SOFIA POV

With the information I gathered, I was sure of it now: an italian guy named Marco Ruggiero was developing weapons. Not surprising, considering he ran an underground facility that even the darkest markets feared. Men like him — powerful, ruthless, greedy — always wanted more.

I scoffed, scrolling through his profile.

"A guy like him... always hungry for power", I muttered. "Is everything prepared?", I asked the old butler.

"Yes, Miss Wilson." Harry said, bowing respectfully. His voice was thick with concern. "But... this mission is dangerous. This is the Ruggiero estate. One mistake, and they will find you within seconds."

"I know, Harry. But even if I’m caught, we have ways to erase my existence," I answered calmly. He opened his mouth to protest, but I raised a hand, silencing him.

"I’ll be careful. And if I fail... I’ll accept my fate." I smiled faintly, and he sighed in defeat.

I dressed in my assassin's outfit — all black, light armor under sleek fabrics, and hidden pockets for knives and guns. Every inch of my body covered, even my hair and face, to leave no trace behind.

 ...

The Ruggiero mansion was a fortress.

Private. Cold. Impossibly well-secured.

I couldn’t do this alone.

Luckily, I had Caroline — my best friend and loyal hacker — in my ear.

"After three, you’re set to go, babe. But you only get ten minutes," she whispered.

Ten minutes. Not a second more.

"Got it," I whispered back.

I could still hear Harry’s warning ringing in my head. But I pushed it aside. I had a mission: steal the secret weapon file. Destroy them before Marco Ruggiero unleashed chaos on the world — or my family.

"One—"

"Two—"

"Three—"

The mansion lights blinked out. Timer set. Ten minutes.

I sprinted from shadow to shadow, moving faster than any human eye could follow. I had studied every layout, every blind spot.

"Second floor," Caroline guided me.

I shot my grapple and scaled the wall silently, slipping into an open window. Inside... it smelled different.

Rich. Heavy.

Like velvet and dark spice — an intoxicating mix of money, power, and something... wilder.

A king-sized bed loomed in the darkness. Beyond it, a door slightly ajar. The study. I slipped inside without a sound.

The file sat there — right on the desk. Almost too easy. Either Marco Ruggiero was an arrogant fool, or he trusted his security more than he should. I didn’t have time to second-guess. I swiped the file, sliding it into a hidden pocket.

Five minutes left.

As I turned, something caught my eye — a custom gun on the nightstand. Black, deadly, carved with dark velvet roses and thorns. It was almost beautiful. And it called to me.

Without thinking, I reached for it—

Click!

A hidden tripwire.

Shit!

The alarm blared.

"Caroline!?" I hissed, but I already knew. There must’ve been a secondary sensor — independent from the main system.

I cut the wire with my dagger, adrenaline pounding. Sprinting for the window, I accidentally brushed against a mahogany table — the sharp edge of my dagger gouging a tiny mark into the wood. Barely visible. But a man like him would notice.

I leapt onto the window ledge— And froze.

He was there.

Marco Ruggiero.

Standing just a few meters away, shadowed in silver moonlight. Resting against the door frame. He should have raised the alarm and called the guards.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he smiled — slow and dangerous.

"How bold of you," he said in a voice like velvet and knives. "Breaking into my house, little thief."

My heart skittered once before I forced myself still.

He raked his eyes down my body, amused. "And you have good taste, amore," he added softly. "My favorite gun... and my favorite secret file."

His accent was thick, his words a low purr.

I stared at my timer.

Two seconds left.

I smirked beneath my mask.

"Well, this beautiful thief," I whispered, "is about to vanish."

And with that, the security system crashed back online — blaring alarms across the entire estate.

I dove from the window. Outside, the silent helicopter waited — pilotless, invisible to their sensors. Grabbing the rope, I swung upward, waving cheekily at him.

"Bye~," I mouthed.

And then I was gone.

Leaving only moonlight, the faint scent of danger, and a man who had just started smiling.

...

...

...

The little thief disappeared into the night sky.

"Sir! We can chase her—" the assistant started. Marco Ruggiero raised a hand, silencing him. He stared up after the helicopter — a lazy, amused smirk playing on his lips.

"There’s no need," he murmured.

He turned back into the room — eyes sharp. And then he saw it. The tiny gouge in the antique mahogany table. That's not random.

A mistake... or a message?

Marco's smirk widened, dark and full of promise.

"Oh, I'll catch you, amore", he whispered.

And with that, the hunt began.

...

SOFIA POV

"I, Sofia Grace Wilson, swear an oath: to protect my identity from the eyes of outsiders. Every drop of blood, every cry torn from a throat — they are for a reason. I promise to kill and to protect, for my pride and my dignity."

The blade slices across the palm of my right hand.

Sharp. Swift.

Blood wells up, sliding between my fingers in crimson threads. My hand trembles.

"Pain is for the weak," my mother says, binding my hand tightly with a white cloth.  I wince as she pulls it hard, ignoring my flinch.

