The Kiss of Death

Chapter One: The Kiss of Death

The dim light of the safe house flickered, casting jagged shadows across the cracked concrete walls. A single bulb swung above Anastasia Volkov, its low hum the only sound breaking the tense silence. She sat in a worn leather chair, her back straight, her posture perfect despite the exhaustion weighing on her.

Her gloved fingers twirled a thin silver blade, spinning it over and over in a silent rhythm. The blade wasn’t for killing tonight — not yet. It was simply a reminder. A reminder of who she was. Of what she’d become.

Assassins didn’t get nervous. They didn’t hesitate.

They didn’t feel.

But tonight… tonight felt different.

Her target wasn’t just another corrupt official or high-profile criminal. No, this was Damien Ranoli. The Damien Ranoli.

The man whose name was whispered in dark alleys, a name that struck fear into hardened criminals and ruthless politicians alike. Italy’s king of the underworld, untouchable, unstoppable, and far too dangerous for anyone to challenge.

Taking him down was supposed to be straightforward.

Quick. Clean. Just another mission.

But nothing about Damien was simple. Twice she’d lined up the perfect shot, and twice he’d slipped away at the last second, like he’d known she was there.

And both times, when she caught a glimpse of him before vanishing into the night, he wore a smirk. That insufferable, mocking smirk that burned itself into her mind.

Anastasia hated that smirk more than she hated failure itself.

“You’ve had three weeks and no progress,” a cold voice crackled through her earpiece.

Her handler. The man who had trained her, who had shaped her into the weapon she was today.

“We don’t pay you to play games, Anastasia. Finish the job.”

Her icy blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t fail,” she said, her voice sharp and precise like the edge of her blade.

“Then prove it.” A beat of silence. Then: “New orders. You’re going undercover.”

Anastasia froze, fingers tightening around the blade.

“You want me to date him?” she asked, incredulous.

“You want to kill him, don’t you?” The voice was clipped, impatient. “He’s untouchable from the outside. You’ve tried brute force. It didn’t work. Now you get close to him, make him trust you. Make him love you, if you have to.”

“And then?” Anastasia asked, though she already knew the answer.

“And when the time is right…” The handler’s tone darkened, dripping with finality. “…make it look like an accident.”

The line went dead, leaving only the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears.

Anastasia leaned back, exhaling sharply. She had infiltrated cartels, toppled corrupt governments, and escaped near-death encounters more times than she could count. But this was different.

This wasn’t about slipping through shadows or planting a bullet in the dark.

This was about playing a role — becoming someone Damien Ranoli would never suspect.

And worse, she would have to pretend to want him.

The following evening, beneath the glittering chandeliers of a Venetian masquerade ball, Anastasia stepped out of the shadows and into the lion’s den.

The air smelled of expensive perfume and danger. Crystal glasses clinked, masks glittered under the soft glow of candlelight, and a string quartet played a hauntingly beautiful melody that set the tone for the night.

Anastasia moved through the crowd like liquid silk, her every step measured, calculated, flawless. Her black satin dress hugged her curves like a second skin, with a high slit that offered just a whisper of danger. A delicate lace mask concealed half her face, leaving only her crimson-painted lips visible — lips that promised sin and secrets.

She was no longer Anastasia Volkov, assassin-for-hire.

Tonight, she was “Anya Petrovna,” a mysterious woman of wealth and charm.

And somewhere in this room was her prey.

Damien Ranoli.

He stood at the center of the ballroom, surrounded by men in expensive suits and women draped in jewels. His presence was magnetic, his power undeniable. Even without a crown, he ruled the room like a king.

Tall and broad-shouldered, Damien’s perfectly tailored black suit hinted at strength beneath sophistication. His dark hair was slicked back with effortless precision, his sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd like a predator choosing its next meal.

Anastasia’s pulse quickened as their gazes locked for the first time. For a single, dangerous heartbeat, she swore he could see through her disguise, past the mask, past the dress, straight into the darkness beneath her skin.

She forced a smile and crossed the ballroom with graceful determination.

Damien’s lips curved into that same infuriating smirk she remembered from their near encounters — as if he knew a secret she didn’t.

“And who might you be, bella?” His voice was low, smooth, and rich with an Italian accent that was far too seductive for her liking.

Anastasia tilted her head slightly, letting her crimson lips curl into a coy smile.

“Someone you’ll never forget,” she purred, her tone equal parts invitation and warning.

Damien chuckled, clearly intrigued. “A bold claim. I like bold women.” He offered his hand, and though every instinct screamed at her to cut it off, she took it, allowing his warmth to seep through her glove.

This was the beginning of the game — a game of deception, seduction, and survival.

A game where the stakes were life and death.

As they began to dance beneath the golden chandeliers, Anastasia’s mind raced.

She had one mission: gain his trust, make him fall for her, and then destroy him from the inside out.

But as Damien’s hand rested firmly on her waist and his gaze burned into hers, Anastasia couldn’t shake a dangerous thought.

What if, in trying to make him fall for her… she fell for him instead?

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