The Mafia Boss Caught Me Bleeding At 3 AM—Then He Realized The Bruises On My Back Weren't From An Accident, But A Hit Contract On His Own Life.

The memory of his lips against mine, the warmth of his hands, his soft promises of justice—it had all been an elaborate, twisted game designed to deliver me straight into the hands of the man who slaughtered my friends.

"You played me," I whispered, my voice trembling as I stared at the screen showing Julian laughing with the devil. "You bastard..."

"Gas releasing in five seconds," Vane’s voice chimed pleasantly over the intercom. "Sweet dreams, Agent Vance."

Hissing streams of neurotoxin gas began pumping into the sealed vault from ceiling vents.

Panic seized me, but my tactical training kicked in before the poison could overtake my lungs. I ripped off the hem of my silk crimson dress, soaked it with liquid from a decorative water fountain inside the vault, and tied it tightly over my nose and mouth.

I looked around frantically. The vault door was three-inch reinforced titanium—impossible to shoot through. But above the glass pedestal was an air filtration shaft designed to purge the room in case of fire.

I drew my suppressed 9mm pistol from my thigh holster and fired six rapid rounds into the steel bolts securing the vent grate.

CLANG! CLANG!

The grate dropped. I jumped onto the pedestal, grabbed the edges of the narrow duct, and hauled myself up into the dark vents just as the toxic gas completely filled the vault floor.

I crawled through the narrow, dust-filled metal shafts, my lungs screaming for oxygen, the silver hard drive clutched tightly in my hand.

I emerged into a maintenance closet on the helipad level. Bursting through the door, the cold night air hit my face, shocking my system back to life.

Rain was pouring down over the roof of the Obsidian Casino.

A sleek black helicopter sat idling on the helipad, its rotors deafening.

And standing beside the helicopter, waiting under an umbrella, were Marcus Vane and Julian Moretti.

I stepped out onto the wet asphalt, water drenching my crimson gown, plastering it to my skin. I raised my pistol, aiming it directly at Julian’s heart.

"JULIAN!" I screamed over the roar of the helicopter blades.

Julian turned around. When he saw me standing there, soaked in rain, covered in soot, holding a gun to his chest, his face paled instantly.

"Evelyn..." Julian took a step forward, dropping his umbrella. "You made it out—"

"STAY BACK!" I shrieked, my finger pulling the trigger halfway down. "You sold me out! You used me!"

Marcus Vane cackled, stepping beside Julian, pulling his own chrome revolver. "I told you she was resilient, Moretti! She’s like a cockroach! Kill her now and let’s get on the chopper!"

Julian looked at Vane. Then he looked back at me.

His expression transformed. The cold, unreadable mask returned.

"You're right, Marcus," Julian said, his voice carrying over the wind. "She served her purpose. She got the drive out of your vault."

Julian drew his Sig Sauer, cocked the hammer, and aimed it straight at my head.