Behind every lady's smile, there's a secret. Some are embarrassing. Some are born from trauma. Mine? It's bloodstained.
I'm an assassin. I kill for a living.
Right now, I'm standing on top of a pile of bodies, my knife dripping crimson. The warehouse floor is painted with silence. I always hated the aftermath. Ruined clothes, mostly. And worse, ruined my favorite blade.
This world needs a trash collector, and I’m nice enough to do the job.
I dialed my phone. It rang once.
"Hello. Little sister. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Ryder answered, voice too casual. He’s my second brother, next in line as underboss to our eldest, Roland.
"Trash disposal. Clothes and my knife are soaked again," I pouted, even though he couldn't see it.
"Always soaked. That’s why they call you the Red Lady." My brother laughed.
I sighed. "Coming back now. Have a bath ready, or the next blood on my knife will be yours."
"Fine, Jesus. You always get aggressive after a kill." He muttered.
"You love it," I smiled. "Bye."
One last glance at the mess I made. A slow smirk tugged at my lips.
"Damn, I'm good," I murmured, then headed towards my shiny red Porsche.
I grabbed a towel stashed next to the driver’s seat, wiped the blood from my arms and face, tossed it in the back, and drove off.
An hour, two highways, ten dead men later, I was home.
As I backed into the garage, I spotted Ryder leaning against the driveway, arms crossed, grinning.
"I’d hug you," he said, "but I’d rather not ruin my outfit with your blood art."
I raised an eyebrow. Suspicious. Ryder usually waited for me in my room, eating chips on my bed. He always ignored my scolding about his snack habits. It was always, "You can scold me later, Reanne, but these chips are calling my name!"
Something was off.
"Spill it. What do you want?" I narrowed my eyes, giving him the look that made grown men beg for their lives.
"Can’t I just welcome my sister home after a job well done?" He grinned.
I said nothing.
"Okay, fine. You caught me." He threw his arms up in the air. "Father demands your presence tonight."
I froze.
"What!"
I hated these underground mafia events. A ballroom full of cologne-drenched criminals playing nice for power balance? Pass.
I’d rather be in my pajamas, curled up with snacks and reruns of Brooklyn Nine-Nine.
Normally, I could skip them. But my 24th birthday had just passed. And with that came the traditional expectation: find a husband to strengthen family alliances.
My father wasn't cruel. He wasn’t the kind of Don who used children as pawns. He was shockingly kind for a mafia patriarch. But in this cold world, even kindness came with duty.
The tradition had been clear since I was a girl: 24 was the age to serve your purpose.
I’d already accepted my fate.
"Fine. I’ll go. Not because I want to, but because I have to." I sighed.
"Great! Be ready by 7pm. And please… nothing too revealing. I’d hate to make enemies tonight."
There it was. His overprotectiveness.
"If I’m going, I’m wearing whatever I want. And don’t worry, I can take care of myself."
And God help the man who forgets that.