My revenge against the Mafia Boss

The lights of Manhattan blurred through the rain-streaked taxi window like smudged blood on glass. Caroline Slane sat rigid in the back seat, jaw clenched, gloved hands folded in her lap. The city hadn't changed. Still loud. Still hungry. Still pretending not to notice the rot under its glimmer.

Neither had he.

Dario Ventresca-The Reaper-still ruled the underworld from his velvet throne, soaked in the blood of men better than him. He hadn't seen her in fifteen years. Not since the night his men kicked down her father's door. Not since the fire. Not since the smell of smoke and gunpowder fused with the sound of her mother screaming.

Caroline had died that night. At least, the girl she used to be had.

The name she wore now-Cara Vale-was clean, sharp, forgettable. Built to slip through shadows and leave no footprints. But under the skin? A storm waited.

"We're here," the driver said, pulling up to the marble-and-glass facade of the Vento Nero, one of Ventresca's clubs. Flashing lights danced over a velvet rope entrance guarded by thick men with earpieces and thousand-yard stares.

Caroline handed him cash without looking. Her eyes were already on the target.

Step one: Get inside.

Step two: Make them notice her.

Step three: Begin the fall from within.

The cold air slapped her as she stepped out. She liked it. It reminded her she was real, here, not some ghost still trapped in the fire. The bouncer scanned her ID, then his gaze lingered on her face.

"You new?" he asked, voice rough.

Caroline smiled like a blade. "You'll remember me."

Inside, bass thumped like a war drum. Strobes painted dancers in slices of color and shadow. She moved through it all like a shark in shallow water-silent, focused, lethal.

She spotted her contact near the VIP lounge: Luka Rivas, Ventresca's money man. A smuggler, a coward, a necessary step. He liked brunettes. He liked danger. Caroline had done her homework.

"Buy you a drink?" she asked, slipping into the seat beside him.

He blinked, surprised-and then intrigued. "You got a name?"

"Cara." She leaned in. "You look like someone who knows people."

He grinned. Hooked. "I know everyone."

She tilted her head, pretending coyness. "Even him?"

He sobered instantly. The Reaper didn't like his name in strangers' mouths.

Luka hesitated, then laughed to cover the tension. "You got big ambition for someone I've never seen before."

"I make strong first impressions."

Their eyes locked.

She didn't blink.

Behind the flirtation, behind the charm, she was calculating. Reading him. Positioning herself. Luka was a ladder. And if she had to break a few rungs on the way up, so be it.

Tonight, she planted the seed.

Soon, The Reaper would know her name.

And when he did, it wouldn't be because she was beautiful.

It would be because she'd come to end him.