CHAPTER ONE #3
He was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a dark, bespoke overcoat. His hair was slicked back, and his face was sharp, handsome, and devoid of empathy. He casually stepped over the body of a Kazan guard, pulling a silver cigarette case from his pocket.
"Emir Kazan," the man said.
The voice drifted up to Zina's alcove. The accent was thick, distinctly Italian, wrapped in a casual arrogance that made Zina’s blood boil. But why? What alliance had shifted so violently to warrant an eradication?
"You brought rats into my home," Emir spat, his voice echoing in the ruined hall. "You are cowards who cannot fight a war in the daylight."
The Italian man lit his cigarette, taking a slow drag. "Wars in the daylight are for politicians, Emir. I am a businessman. And your business, unfortunately, occupies space that my employers require." He blew a stream of smoke into the air. "It is nothing personal. Just a change in management."
"Go to hell," Rostam snarled, lunging forward.
One of the guards smashed the butt of his rifle into the back of Rostam's skull. Rostam hit the marble floor hard, but immediately began trying to push himself back up, his teeth bared in a bloody snarl.
The Italian sighed, pulling a revolver from his coat. "Messy family. Too much pride."
He didn't hesitate. He didn't offer a grand speech. He simply pointed the gun at Farzin’s head and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang out. Farzin collapsed.
Zina squeezed her eyes shut, a silent, agonizing scream tearing at her throat. She bit down harder on her hand, her nails digging into her own flesh. Do not move. Do not breathe.
"Farzin!" Emir roared, his stoic facade shattering.
The Italian turned the gun and shot Rostam in the back of the head as he struggled to rise.
Zina’s vision blurred with tears. Her fierce, protective brothers. The men who had teased her, trained her, loved her. Gone in the span of three seconds. She pressed her forehead against the wood, her entire body shaking with a grief so violent it felt like a physical tearing of her soul.
The Italian stepped in front of Emir, looking down at the broken patriarch. "The reign of the Kazans is finished."
"My name will outlive you," Emir promised, looking up at the barrel of the gun. He didn't plead. He didn't look at the walls where he knew his daughter was hiding. He accepted his end with the dignity of a sovereign.
The Italian fired. Emir Kazan fell.
Zina stopped breathing. The world reduced to the sound of ringing in her ears and the sight of her father lying motionless on the marble floor.
The men in the hall proceeded to systematically execute her uncle and aunt.
Methodical. Ruthless. In less than ten minutes, the sprawling, powerful Kazan dynasty had been reduced to a room full of corpses.
The silence that followed was heavier than the gunfire.
"Check the bodies," the Italian ordered, his voice cutting through the haze. "Confirm the targets."
A man in a tactical vest stepped forward, holding a tablet. "We have the patriarch. We have the two older sons, Farzin and Rostam. The extended targets are neutralized."
"What about the daughter?" the Italian asked, flicking his cigarette onto a ruined Persian rug. "Sherezine."
"Unaccounted for. One of the inside men said she was in the courtyard, but she vanished."
The Italian waved a dismissive hand. "Forget the daughter.
The bitch is irrelevant. Women do not rebuild empires.
They marry into new ones. She is of no consequence.
" He stepped closer to the tactical lieutenant, his voice lowering, taking on a hard edge.
"But the intel confirmed there was another. "
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied. "Another son. The youngest. Reza Kazan. Twelve years old. He is not among the dead."
Zina’s blood stopped flowing. The cold shock of grief was instantly incinerated by a white-hot clarity.
"Find him," the Italian commanded, his voice echoing up to the alcove, locking directly onto Zina’s soul.
"I don't care if you have to tear the stones from the foundation.
The daughter doesn't matter, but there is one more son.
Find the other boy. Find the kid and end him. The bloodline dies tonight. All of it."
The men scattered, shouting orders, fanning out across the estate to begin the hunt.
In the dark alcove above, Zina slowly lowered her bleeding hand from her mouth. Her father was dead. Farzin was dead. Rostam was dead. Her home was a tomb.
She could not mourn. The luxury of grief belonged to those who were safe, and they were the furthest thing from it. They were actively hunting a twelve-year-old boy. They thought the daughter was irrelevant. They thought she was a ghost who would flee into the night.
They were wrong.
Zina turned away from the lattice, her face setting into a mask of pure, crystalline ice.
The vibrant, loving woman who had sat at the dinner table twenty minutes ago was dead, murdered alongside her father and brothers.
In her place, in the dark corridors of the ruined estate, the dangerous weapon Emir Kazan had forged was unsheathed.
She had only one priority now. Keep her mother, her grandmother, and Reza alive.