Chapter 2 2

'Seven' POV

The morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse was the color of bruised iron. I was meticulously oiling the Damascus steel of my favorite stiletto when Silas's phantom of a Butler materialized in my doorway.

"A tragic mechanical failure," the Butler announced, his voice a flat, dead monotone. "Her speedboat exploded shortly after departure last night. There are no remains. Don Silas sends his condolences."

I didn't pause my polishing. "A shame."

Inside, my mind became a steel trap snapping shut. 'Three' yesterday, 'Nine' today. The board was clearing. Only 'Two', 'Five', and I remained. The Culling was entering its final, bloodiest stage. But 'Nine' dying from a simple engine fault? Bullshit. Silas didn't breed us to die by accident. The game had just been reset, and I needed to find the real strings being pulled.

Half an hour later, one of my Soldiers stood before me, detailing the immediate fallout.

"'Two' has completely lost it," the Soldier reported, shifting nervously under my gaze. "He's tearing his villa apart. Smashing marble, destroying everything in sight, and roaring that he will carry out a bloody *Vendetta*(revenge) for 'Nine'."

"And?" I prompted, knowing there was more.

"He broke into the locked bedroom on his third floor. Our informant saw inside. There was... a rag doll, stitched back together dozens of times with crude thread. And a small box holding a single, melted piece of candy. He was clutching the doll, howling like a wounded beast."

I smirked, dismissing the man with a wave of my hand. A sick, twisted obsession. 'Two's rage made him a rabid dog-dangerous, but entirely predictable. He had just handed me the leash to his sanity. He would be my first target.

That evening, I descended into the mahogany-lined belly of *The Serpent's Coil*. The air in 'Five's' exclusive speakeasy was thick with expensive cigar smoke and the low hum of Syndicate elites. 'Five' stood behind the bar, elegantly wiping a crystal tumbler, looking entirely unbothered by the sudden thinning of our ranks.

"A dark day for the family," I murmured, taking a seat and offering a hollow smile.

'Five' didn't miss a beat. "The weak are eliminated. It is Silas's law."

We exchanged a look, a silent clash of invisible blades. He was too calm, too perfectly poised. He didn't believe the explosion any more than I did. We were no longer just competitors; we were predators circling the same trap, waiting to see who would step on the wire first.

The moment I stepped out of the private elevator into my darkened penthouse later that night, the metallic scent of killing intent hit me.

Two of my Soldiers lay bleeding on the polished concrete. From the shadows, a masked figure lunged, a serrated combat knife aimed flawlessly at my heart.

I pivoted, letting the blade slice empty air. I struck his wrist, shattering the joint, and swept his legs out from under him. Three moves. I pinned him to the floor, my knee pressing brutally into his spine, twisting his armed hand until the knife clattered away. The reckless, suicidal ferocity of the strike gave him away instantly.

The subterranean air of my private wine cellar was damp and smelled of earth. I dragged the assassin down the stone steps and strapped him to a heavy wooden chair beneath a single, harsh bulb.

I ripped the silver mask from his face.

"'Twelve'," I said softly.

His eyes widened in shock, burning with a futile, rabid hatred. I turned my back to him, casually uncorking a bottle of vintage Barolo.

"You think I killed her," I mused, pouring the dark red liquid into a crystal glass. "You came for your *Vendetta*. But let's talk about your loyalty, ghost."

I stepped closer, the glass cool in my hand. "Years ago, when you failed a mission, 'Nine' defied Silas. She smuggled you out and claimed you were dead. For that lie, Silas hung her by her wrists over the freezing water of the Cistern for two days and two nights. She traded half her life for your freedom."

'Twelve' strained against the ropes, his breathing ragged, the memory tearing at him.

"And yet," I whispered, my voice dripping with absolute disdain, "here you are. Throwing away the very life she suffered to save, all for a misguided suicide mission. Your *Vendetta* is a mockery of her sacrifice. You are a traitor. *Un traditore*."

The raw agony that shattered his expression confirmed everything. He truly believed she was dead. If a ghost this loyal was fooled, Silas had orchestrated a masterpiece of deception. But looking down at the broken man trembling in my chair, I realized I had just been handed the perfect weapon to tear Silas's game apart.