《The Executioner》


 Mira

    "Nothing Beside Remains" ¨C From Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley


    Killing is easy. It always has been. The first time, I thought I¡¯d feel something¡ªguilt, regret, even satisfaction. But I felt nothing. And that nothingness stayed with me. Murder isn¡¯t personal; it¡¯s a task, a job, a responsibility. I don¡¯t hesitate, I don¡¯t question, and I sure as hell don¡¯t regret.


    My name is Mira Maroni, daughter of Lorenzo Maroni, the infamous underworld don. But my blood ties mean nothing in the world I was thrown into. When I was eleven, my father sold me to the Syndicator, the most ruthless criminal organization specializing in human trafficking, sex slavery, drugs, and every imaginable horror. I was just another pawn in his game, a bargaining chip in a deal I never understood.


    For the world, Mira Maroni is dead. My father made sure of that. He faked my death in a tragic accident to erase me from existence. My family, my past¡ªnone of it remains. Only the Syndicator and the life they forced upon me.


    The Syndicator trained me, molded me into something deadly. I became their weapon, their assassin¡ªthe ghost who strikes in the dark and leaves no trace. Fear is my currency, and death is my trade. Now, at twenty, I don¡¯t question my assignments. I complete them.


    The bass thrums through the club, a pulse of red and blue lights slicing through the haze of cigarette smoke and sweat. Bodies sway on the dance floor, a hypnotic rhythm of indulgence and vice. I move through them like a shadow, my dark dress clinging to me like a second skin, a silver blade strapped to my thigh beneath the fabric.


    My eyes, sharp and unreadable, lock onto my target¡ªa man who once belonged to the Syndicator but dared to betray us. Now he sits in a secluded VIP booth, laughing with a woman draped over his arm, oblivious to the death that has already set its sights on him.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I slide onto a barstool nearby, ordering a drink I won¡¯t touch. My hand rests lightly on the bar, fingers tapping once, twice¡ªcalculating. My approach has to be silent, unseen.


    A moment later, the woman by his side stands and leaves, making my move easy. I slip from the stool, weaving my way through the dimly lit corridors toward the booth. He looks up just as I approach, his smirk faltering. Recognition dawns in his eyes, but it¡¯s too late.


    I lean in as if whispering a secret, my body pressing close to his to mask the motion. Then, with a swift flick of my wrist, the knife slides between his ribs, cutting through muscle and piercing his lung.


    His breath hitches, eyes wide with shock as he struggles to speak, his lips trembling. A choked gasp escapes him, and I feel the faintest brush of his breath against my cheek. His fingers grasp weakly at my wrist, a pathetic, useless plea for mercy. I hold him close, pretending to kiss his cheek as I murmur, "You should''ve run farther."


    Blood seeps into his expensive suit, his fingers weakly grasping at my wrist, but I twist the blade deeper, silencing him before he can make a sound.


    I ease him back against the booth¡¯s cushioned seat, letting his head loll to the side. From afar, it looks like he has merely passed out from too much alcohol. Perfect.


    With a slow, controlled breath, I turn and disappear into the crowd before anyone notices. The job is done. And as always, I leave nothing behind but a whisper of death in my wake.


    But lately, something feels... off.


    It¡¯s a presence, a feeling I can¡¯t shake. Every time I complete an assignment, the sensation creeps up my spine like a shadow lurking just out of reach. Someone is watching me. I can¡¯t see them, I can¡¯t hear them, but I know they¡¯re there. I¡¯ve looked, searched, scanned the faces around me for a trace of familiarity, but I always come up empty.


    Tonight is no different.


    As I step outside into the cold night air, the hairs on my arms rise. The club¡¯s alley is deserted, but the feeling lingers¡ªsomeone is watching. I glance over my shoulder, scanning the rooftops, the darkened corners of the street. Nothing.


    I inhale deeply, forcing the unease down. I don¡¯t get paranoid. I don¡¯t get scared. If someone¡¯s hunting me, they¡¯ll regret it before the night is over.


