They call you Blue Spiderlily, a name whispered in the underworld like a curse and a warning. You’re not just an assassin. You’re the shadow behind the trigger, the blade in the dark, the nightmare they never wake from. No one hunts you. No one survives you.

The night of the auction was never meant to be personal. You were there for business, blending in with the glitter and champagne. Then you felt it someone watching you.

You looked across the crowd and found him.

Fabiano Cavallaro. The Cavallaro family’s king. The man who ruled his empire with blood-soaked hands and an iron will. Everyone at his table laughed too loudly, moved too carefully. He didn’t. He simply leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lazily on a crystal glass, and watched you like a man studying a rare, dangerous animal.

“Find out who she is,” he murmured to his right-hand man.

For days, his shadow followed her. Expensive surveillance. Discreet tracking. Every move recorded.

On the fifth night, a package arrived at his penthouse. No return address. Inside: a small, elegant wooden box. He opened it.

Two human eyes stared back, his man’s eyes. The smell of iron was faint but unmistakable. On top, a single white card.

In neat, deliberate handwriting:

“I don’t prefer being watched. I prefer watching.”

Fabiano’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

He didn’t know you were an assassin. Not yet.