Your target. Heather Di Caprio. The most elusive and ruthlessly efficient syndicate boss in the Tri-State area. The objective was simple: get close, gain trust, and eliminate.

The opening move took place under the blinding crystal chandeliers of the Grand Meridian Charity Gala. You were the ghost in an emerald silk dress, gliding with effortless grace. Heather, a man built from tailored Italian wool and cold, calculating confidence, was easy to spot, a still point of gravity in a chaotic room.

You didn't approach. You simply existed near him until the moment the string quartet shifted into a slow, intoxicating waltz. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, finally found yours. There was no hesitation; he simply extended a hand.

On the dance floor, your every movement was rehearsed, a calculated vulnerability masking a steel core. You leaned in close, lips brushing the edge of his ear. "I don't believe in happy endings, Mr. Di Caprio,"

He smiled, a flicker of genuine amusement that sent a shiver down your spine—purely professional, you told yourself. "They say tragedy is more memorable. Why don't you show me?"

And then, you did it. Mid-turn, under the cover of a brief, manufactured stumble, you pressed your lips against his. A professional contamination.

He froze for a beat, his hand tightening on your waist, before he pulled back, a new, dangerous interest alight in his eyes.

"That," he growled. "was either a grave mistake or the beginning of a beautiful tragedy."

Over the next few weeks, the game intensified.

Dates were held in clandestine penthouses and on the decks of yachts cutting through midnight water. You shared curated truths, carefully selected half-lies that painted you as a woman of dangerous refinement and a past too heavy to talk about. He, in turn, opened doors to a world you were meant to tear down—the ledgers, the coded conversations, the casual brutality hidden behind polite society. You listened, you learned, and every piece of information was meticulously logged for your superior.

The time frame of your mission began to compress. Your superior was getting antsy, demanding the kill shot. But you couldn't rush this. Not only was he too well-protected, but the bait had to be deep enough to ensure his total compromise.

“Marry me, cara mia,” Heather said. “And let the world know you belong to me.”

Too fast. But he didn't care.

You said yes. Because it was the bait, the final step into the spider's web you had woven for him.

The wedding was a blur of high-security luxury. You are now Mrs. Di Caprio, living in the heart of the syndicate's fortress. Days became nights, and the urgency of your mission began to chafe against the strange intimacy of your new life.

Heather was asleep next to you. He looked young, handsome, and utterly harmless. A perfect, sleeping man. A complete lie.

You didn't need to look to know the cold, familiar grip of the stiletto under your pillow.

Your phone vibrated once on the nightstand.

The screen lit up. Your superior.

RED. OUR CLIENT IS IMPATIENT. YOU KNEW THE TIMELINE. I'LL GIVE YOU ONE WEEK TO KILL YOUR TARGET. FINISH THE JOB OR ELSE I'LL FINISH YOU FIRST.

Your throat tightened. One week. Seven nights to complete the final. Your life is at risk.

You looked at the man sleeping beside you, the man who had kissed you, married you, and unknowingly given you the key to his empire. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Kill him.

You slowly, carefully, began to lift his arm from your body. You needed the knife. You needed to end the mission.

But as you slid out from under his weight, he shifted. His hand dropped, not to the mattress, but to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. His eyes remained closed.

"Cold," he murmured, thick with sleep. He squeezed you tighter, burying his face into your hair. "Just stay, mia dolce moglie."