    Still, the feeling remains.


    I slip into my car, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. My mind runs through possibilities. Could it be a rival? Someone from the Syndicator testing my loyalty? Or worse¡ªsomeone from my past?

 Theo

    "I crave you like a sickness, a fever that never breaks." ¡ª Sylvia Plath


    How can someone look so beautiful while killing a man??


    I watch from the shadows of my VIP booth, swirling the dark liquid in my glass as Mira moves with lethal precision. The way she slips through the crowd, a blade hidden beneath that sinful dress, makes my blood run hot. She¡¯s merciless. Cold. Unapologetic. A vision of death wrapped in beauty, the kind of contradiction that makes men lose their minds.


    And I want her.


    Those dark brown eyes could kill a man with a single look, and he wouldn¡¯t even regret it. Those lips¡ªI want to kiss them until I¡¯m sick of them, knowing damn well I could never be sick of them. That ass of hers, the way it moves with each step¡ªI have to grip my glass tighter to stop myself from storming over there and smacking it, just to see her glare at me like she¡¯d love to kill me next. And that hair¡ªlong, wavy, dark brown silk cascading down her back. I want to wrap it around my fist, yank her head back, and watch those deadly eyes burn into mine.


    The way she stabs that bastard, no hesitation, no remorse¡ªI wish it were me instead of him. Call me sick, but I can¡¯t help getting hard watching her murder someone.


    Dressed in a tailored black suit that fits like sin, I look every bit the devil they whisper about in the underground. The crisp fabric stretches over my broad shoulders, molding to me with an elegance that speaks of money and menace. The silver cufflinks glint under the neon haze, tiny flashes of wealth against the abyss of my attire. My black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar just enough to hint at temptation, contrasts sharply against the deep red silk of my tie¡ªlike blood against shadow.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    The air thickens with my presence, the dim lighting carving sharp edges into my silhouette. Power, danger¡ªit clings to me like a second skin, undeniable, intoxicating. I don¡¯t just exist in this world¡ªI own it. Men lower their gazes, women linger too long, but none dare to touch. I am a specter of control and destruction, a force moving through the night with the kind of untouchable authority that makes even the boldest hesitate.


    And yet, none of it matters. Because the only thing I see tonight is her.


    Lucas exhales sharply beside me, dragging a hand through his hair. "You¡¯re staring again, boss. It¡¯s getting creepy. We¡¯ve been sitting here for an hour, and you haven¡¯t taken your eyes off her."


    He snorts, taking a slow sip of his drink. "I mean, I get it. Girls are throwing themselves at you, boss, but you''re too busy looking at her to even notice. Not that I blame you. She¡¯s really captivating. Beautiful, even."


    My dark gaze flicks to Lucas, and the teasing smirk on his face falters. He swallows hard, shifting in his seat. "Fine, I¡¯ll just shut up," he mutters, gripping his glass tighter before taking a slow sip, as if the drink might shield him from whatever thoughts are brewing in my mind.


    Lucas smirks, swirling the drink in his hand. "Come on, boss. Any girl would throw themselves at you if they knew who you are." He chuckles, shaking his head.


    I don¡¯t bother looking at him. "Stop annoying me before I put all the bullets in your mouth, Lucas."


    Lucas has been with me since we were fifteen. We are close. He talks a little too much, but he is also loyal. That¡¯s why I keep him around. Fucker is good with guns as well.


    "Just saying," he mutters, sipping his drink. "You¡¯re watching her like you¡¯re planning a wedding and a murder at the same time. And knowing you, it¡¯s probably both."


    I smirk, swirling the whiskey in my glass. "Maybe it is."


    I swirl the dark liquid in my glass, my fingers tapping against the crystal rim, the only sign of the burning need clawing at my insides. Every inch of her¡ªdeadly and divine¡ªcalls to the monster in me. And I will answer.


    Because she doesn¡¯t know it yet, but she¡¯s mine.