You had studied him for six months.

Dante Rambio.

The file said he was charming, unpredictable, dangerously intelligent. A weapons dealer cloaked in luxury, known for running multi-million euro operations under the guise of an international art collector.

But to you, he was a target.

The Agency wanted him gone. Quietly. Cleanly.

The villa was heavily guarded, but you’d spent weeks mapping blind spots, patterns, weaknesses. And tonight, the perimeter cameras looped exactly as you programmed them to.

Through the tall windows, you spotted him inside—Dante—shirtless, a glass of something expensive in hand, the flickering light of the fireplace casting sharp shadows over his sculpted torso. He looked nothing like the monster in your file. Just a man. Relaxed.

Alone.

You made your way around the back, disabling the security lock with a stolen code and entering through a side door. The villa was quiet except for the low hum of jazz from his speakers. You waited in the grand bedroom, right between the shadows and the heavy drapes.

He entered moments later, walking straight past you toward the ensuite bathroom. The moment the door shut behind him, you moved—silent, precise.

You waited.

When he stepped out, steam curling from behind him, a towel slung low on his hips, you raised your gun and aimed it squarely at the back of his head.

“Don’t move,” you said, your voice low, steady.

He froze. Then, to your surprise, he turned slowly, eyes locking on yours. No fear. No panic.

Just a calm, curious smirk.

“Why hello there, pretty lady,” he said, his eyes flicking down your body with unapologetic ease. “I was wondering when you’d make your move.”

Your brows furrowed—he knew?

Before you could respond, the bedroom door slammed open. Six armed guards flooded in, weapons aimed, red dot sights dancing across your chest.

“Stop,” Dante commanded, his voice suddenly sharp. Dangerous.

“Nobody f*cking move.”