Warm, sticky air wrapped around Katarina Dragunova the moment she stepped out of the arrivals terminal. After three weeks on the western continent—sun, rooftop bars, Zara dragging her through every club within a fifty-mile radius—she felt lighter, looser, almost human.
Almost.
Her suitcase rolled after her, wheels clicking rhythmically against the pavement. Beside her, Zara Petrov strutted like the airport walkway doubled as a catwalk.
"Ugh," Zara groaned, flipping up her oversized sunglasses. "Three weeks away, and this city immediately declares war on my hair. Look at this humidity."
Kat smirked. "Maybe don't wear velvet in August?"
"This isn't velvet, babe," Zara sniffed. "It's an attitude."
Kat opened her mouth to respond, but the sleek black sedan gliding to a stop in front of them stole the breath from her throat.
The Dragunov family car.
The driver stepped out.
Viktor.
The man who had driven her to her first combat lesson when she was nine. Who had slipped her candies when she sulked. Who used to ramble about household gossip until she rolled her eyes and pretended not to listen. He had been a comfort in a home that rarely offered any.
But today…
His shoulders were rigid.His gaze stayed fixed on the ground.And when he spoke—
"Miss Katarina. Welcome back."
—his voice was stripped of warmth. Hollow.
Zara blinked at him. "Why does he sound like the grim reaper's customer-service representative?"
Kat didn't respond.
A cold knot twisted low in her stomach.
They got into the car. The doors shut. The engine hummed. And then—
Silence.
Viktor didn't speak.Didn't adjust the mirror.Didn't even glance at her reflection.
By the time the Dragunov gates came into view, dread had settled beneath her ribs like wet cement.
Something was wrong.
The estate usually thrummed with subdued life—quiet footsteps, murmured conversations, the faint clatter of kitchen staff, the occasional reprimand from her grandfather echoing through hallways. She had grown up inside this rhythm. She knew it like a second heartbeat.
Today, the air felt strangled.
Muted.
The mansion doors opened to reveal staff members moving like ghosts—heads bowed, shoulders stiff, expressions tight. No greetings. No eye contact. No whispers.
Nothing.
Zara clutched her tote bag tighter. "Nope. No. Absolutely not. I refuse to walk into whatever funeral-level tension this is."
"Zara—"
"Nope." She kissed Kat's cheek, perfume swirling around her like a last attempt at normalcy. "I love you, but I don't do paranormal-mafia-family-silence. Call me when everyone remembers how to blink."
She hurried away. The doors shut behind her with a heavy thud that seemed to echo down Kat's spine.
Kat turned to the nearest maid. "What happened?"
The maid flinched violently. "I… I'm not allowed to say, Miss."
"Not allowed by who?"
Before she could answer, Ivan—the butler who had served the Dragunovs longer than she had been alive—appeared at the end of the hall. His posture was perfect as always, but his eyes… his eyes were raw with something she almost didn't recognize.
Grief.
"Miss Katarina," he said quietly. "Please. Come with me."
Her throat tightened. "Ivan… what is going on?"
He didn't respond. He simply turned and led her through the hallways she knew too well.
Portraits of her ancestors stared down at her—stern eyes, hard lines, Dragunov blood carved into canvas. She had walked this corridor thousands of times. She had never felt it closing in on her like this.
Ivan stopped outside her grandfather's study.
He faced her. And for the first time in her life, his voice broke.
"Your grandfather… Boris Dragunov… passed away three days ago."
The world stopped moving.
Kat's breath fractured. "No. No, that's impossible. He was fine when I left—he was fine—"
"I know," Ivan whispered. "But his death… it was not natural."
Cold spread through her chest like frostbite.
"Murder," he said softly. "He was murdered."
The floor tilted. Kat grabbed the doorframe to steady herself, but the hallway kept swaying, blurring at the edges.
A younger staff member stepped forward, wringing her hands. "We tried to call you, Miss. Truly. But your father… he ordered us not to. He said you didn't need to be disturbed. That the elders would handle it. He wanted you to enjoy your time away."
A bitter, painful laugh almost escaped her.
Of course.
Her father never did anything unless it benefited him.
Never mind that Boris Dragunov had been the only person Kat truly loved. Never mind that he had been the only one who understood the monster she carried inside her—and helped her control it.
She pushed past them and stepped into the study.
Then froze.
Everything was wrong.
Her grandfather's maps, his meticulous files, his ancient books—gone. The comforting scent of cigar smoke and old paper—gone. His presence, his order, his life—gone.
Replaced with her father's belongings. His documents. His aura. His claim over the room.
As if Boris Dragunov had been scrubbed out of existence.
Her pulse hammered wildly.
This wasn't mourning.
This was rearrangement.Rewriting.Erasure.
A maid appeared in the doorway, trembling. "Miss… there's more."
Kat's voice was flat. "Say it."
"The investigators found a calling card beside the body."
A cold, familiar dread curled through her. "A calling card?"
"A single red rose."
Silence detonated in the room.
Kat's breath vanished.
Her rose.
Her signature.
Rose—the assassin whispered about across criminal syndicates. A phantom. A rumor. A nightmare. Unseen, unmatched, lethal.
Her.
And only one person in the world had ever known the truth.
Her grandfather.
The man who shaped her into a weapon—and kept her soul intact.The man who handled every contract, filtered every target, protected her identity with a fierceness no one else had ever given her.
Her voice cracked. "I haven't taken a job in months. I wasn't even in the country."
Which meant only one thing.
Someone had left that rose on purpose.
Someone who knew her.Someone who wanted her blamed.Or wanted to send her a message.
Or both.
One brutal truth slammed into her:
Her grandfather's death wasn't random.
It was arranged.
Planned.
A declaration.
And the rose left behind—her rose,her signature—
was a message written in blood.
A warning.
A promise.
Or the opening move in a war she hadn't realized she was already part of.