"What a pleasant surprise to have you, Miss Vittoria."
Russell, the right-hand man of the Crimson Blaze organization, greeted her with a forced, welcoming smile stretched taut across his face. He stood planted before the organization's reinforced steel door flanked by a fleet of his men, each guard holding a rifle with a practiced grip, their faces carved from stone, eyes flat and unwavering, they looked like they'd shoot anyone who made the slightest, most involuntary movement.
"I wouldn't say the same, Russell," Vittoria replied, her voice like a cool blade in the tense air. "You seem very prepared for my arrival."
She was dressed with an almost insulting simplicity: dark silk pajamas, stark against her white skin, covered by a long, sweeping black leather coat that pooled around her ankles. She had brought only two people with her: Martha, a silent chubby shadow, standing expressionlessly behind her and a single, subordinate who had driven the car. It was a small group, one that didn't look like they had an intention to fight But Russell was not a stupid man; to believe the surface would be a big error.
"Of course not, Miss Vittoria," he countered "This is the usual security protocol in Crimson Blaze. I sincerely apologize if it made you feel... uncomfortable."
Vittoria sneered in contempt. "I want to see your leader. I believe he has something of mine in his possession."
"You must be mistaken, Miss Vittoria," Russell said smoothly, the implication hanging thickly between them. "We dare not take from the Blood Circle unless it was originally ours." The history was clear: the Blue Stream district had, in fact, been Crimson Blaze territory a decade ago, until their leader, Frederick, lost a high-stakes bet to Jonathan Roosevelt, who had claimed the district as his price for winning.
"Really?" Vittoria said. The single word was low barely holding any emotion yet it vibrated in the space like a plucked wire, sounding far more like a threat than a question.
Just as Russell drew breath to respond, Frederick himself finally appeared in the doorway. He was an elderly man, clinging to the last of his vigour, his face a roadmap of old rivalries and his hair white with hard-won power "What are you doing?" he barked at Russell with well-staged anger. "Is this how you treat a guest?"
"I am sorry, boss. I got too carried away," Russell said, bowing his head slightly in a show of deference.
Vittoria watched their little pantomime of authority and discipline, her boredom so profound she almost yawned.
"So sorry, Miss Vittoria," Frederick said, his voice shifting to a well voiced paternal tone as he gestured toward the dim interior. "You should come in."
"Unfortunately, I don't have the time," she stated, cutting through the false courtesy like a guillotine. "I just want to know if you will release the Blue Stream district or not."
Frederick's expression softened into a patronizing smile, the kind an elder offers a curios child. "Any other thing, Miss Vittoria, but not the Blue Stream district. That land belongs to my family. And I can't let it go again, not for anything," he said, his voice deceptively gentle, as if explaining a simple truth.
"Very well, then," Vittoria said, her tone utterly devoid of argument or disappointment. She turned on her heel, the leather of her coat whispering against itself, and walked back to her idling car. The retreat was so abrupt, so devoid of action, that it was deeply suspicious.
Just as her hand touched the cool metal of the car door, Frederick called out, his voice shedding its false warmth for a grave edge. "Vittoria! Your father robbed and offended a lot of people when he was alive. In fact, robbing from the dead, I believe that has something to do with his death. I wouldn't want something like that to happen to you, too."
She paused, half-turning. Her profile was sharp against the cold backdrop of the compound. "Instead of standing here advising me," she said, each word dropping like an ice chip, "you should probably look for a suitable place for your grave." With that, she slid into the car. Martha and the driver followed, and the vehicle zoomed off, leaving nothing but a cloud of exhaust and a chilling silence in its wake.
Frederick's face darkened into a storm cloud of rage and instant regret as the car dissappeared in the distance. "I should have killed her that year, really," he hissed to Russell, his hands clenching into fists. "She wouldn't be here talking to me if I had."
His words of bitter regret were still hanging in the air when chaos violently intruded. A wounded subordinate, his cloth soaked with wet blood, drove into the base courtyard on a wobbling bicycle. He crashed to the asphalt, the bike clattering away, and crawled forward on his knees, his voice a raw, tearing sob that silenced the yard.
"The Blue Stream district, boss! The Blue Stream... it has been taken over! We were taken by surprise… a complete ambush… everyone was killed!" he cried out before his strength failed and he collapsed face-first onto the ground.
The news struck the assembled men like a physical blow. The dreadful clarity dawned: Vittoria hadn't come to ask. Of course she hadn't. Her visit was a masterful distraction, a theatrical display to occupy their leadership while her real strike force moved with surgical precision to reclaim what she considered hers. Frederick felt a sharp, stabbing pain erupt behind his ribs. The world becoming blurry. He clutched at his chest, a weak, guttural groan escaping his lips as his legs buckled and he crumpled to the hard, cold ground. "I should have killed that bitch when I had the chance," he groaned again, his voice a thread of sound drowned out by the shouts of alarm and panic that now consumed his base.
---
Meanwhile, Vittoria stepped out of the car as it came to a smooth, silent stop in the heart of the Blood Circle base. The atmosphere here was different charged with focused energy. Elias walked straight to her as soon as she walked off the car, his report ready and concise.
"How is the situation?" she asked, not looking at him as she shrugged her coat more tightly around her.
"Clean and clear," Elias replied. The message was clear: the Blue Stream district was back under their control, the Crimson Blaze presence there utterly erased.
Vittoria offered a noncommittal "Hmm," which could have signified satisfaction, acknowledgment, or nothing at all. "You have a letter," Elias continued, his tone carefully neutral. "From the Writhwood first master. Miguel Writhwood."
She frowned, a slight crease appearing between her brows. "Writhwood? Was my father associated with them?"
"Not in any substantive way. A few polite discussions at charity functions, nothing more," Elias reported.
Vittoria's brow furrowed further, a seed of cold suspicion taking root. She walked into her father's office, now her own and there, resting alone on the big and polished desk, was the letter. It was sealed in an oddly bright, cheerful pink envelope. A yellow sticky note was fixed to the back. She picked it up, her fingers steady but cold. The handwriting was elegant, almost whimsically so:
"I expected a real challenge when he told me I would pay. I didn't expect he was talking about a daughter. How disappointing."
Vittoria's face transformed instantly. All her icy control shattered and re-formed into a furnace of pure, unadulterated fury. She tore the envelope open with a sharp jerk. Inside was not a letter, but a single, stark photograph.
It was her father. Jonathan Roosevelt, tied to a chair, fresh, deliberate cuts on his forehead, his eyes blazing with world-ending fury aimed directly at the lens, at whoever held the camera. It was a trophy shot. Taken in his final, humiliated moments.
She understood immediately. The sender wasn't just informing her; he was taunting her. He had not only killed her father but possessed the sheer, arrogant audacity to send her evidence of it, stripping away any mystery, denying her even the dignity of the hunt. He had no regard for her, for her name, for her wrath. It was a blatant, contemptuous dismissal.
And in that dismissal, Vittoria felt a fury ignite within her soul, a cold, black, and infinitely patient flame that burned hotter and deeper than any rage she had ever known.