Chapter 4 Smoke and Chains

Aria didn't remember the ride back from Langford Estate. Her mind was spinning too fast, too deep into the maze Dante Moretti had opened for her.

Vetrova.

The name pulsed in her head like a migraine. A ghost of the underworld. A killer masked in charisma. And somehow, now-watching her.

She slammed the apartment door shut, pacing like a trapped lioness. This wasn't how her revenge was supposed to unfold. She wanted justice, not to be entangled in another web of power-hungry criminals playing gods over life and death.

Yet, that's exactly where she found herself.

The ringing of her burner phone sliced through her spiral.

She snatched it. "Yes?"

Silence.

Then a slow, accented voice spoke. "The masquerade was... illuminating, Miss St. James."

Her heart dropped. "Who is this?"

"Someone who appreciates your boldness. And your recklessness."

The line clicked dead.

She stared at the phone, her pulse racing. No number. No trace. But the voice-it wasn't Dante.

It had to be him.

Vetrova.

The predator had seen her. Touched her world. And now, he was toying with it.

Aria barely slept. When she did, her dreams were fractured and full of shadows. Her father's bloodstained hands reaching for her. A black mask in the dark. Dante's voice whispering from behind a veil.

She awoke with a scream caught in her throat.

Her decision had already been made. Not out of trust-but out of necessity.

She needed Dante Moretti.

And she needed to find Mikhail Vetrova before he found her again.

By evening, Aria stood outside the underground casino Dante owned-La Fiamma. A place where deals were struck with cigars and bullets, and betrayal came dressed in silk.

Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke, clinking glasses, and the thrill of danger. Men in suits stood like sentinels, women in glittering gowns eyed Aria with measured curiosity. But she walked like she belonged.

In the back, behind a double-glass door guarded by two well-armed men, Dante waited in a private lounge.

He didn't smile when he saw her.

"You came back."

"I didn't have a choice," she said, folding her arms.

"There's always a choice. You chose to fight."

"I chose not to die," she corrected. "There's a difference."

He gestured for her to sit. "Vetrova reached out?"

Her silence was answer enough.

"He has eyes everywhere. You're on his board now, Aria. He's watching your next move."

"Then let him."

Dante watched her with a mixture of amusement and concern. "You're fearless."

"I'm furious," she said. "I want him to feel what I felt the day I buried my father. I want to shatter his empire."

Dante leaned forward. "Then you'll need to become someone else."

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to disappear, Aria St. James. And in her place, we'll build a woman the underworld fears."

The idea made her flinch. "A killer?"

"A ghost," he said simply. "Like Vetrova. Only smarter."

"I'm a journalist. Not an assassin."

"You were a journalist," he corrected. "Now you're something else entirely."

She stood abruptly. "If I do this-if I become your weapon-what do I get in return?"

"Everything Vetrova stole from you."

The transformation wasn't immediate. But it began.

Over the next week, Aria trained in private safehouses. Weapons. Surveillance. Psychological warfare. She learned how to read people by their breath, how to mask her own fears, how to disappear in plain sight.

Dante rarely interfered but always watched. His presence, though cold, became a strange source of stability. The more she pushed herself, the more he seemed to see something in her that even she had buried-power.

On the seventh night, she stood on the rooftop of a hotel in Midtown, wearing a blood-red dress and holding a champagne glass. Below her, a gala buzzed with wealthy men, most of them corrupt.

Vetrova's lieutenant was among them.

Dante's voice crackled through the earpiece. "You ready?"

"I've been ready since the day he smiled at my father's funeral."

She descended the staircase like a weapon wrapped in beauty.

The target was Nikolai Zakharov. A man who laughed too loud, drank too much, and, according to Dante, smuggled enough weapons into the country to fund a small war. He was also Vetrova's front man.

Aria found him at the bar, obnoxiously flirtatious with a woman half his age. She approached with slow, confident grace, brushing her shoulder just slightly against his.

He turned, eyes trailing her like a wolf eyeing prey.

"New face," he purred.

She smiled. "New game."

He chuckled, intrigued. "What's your name?"

She took his glass, downed it in one gulp, and leaned closer. "Does it matter?"

Zakharov stared at her. "I like dangerous women."

"I'm not dangerous," she whispered. "I'm deadly."

Ten minutes later, he led her to a private room upstairs.

Aria scanned everything. No cameras. No guards. Just him and her.

Perfect.

She didn't hesitate.

The knife pressed to his throat came from her thigh.

Zakharov's eyes widened. "What the-"

"You're going to tell me everything you know about Mikhail Vetrova," she hissed, blade nicking his skin.

He laughed nervously. "You've got the wrong girl, sweetheart."

She leaned in. "No. I've finally become the right one."