LUCIAN
Palermo smells like salt, stone, and spilled blood no one bothered to clean up.
The compound sits outside the city, tucked into the cliffs overlooking the sea. Built like a fortress with old money to protect against older enemies.
Getting in isn’t easy.Butit’s not impossible.
I have all the data: blueprints, guard patterns, and even how the shadows move with the sun, moon, and lighting at night, thanks to Logan and the satellite data he hacked.
I circle the perimeter at sunset, watching the guards, and waiting for the shift change
People follow patterns. Because they are lazy, and it’s that laziness a predator like me looks for. If there’s a rhythm to something, it can be disturbed.
By the time midnight hits, I know which of the three soft spots Logan had identified would be the one I’d hit.
The most promising one is along the north wall, where the rock has eroded just enough to weaken the foundation.
I scale it fast, silent as a shadow. No flashy tech, no high-end bullshit. Just gloves, a grappling hook, and muscle memory.
Once on top, I pause, crouched low.
Two guards patrol the rooftop, smoking. They’re laughing like idiots. They don’t even see me until it’s too late.
I take them both down before they can draw breath. One quick strike to the throat, the other a blade between the ribs.
Fast. Clean. Easy.
I move through the compound like a ghost. Stone corridors, heavy wooden doors, flickering sconces that throw light in all the wrong places.
Remo Morello is sleeping in the master wing. He didn’t even post a second guard outside his bedroom door. Arrogant bastard thinks he’s untouchable, that his money and bloodlines make him immortal. He’s killed enough to know better.
I slip inside, knife in one hand, gun in the other.
Remo stirs, sensing something—too little, too late. His eyes fly open, but I’m already standing over him—an angel of death. He scrambles back against the headboard, half-naked, cursing in Italian.
“Che cazzo sei?”What the fuck are you?
I press the muzzle of my gun to his forehead.
My heart isn’t racing.
My hand doesn’t shake.
“Questo è per la mia Calistina.”This is for my Calista.
He freezes as recognition flashes across his face.
There’s fear. There’s rage.
I pull the trigger.
The silencer muffles the shot.
Remo’s body slumps forward, dead before he even understands the cost of his sins.
Getting out isn’t clean.
Someone hears something. A shout echoes through the stone halls.
