A Taste for Vengeance

The air smells like gasoline and rain.

Vanessa is crouched on the rooftop, one eye pressed to the scope of her rifle. The city buzzes beneath her like a dark, glittering beast, its veins glowing with traffic and neon lights. It’s loud and alive, just how she hates it... Noisy cities get in the way of clean kills.

Her boss, Don Victor Santoro, didn’t give her a name. No story, no back-alley whispers. Just a face and a location. Victor is the man who’d pulled her out of the gutter when she was a scared, angry child. He gave her a name, a purpose, a gun. She owed him everything... or so she had convinced herself. So when he told her to do something, she had no choice but to do it.

“One clean shot. Don’t ask questions.” His voice is still clear in her mind.

She didn’t. She never does. Vanessa’s killed men without hesitation; fat, lazy bastards who thought their money could save them, low-level thugs, who got too comfortable. They all dropped like flies, and she never lost a wink of sleep over it. She had been a professional hitwoman for as long as she could remember, so this, is meant to just be another day at the office.

But this job felt...different. She couldn’t place why...

Until she soon figures it out. As she focuses through her scope, she watches her target finally appear. He steps out of a black Lamborghini, and her finger hesitates on the trigger.

It's him.

The target.

He’s young. Late twenties, maybe, with a face that doesn’t belong in this world. Strong jaw, messy black hair that’s a little too perfect, and a confident stride that screams, I own this city. He is broad-shouldered and muscular in his full black suit and black button-up shirt. He adjusts his watch - a sleek Rolex that catches the streetlight - and smiles at something the valet says.

He’s... not what she expected...

And that bothers her...

Seeing him smile causes her heartbeat to pick up suddenly, making her squint her eyes through the scope.

Vanessa blinks hard, pulling herself back to the present. She steadies her breath, adjusts the scope, and sets her aim on his chest. It would take a heartbeat - less than that. The bullet would rip through him, clean and quiet, and she’d pack up and vanish before his body hit the sidewalk.

So why isn’t she pulling the damn trigger?

Her heartbeat is louder than the city now, pounding in her ears. Her hands are steady, but her gut twists like something’s wrong. She’s never hesitated before.

“Focus,” she mutters under her breath.

She exhales slowly, finger curling tighter around the trigger.

He stops. Turns his head.

Vanessa freezes. He’s not looking at her - he can’t see her - but for a split second, it feels like he knows. Like he’s staring straight through the shadows, through her.

Her pulse quickens. This isn’t working. She needs a new angle.

Vanessa shifts off the scope and grabs her earpiece. The radio crackles as she clicks it on. “Boss,” she says, her voice low and controlled. “No clean shot. Too much activity out here. I need permission to get closer.”

There’s silence on the other end, just static. Then Victor’s voice comes through, smooth as ice and twice as cold.

“What did you just say?” His voice rings out, and Vanessa exhales quietly, already aware of her boss's temper.

“I can’t take him from here. It’s too exposed. I’ll cause a scene.” Vanessa answers carefully, trying her best to control his reaction.

“You’re telling me you can’t do your job, Vanessa? That’s what I’m hearing?” He snaps.

Vanessa grits her teeth. “I didn’t say that. I’m asking for permission to get closer. I’ll go into the club.”

There’s a pause. Then Victor chuckles, soft and dangerous. “You’re hesitating, aren’t you? What, you getting sentimental? A pretty face making you weak?”

“No,” she snaps. “I’m being smart. You want it done clean? Let me do it my way.”

Victor’s voice drops, sharp and accusing. “You don’t question my orders, Vanessa. I tell you to shoot, you shoot.”

The line goes quiet again, his words hanging heavy in the air. For a second, she thinks he’s going to say no. Then, finally, he exhales.

“Fine. Do it your way,” he says. “But don’t fuck this up, or you’ll answer to me.”

The radio clicks off, leaving Vanessa alone with the city noise and the sinking weight in her stomach. She swallows hard, grabs her duffel bag, and starts packing up her rifle.

“Answer to you,” she mutters under her breath. “Like I haven’t been doing that my whole damn life.” She snaps right before she angrily takes the earpiece out of her pocket and shoves it into her bag. If this is going to work, she will need to go off the radar until the job is complete...