"Remember, Sofia — this is not an empty oath. This is your life. Never trust anyone, darling." She caresses my cheek with cold fingers, but no warmth follows.

"As the elder daughter, you must be strong. Resilient. That is the meaning of nobility." I lower my gaze to my hand.

Blood blooms across the cloth like a rose.

Kill and protect.

Strong and resilient.

Pride and dignity.

I come from a noble family — powerful, prestigious, but built on secrets and hidden research.

And me?

I am their blade.

Their assassin.

Forged through blood, sweat, and broken tears.

This is my life.

This is my secret.

...

...

...

I heard screaming. I barely recognized the voices — some begged for help, some pleaded for forgiveness, some threatened with rage.

It was a chorus of pain.

A nightmare.

Yes. That's it.

Nightmares.

It haunted me every single night, messing at the edges of my mind, turning sleep into a battlefield. The same dream. Over and over.

The oath. The lifetime promise that I made — to protect my family.

A family I wasn't even sure I belonged to.

Protect. Protect. Protect.

But who's going to protect me?

"Sis! Wake up!". A sharp whisper cut through the haze.

"Sis!". Owen's voice. Urgent. Loud enough to pull me back into the waking world.

I jolted upright, blinking into the dim room. "Owen?" I croaked, dragging myself out of bed. I headed toward the door where he stood, small and hesitant. I knelt down to meet him at eye level, brushing his messy hair back gently.

"You’re supposed to be sleeping at this hour," I said softly. "You’ve got school tomorrow." My hand lingered on his head, grounding both of us.

He looked down, biting his lip. Something was bothering him. "What is it?" I asked.

"I heard you're leaving..." he muttered, his little frown cutting deeper into me than he could ever know.

Oh, right.

The Wilson Estate had expanded. As the eldest daughter, it was my duty to relocate — to live on the new lands, oversee operations, build connections.

Momentarily, they said.

Maybe longer.

Maybe forever.

I didn’t even know.

"But I'm not leaving forever," I promised him, giving him the softest smile I could muster. "I’ll visit you all the time, I swear."

Owen, my younger brother — just 12 years old — too young to understand duty, but old enough to feel the weight of it.

"I hate riding horses," he mumbled, his pout unmistakable.

"You’ll grow to love it," I whispered mischievously.

"Just like you?" he asked, his eyes shining a little brighter.

"Yeah. Just like me," I said, ruffling his hair, feeling my heart tighten painfully.

"Now go to sleep, young man. You need it," I teased, giving him a playful nudge.

He nodded and shuffled back to his room, obedient and sweet, disappearing into the shadows.

But now that I was awake, there was no going back. Sleep wouldn’t come. I was tired — bone-deep tired — but my mind refused to shut down.

When would the nightmares stop?

When would I finally feel safe enough to dream of something else?

...

Hours flew by until I finally arrived at the Wilson estate. The building was new, but it had that timeless, old-classy vibe that perfectly matched our noble identity.

My butler, Harry, was with me as always. He’s been with my family for decades, assisting with almost everything — and honestly, he cared about me a lot more than he let on, which was nice in its own quiet way.

"Miss Wilson, about the royal banquet—" Harry began carefully.

"I know," I said before he could finish. "Of course I’ll attend. The princess knows I’m in the state. If I don’t show up to her wedding, it’ll make me look bad." I kept my eyes on a sheet of paper — the layout plans for the new Wilson estate.

Harry leaned in a little, lowering his voice. "You saved the princess once with your noble identity, not... the other one. A few people suspected something back then. We can erase records easily, but people's mouths—" He shook his head. "They're harder to silence."

I sighed inwardly.

Right. Years ago, I’d saved the princess without thinking — acting purely on instinct. There hadn’t been blood spilled, but still, people noticed.

They said too much. They always did. People’s mouths didn’t just talk; they stabbed, they ruined lives.

I didn’t care much for gossip. But if it tainted my family’s name — if it disappointed Father — that was another problem entirely.

This was supposed to be a new start.

A new building. A new life.

It was going to take a lot of work — but I’d make it happen.

I folded the layout paper neatly and looked up at Harry, flashing him a confident, easy smile. "Harry," I said, "tighten up the security. I’m attending tonight’s banquet."

And this time, no one was going to touch my family's name — or me.

...

SOFIA POV

Tonight’s banquet.

I wore an elegant yet deadly long dark red gown — classy, with a subtle side slit perfectly hidden for easy access to the weapon strapped against my thigh. No one would ever know. That was the point.

The Royal Banquet Hall was alive with gold and laughter, crystal chandeliers raining light down on velvet gowns and sharp tuxedos. The room shimmered with old money and old blood.

I entered like a vision — the perfect noble lady, my hair pinned with rubies, a delicate smile curving my lips. I moved through the crowd with practiced grace: my posture perfect, my expression unreadable. The silk of my gown whispered with every step.

Tonight, I was Sofia Grace Wilson — Wilson heiress.

Untouchable. Immaculate.

A blade hidden beneath velvet and smiles.

I made my way to the princess, offering congratulations with all the warmth expected of me. After all, she owed me her life.

