POV: DAISY MONROE
The first time I killed a man, I cried.
Not because I was scared, or sorry.
I cried because I felt… nothing.
No guilt. No fear. No hesitation.
Just silence inside me.
And that's when I knew — I was built for this.
***********
Tonight felt no different.
The club was booming, full of sweaty bodies, overpriced bottles, and fake laughter. I moved through the crowd like a shadow in a sea of lights — black hoodie, black jeans, no makeup except for red lipstick that screamed don't touch me.
My target had just walked into the VIP bathroom, drunk and loud, his two bodyguards left to flirt with bottle girls.
I waited five seconds. Then followed.
************
The bathroom smelled like cologne and bleach. Classy.
I locked the door behind me and turned the bolt slowly, listening to the music thump through the walls like a warning heartbeat.
He didn't even hear me enter.
He was at the mirror, fixing his hair with one hand, texting with the other.
"Hey," I said softly.
He turned — confused, then amused.
"Damn. They send girls like you to clean up now?" He chuckled. "Lucky me."
I stepped closer. One hand in my hoodie pocket, wrapped tight around Angel — my switchblade.
"Yeah," I said, smiling. "Lucky you."
---
He didn't even see it coming.
The blade slid across his neck in one clean line, red pouring out like wine from a cracked bottle.
He stumbled back, gurgling.
I caught him by the collar and slammed him against the marble sink before he could scream.
Blood splashed. He slid to the floor.
I watched the life drain from his eyes.
---
No fear. No guilt. Nothing.
Just like always.
---
I cleaned the blade under the faucet, wiped my gloves, and fixed my lipstick in the mirror.
"You really are a cold bitch," I told myself, grinning.
Not proud. Not ashamed. Just stating facts.
---
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I answered without thinking. My fingers were still sticky with his blood.
"It's done," I said flatly.
A voice answered, slow and smooth, laced with danger.
> "You move like a ghost, Daisy Monroe. Cold. Precise."
My heart froze.
"Who the hell is this?"
> "Luciano Moretti." the voice said over the phone.
I blinked.
The name made the air go still.
Everyone in the underworld knew that name. He wasn't a man — he was a myth. A Mafia king who didn't show his face often but ran half of New York from the shadows.
I'd heard whispers. About the things he did to people who betrayed him. About the women who thought they could own him. None of them were still breathing.
"You watching me?" I asked.
> "Always. You did good work tonight." he dangerously replied..
"I don't work for anyone," I snapped.
> "You do now. I'll be in touch."
*Click*
The line went dead, and I just stood there.
That voice... it wasn't just powerful. It was magnetic.
It reached inside me like it knew every dirty thing I'd done — and liked it.
---
**********
Outside, the club thumped on like nothing had happened.
The bouncers laughed. The girls danced. The DJ played something fast and stupid.
And in the middle of it all, I walked out of that bathroom calm and clean, leaving a dead man on the tile floor.
No one saw me.
No one ever does.
That's the thing about people like me.
We're invisible until it's too late.
I slipped into the night, hoodie pulled up, lipstick perfect.
They call me Dirty Daisy.
And I just caught the attention of the most dangerous man in New York.
******************************
POV: LUCIANO
She moved like a shadow.
I watched her on the screen — grainy black-and-white footage from the VIP bathroom camera, angled high, quiet, hidden. Most people didn't even know I had it installed. But I never liked surprises.
Daisy Monroe didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch.
Slit the man's throat like she was buttering toast.
Clean. Efficient. Beautiful.
And then she looked in the mirror — at herself — like she was daring her reflection to talk back.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk, watching her fix her lipstick with blood still on her gloves.
A slow smile curled across my lips.
"Interesting," I muttered.
---
I'd heard of her before.
Dirty Daisy — a street girl who worked odd jobs for low-level dealers, thugs, even a few of my cousins who were too stupid to keep track of their own money.
She'd killed before. Five confirmed hits. Maybe more.
No one could prove a thing. No arrests. No witnesses..But I knew.
And I wanted her.
---
As a tool. A knife in the dark. A walking message.
I needed someone like her. Someone the cops didn't know. Someone who didn't flinch when things got messy.
But the more I watched, the more that need... shifted.
---
She had something. Not just rage. Not just skill.
She has Fire.
Not the screaming, reckless kind.
No — hers burned slow and quiet, like a secret.
Like me.
I tapped the phone resting on the table. Dialed.
She picked up on the second ring.
> "It's done," she said, voice cold, flat, professional.
God, that voice.
> "You move like a ghost, Daisy Monroe. Cold. Precise."
Silence.
Then: "Who the hell is this?" She replied, her voice flat and cold.
> "Luciano Moretti."
She didn't speak for a second.
I imagined her eyes narrowing, her breath catching just slightly. She wasn't the type to gasp or panic. But I knew I'd rattled her.
Good.
"I don't work for anyone", her voice rings over the phone.
> "You do now," I said. "I'll be in touch."
I ended the call before she could argue.
---
She was going to fight it, of course.
She didn't like to belong to anyone. I could see that in the way she walked. Like a wolf that bit every hand that tried to pet it.
But she'd belong to me. I gave her this first mission to try her abilities. Now that I have seen what she is like, she would become my tool.
Not because I forced her.
Because I'd make her want to.
---
I leaned back in my chair, eyes still on the screen. The bathroom was empty now, the body slumped against the wall like trash waiting to be picked up.
But all I could think about... was her.
The way she smiled before the kill.
The way she cleaned the blade.
The way she walked out like nothing happened.
She was ruthless. Smart. Sharp.
She was dangerous.
And I was starting to want her like a loaded gun.
---
[To be continued…]