wrong man.”

He pushes off the hood, stepping closer. “You’ve been chasing him for fifteen years. Planning this for the last five. We set it up perfectly. Intel was solid. You were ready.”

“I thought I was,” I snap. “But something doesn’t add up. The photo, the letters, the tipoffs… they all point to him, but it’s too clean . Almost like someone wanted me to believe it.”

Ash narrows his eyes. “You think it’s a setup?”

Kellan finally speaks from the car. “She’s right. I started digging deeper after the last letter came in. The timestamps on the surveillance images were scrubbed and reuploaded through three different proxies. Someone wanted to leave a trail.”

I stare down at the rifle case. My reflection stares back, warped in the metal.

“They wanted me to kill him,” I murmur.

Ash scoffs. “So what, he’s innocent now? That’s what we’re doing?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t know if he’s innocent. But I know I’m not letting someone else pull my trigger for me.”

That shuts him up.

Kellan finally gets out of the car, tablet tucked under his arm. “So what now?”

I look up at the city, to the glowing rooftop where Rafael still sits like a king in his glass kingdom.

“I get close,” I say.

Both men stare at me.

“I want eyes on his world. Every room he walks into. Every conversation he has. I want to see him up close. Watch him bleed, even if it’s just from a paper cut. I want him to know what it’s like to be haunted. ”

Ash crosses his arms again. “You want to walk into the lion’s den.”

“I’m not walking,” I say. “I’m working.”

Kellan’s brow lifts. “You have an in?”

“I will.”

I reach into my jacket and pull out the folded flyer I took from the alley wall three days ago. It’s crinkled, stained. An upscale hotel logo printed across the top. A job fair for an exclusive new casino floor at Hotel Obshor.

Rafael’s hotel.

“They’re hiring waitstaff for the VIP floor,” I say. “I’ll be one of them.”

Kellan tilts his head, considering. “You’ll need fake references. Background, work history, identification.”

“Can you do it?”

He smirks. “Already halfway done.”

Ash still doesn’t speak. His gaze burns into mine like he’s trying to find the truth inside me. “You’re not going to survive this if you start doubting yourself.”

“I’m not doubting myself,” I say.

Then I open the car door, slide into the back seat, and stare out the window.

“I’m doubting everything else.”

The car is silent as Kellan pulls away from the curb.

Streetlights flash across the windshield like flickering memories—bright, brief, gone.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, arms crossed tightly over my chest, jaw locked so I won’t say something I’ll regret. But I feel it burning inside me. A slow, twisting ache that won’t ease up.

Ash watches me through the rearview mirror, jaw clenched. He hasn’t said a word since I shut him down. But his silence speaks louder than any outburst.

Kellan finally breaks it. “So you’re really doing this.”

I don’t look at him. “I need to know the truth.”

Ash scoffs under his breath. “You had the truth. It was in your crosshairs.”

“No,” I snap, sitting up straight. “I had a target. That’s not the same.”

“Then what the hell is the truth, Iz?” Ash turns around, eyes sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, you had your shot and you choked.”

My chest tightens, but I meet his gaze head-on. “I didn’t choke. I calculated. Something felt off, and I trusted my gut.”

“You’re letting your emotions get in the way.”

“Maybe,” I say softly. “Or maybe I’m just tired of being someone else’s weapon.”

He goes quiet again.

Kellan taps the steering wheel once. “So what’s the endgame?”

“The endgame,” I murmur, “is pulling the trigger when I’m absolutely sure the bullet belongs to him.”

I let that sit in the air between us. Heavy. Cold.