"You've been well," she greeted, her voice gentle.

"Never better, Your Highness," I replied with a flawless smile.

"Ears are everywhere and words spread faster than wind. I heard you're back in the state. When we have time, I’ll invite you for tea," she said, a sparkle in her eye.

"Thank you, Your Highness," I said with a bow, before she drifted off to attend her other guests.

Being a noble was not so different from being an assassin. Hunting land, titles, power, blessings — it was still hunting. Still fighting. Only with prettier smiles and sharper lies.

I hated it. But I was born into it. And I had a younger brother I needed to protect.

As I sipped from a crystal glass of champagne, soft whispers reached my ears.

"Have you heard he's here?" "Who?" "Marco Ruggiero!"

I stilled for a heartbeat.

Marco Ruggiero. The name rolled through the air like a spark looking for fire. He rarely attended events like these. If he was here, it was for a reason.

With my secret life always clashing against this one, my instincts stayed sharp. My claws ready. No place ever felt truly safe, and certainly not this one.

I kept my movements smooth, but I could feel it — a presence.

A gaze.

Heavy. Piercing. Like a hunter scenting prey.

I turned slightly, my eyes moving naturally over the crowd — and found him.

Leaning casually against a marble pillar, Marco Ruggiero looked like a sin sculpted in the finest black tailored suit. Power clung to him with the kind of ease that couldn’t be taught.

Tousled dark hair. A dangerous smirk curving his lips. A jawline shadowed just enough to seem careless and deadly.

When our eyes locked, the air between us tightened — electric, sharp.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did I.

Strangers here — but the way he stared at me, it was as if he knew something deeper. Something no one else dared to touch.

The way I moved. The danger stitched beneath my skin. He sensed it.

Slowly, naturally, I moved toward him — not running from the risk, but approaching it, the perfect noblewoman. Graceful. Distant. A predator cloaked in silk.

As if he knew I would come, he pushed off the pillar with easy arrogance and crossed the floor, the crowd parting for him like silk torn by a blade.

Up close, he was devastating.

He smelled faintly of smoke and cedarwood — a rich, heady scent that made something low in my stomach twist tight.

Without asking, he extended his hand toward me, his mouth curling in a slow, knowing smile.

"May I have this dance, Miss Wilson?" he asked, his voice low, rough around the edges — like a secret promise.

I tilted my head slightly, smiling with elegant mischief. "Were you expecting me, Mr. Ruggiero? I believe this is our first meeting."

"No," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the noise.

No?

"You’re 18th birthday," he added smoothly. "I remember."

Ah.

That night — extravagant, overwhelming — my Mother's doing, not mine. I barely remembered who had been there among all the vultures dressed in silk.

I inhaled calmly. "That was six years ago. What a memory you have," I said, my tone light but sharp underneath.

He offered his hand again, and I accepted.

He led me onto the dance floor with the easy command of a man born to power. As the orchestra shifted into a waltz, he pulled me close — one hand firm at my waist, the other cradling my gloved hand.

To any onlooker, we were the perfect picture of high society.

"You’ve grown into quite the lady," he murmured, voice dripping smooth as aged wine.

"I was born a lady," I replied, smiling sharply with both my lips and eyes.

His smirk widened, amused by the bite hidden in my words.

"Amore..." he drawled lazily, "You're dangerous with words too, aren’t you?"

I stiffened slightly at the word. Amore.

He had called me that once before — the night I raided his mansion.

The word rang like a bell in my mind, shaking loose memories I didn't want to confront. I masked it fast, smiling wider to cover the shiver under my skin.

Did he call every woman that? Was this just part of the game he played, sweet on the surface, deadly beneath?

"May I know how old you are, Mr. Ruggiero?" I asked sweetly, batting my lashes just enough to make it mockery.

He arched a brow, lips quirking. "Why? Planning to propose?"

"Just making sure we’re socially compatible," I replied with fake innocence, the words sliding out like polished knives.

A beat — and then he laughed.

Not mockingly.

A deep, rich laugh that pulled from his chest and crinkled the corners of his dark eyes.

It startled me — and drew me closer despite myself.

He was beautiful. Wickedly beautiful.

Sharp jawline, strong nose, full lips.

The dangerous kind of beauty that spelled ruin.

I forced my mind back into focus. "What’s so funny, Mr. Ruggiero?" I asked coolly.

"You," he said simply, eyes glinting. "Such a fiery woman, Miss Wilson."

Something electric sizzled between us — raw and undeniable.

"You move like a ghost," he murmured, his mouth brushing dangerously close to my ear as we spun among the glittering crowd. "Like someone I once knew."

His voice dropped lower.

"And you smell like rain... and blood roses."

My breath caught, just slightly.

I never wore perfume — too dangerous, too traceable.

What he smelled was me.

And he noticed.

Our eyes met again — sharp, locked in challenge.

"And you," I said coldly, pulling my hand from his as the music slowed, "speak too freely to strangers."

He only smiled — slow, wicked, inevitable.

"Then let’s not be strangers."

...