The moment the muscle-bound bouncer clocked her, his brain locked up like an old Windows XP laptop hitting a virus. Sure, the job had its share of weirdos—meth heads, overconfident TikTokers, the occasional lunatic looking for redemption—but no one, and I mean no one, walked into a Russian mob negotiation asking for a car wash like she was at a spa.
He reached for his weapon. Big mistake.
Seraphina, mildly annoyed that she hadn't had caffeine in fourteen hours, flung the rental car door open with a CRACK—metal met skull. The bouncer's knees buckled like a folding chair at a toddler's tea party. She didn't even blink.
"Oh darling," she murmured, slipping a stun gun from her clutch. "You should've stuck to parking cars."
With a low zzzap, the man was out cold. Seraphina nudged him with the toe of her. "Brass knuckles? Really? What is this, prom night in Moscow?"
She turned to the rest of the room. Five more goons. One skinny guy who looked like he did the books. And one James Wesley—still clinging to that mid-level executive vibe like he thought it meant something in the real world.
"So… car wash, yes?" Seraphina asked sweetly, voice dipped in poisoned honey.
James blinked. The Russian negotiator blinked. For a moment, you could hear the collective brain cells try to figure out whether this was a robbery, an assassination, or just a really bizarre Yelp complaint.
"I don't care who sent you," the thin Russian spat. "Get out."
Seraphina sighed like a disappointed teacher. "And here I thought the Bratva prided itself on hospitality. Shame."
Weapons came out like party favors. Chains, bats, a ridiculous-looking taser cane that belonged in a Bond parody.
"Oh look," Seraphina said, tilting her head, "it's amateur hour."
A bald brute lunged with a chain—because of course he was bald. Russian mobs always came with one. It was practically in their bylaws.
Seraphina danced sideways, pivoted with a grace that screamed ballet training and body count, and sent him crashing into his comrades with a well-placed heel to the ribs. He flew like a discount action figure.
She advanced toward Wesley, who looked like he just realized brunch was canceled indefinitely. She reached into his coat like pulling an umbrella from a stand, plucked out his M1911, and admired it.
"Oh, vintage," she cooed. "Mr. Wesley, you do know how to treat yourself."
"Are you insane?!" he barked.
"I prefer 'dramatically unbothered.'" She pointed the gun at him. "Tell your little friends to clean my car. And I want the seats redone."
The Russian accountant did a quick mental calculus: Wesley dead = Kingpin apocalypse. Clean car = pride swallowed but spine intact.
"Wash the car," he grunted.
The men obeyed. Inside the blood-splattered rental, they found the mess from Seraphina's previous endeavor.
She waited, leaning against the hood like a Vogue cover model who'd just orchestrated a coup. The goons scrubbed, sanitized, even replaced the upholstery. When they finished, it gleamed like guilt under a spotlight.
Seraphina motioned to Wesley with the pistol. "Get in, darling. Front seat. Shotgun privilege."
Wesley grumbled something in a dialect known only to bitter lawyers, but complied.
As she drove off, Wesley studied her profile.
"You're wearing a mask," he said. "Why? I've seen you before?"
"Maybe," she replied. "Or maybe I'm the ghost of every bad decision your employer's ever made."
He raised a brow. "You're trying to intimidate me?"
"God no." She gave him a sideways glance. "I'm just bored. Driving without music is a war crime."
Wesley was too smart to rise to the bait. Instead, he studied her, quietly recalculating everything he thought he knew about power.
"You're wasting potential," she said eventually. "You're sharp. Multilingual. Probably read Cicero in college. Why serve a man who treats you like a footnote?"
Wesley blinked. "You're recruiting me?"
"No," Seraphina said, "I'm insulting your life choices."
When they were far enough from the car wash, she parked, punch his jaw, pulled out the stun gun again, and zapped him with the finesse of a woman late for tea.
He slumped over. She arranged him gently on a nearby bench like a concerned citizen.
"You'd make a decent concierge," she said, wiping prints off his pistol before returning it. "But loyalty to mediocrity is a terminal disease."
With that, she swapped the license plates, stopped at a real car wash for cosmetic detailing, and returned the rental.
Her bank account was a crime scene.
Broke, annoyed, and now commuting via peasant chariot—also known as the bus—Seraphina headed back to check in on her recent 'project.'
Frank Castle.
A walking siege engine with a vendetta, she'd patched him up after a shootout. He'd been unconscious, bleeding, and frankly beneath her usual standards for allies. Still, she saw something in him—rage honed into purpose.
Except now, the apartment was empty.
No heartbeat. No note. Not even a bloodied sock.
"Huh," she murmured. "How very... inconvenient."
She stepped back out, eyes narrowing.
Truth was—Frank had been watching. He'd seen her break faces and egos at that cursed car wash. He'd seen the cleanup, the professionalism, the casual sadism dressed in Chanel.
And he approved.
From the shadows, he made a call.
"Castle," he growled.
The other side crackled. "Heard what happened. You need backup?"
"Stay out of my business," Frank said.
The man on the line—Nick Fury himself—grunted. "Suit yourself. You're off the grid."
There was silence. The kind that only comes when two men have seen too much.
Then Frank added, "I saw a woman."
Fury was quiet. "I've already got someone in mind."
Frank didn't care. "She fits the file."
And he rattled off what little intel he'd gathered on Daisy Johnson.
Back at SHIELD, Fury leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"God help us all," he muttered.
Meanwhile, Seraphina strolled back into her school building.
It took her exactly ten minutes to walk out.
Apparently, ankle-baring canvas shoes weren't considered "in" by the Mean Girl cartel. They laughed.
She smiled.
The last person to laugh at her ended up paying dental bills in three countries.
Rifling through her wallet, Seraphina sighed.
She was so broke, even her pride was budgeting.
She needed a new side hustle.
But before that? Lunch. Because even mafia queens need sandwiches.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]