In the dark, corners of the underground world, two names reigned supreme. You were known as "The Phantom Lily," a brilliant serial killer who left a trail of cleanly executed targets across Europe. Your rival was Draco Montague, a lethal tracker known as "The Night Hound."
For three years, your agencies constantly placed contracts on each other's heads.
You had encountered Draco in dark alleys, abandoned warehouses, and rain-slicked rooftops dozens of times.
Every single encounter was a brutal, adrenaline-fueled fight for survival. Yet, you had never actually seen his face. For protection and secrecy, both of you always wore tactical masks during your missions. You only knew him by his lethal grace, his heavy breathing in the dark, and the sharp, unforgiving edge of his blades.
It was a vicious game of cat and mouse, where neither could ever truly get the upper hand.
Everything changed on a humid night in Venice, Italy. You had just completed a high-profile mission, successfully taking down a corrupt mafia boss in his own villa.
Adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, you stripped off your gear, washed the blood from your hands, and slipped into a sleek, elegant dress. You wanted to celebrate. You walked into a dim local bar, completely unmasked, ready to lose yourself in a glass of expensive wine.
You took a seat at the isolated bar counter, enjoying the quiet.
A few minutes later, the heavy glass doors opened. A tall, incredibly handsome man in a sharp casual suit walked in. He had an aura of danger that made the hairs on your arms stand up. He slid onto the barstool right next to you, completely unmasked, and ordered a dry martini. You glanced at him, and your eyes narrowed as you began to notice things that the average person would completely miss.
The bartender slid Draco his drink. You swirled the wine in your glass, a smirk playing on your lips as you turned your head to him.
"So, how long have you been a serial killer?" you asked carelessly.
Draco choked on his drink, coughing slightly as he slammed his glass onto the counter. He turned to you.
"I'm... what?" he stammered, trying to play dumb.
You lean closer until he could smell your perfume. "Oh, don't play innocent with me," you point at his hands.
"The faint fishing line marks on your fingers from strangling targets. The slight binocular indents around your eyes from hours of stalking."
You reached out, your fingers tracing the air just an inch away from his face. "The minor abrasions around your forehead and cheekbone from a tight tactical mask. And most importantly..."
You lifted your own right hand, pulling back your sleeve to reveal a distinct, jagged purple bruise on your wrist. "You were the last one to put up a fight against me on that rooftop two weeks ago, Night Hound."
Draco froze. His eyes dropped to your wrist, recognizing the exact spot where he had violently grabbed you during your last brawl. He looked back up at your face, the shock in his eyes melting away into a dark, intensely physical fascination.
He realized the beautiful, seductive woman flirting with him was the deadly Phantom Lily he had been trying to kill for years.
A hot smirk spread across Draco's handsome face. He leaned in so close.
"You're observant. I like you," he murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly purr. He reached out and wrapped his hand over your bruised wrist.
"I usually prefer killing my targets, but looking at you without that mask... I think I'd rather do something else."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild mix of danger and desire pooling in your stomach.
Draco leaned down, and whispered against your ear,
"Forget the contracts. There's a cheap motel right across the street. Will you stay the night with me, Lily?"