Disguised to kill the mafia heir

Francesa's POV

My body went stiff. This was the kind of stiff that coiled beneath your skin like a snake, waiting to strike.

The man who'd led us in leaned toward the heir and spoke in low tones. The bastard didn't even look our way. He was arrogant and relaxed. Like none of us were a threat.

Pity.

I should've slit his throat when I had the chance. Right after he made me come so hard I forgot my damn name.

My jaw ticked.

If I'd known he was the heir back then, I'd have gutted him. slowly and lovingly. Maybe hummed a lullaby while his intestines spilled out like ribbon.

How the hell did I miss this in the files? No way a face like that just slipped past me.

Pathetic.

My thoughts were cut short when the older man turned back to us and barked, "Line up."

We did.

I slid into position, a picture of calm confidence, masking the blade coiled beneath my skin. The heir's gaze swept across us with calculating, and piercing eyes. It looked bored.

He wouldn't recognize me. We'd fucked in the dark. His hands had memorized my body.

And thank fuck I wore those brown contacts. If he saw my real eyes, there'd be no mistaking it.

The aura rolling off him now was nothing like that night.

This wasn't the man who groaned into my mouth like he was starving for it. This wasn't the man who dragged my back up a wall with nothing but his grip and raw hunger. No...this man was lethal.

Deadly in a way that made your spine straighten. Cold in a way that burned.

The expression on his face was carved from stone, all power and precision. If I hadn't seen the wild twist of his mouth when he was under me and inside me, I'd think this version of him didn't even know how to feel.

But I had seen it.

That unholy look he gave me the second he lost control. The way his face contorted when he growled. Just hands, mouths, hips colliding like we were two storms built to destroy everything in our path.

And yet... here he was.

He is danger wrapped in a suit, speaking to us like we were gnats buzzing in his periphery.

"I believe most of you don't have balls in your spine," the Heir said, voice flat with disdain. "You're not here for the weight of the work. You're here for the money."

He turned his back. Always so sure no one would be stupid enough to touch him.

Arrogant bastard.

"So," he continued, pacing, "I'll give you a taste of what being a bodyguard in the De Luca Syndicate actually looks like."

He stopped walking. A slow smile tugged at his mouth, but it was hollow. Void of anything human.

"Take it as a test."

Then he walked out.

The older man beside us snapped his fingers. "Move."

We followed.

Out of the marble corridors and into a garden so massive, the hedges swallowed the sky.

The walls were tall. Dense. A living fortress of thorns and green.

Once you were in, there was no seeing the path. No climbing out.

The Heir stood near the entrance.

Staring like he could peel back our skins and see what we were really made of. His eyes found mine again, as if daring me to flinch.

I didn't.

He held that gaze for a second longer than he should have, then gave a subtle nod to the older man finally walked away.

The click of his shoes on floor was the only sound until it disappeared into nothing. Just like that, the air felt thinner.

The older man, all grit and menace, stepped forward.

"This maze," he said, voice gravel-coated, "is called the Weeping Capillary Maze."

He turned and pointed to a stack of battered crates beside the gate. Inside were old, worn switchblades and belts with single clips of bullets.

"You'll be using these for the test. A blade. And bullets. No guns."

A few men shifted, glancing at one another.

"You'll find barrels scattered in the maze," he continued. "Make it to one, survive, and maybe you'll walk out of this alive."

He walked slowly in front of us, like he was sizing up cattle before slaughter.

"Objective: survive the maze. Reach the other side."

That simple.

But I bet nothing in this place was ever just that simple.

"Some stalks in there are rigged. One wrong turn, and the maze'll slice you like meat for Sunday stew."

He chuckled, but it wasn't warm. "There are traps. False paths. You get lost, you bleed. You panic, you die."

Someone swallowed loudly.

"If you reach the other side within the hour, you're in," he finished, eyes locking on me for half a beat too long. "If you don't... well. That's your business."

My fingers flexed over the knife I'd chosen.

The older man checked his watch, then lifted his head and barked, "Your time has started."

Just like that, chaos.

The men lunged for the weapons. One by one, they vanished into the gaping mouth of the maze. I stepped in behind them, my blade tucked against my palm like an extension of my own skin.

Excitement pulsed through me.

This wouldn't be easy. I knew that. Nothing about the De Luca Syndicate ever was. But the thrill, the rush of danger pumping alongside the quiet voice in my head that told me you were built for this, it was addictive.

The path forked early. Everyone scattered like rats, desperate to find the "right" way. Fools. This wasn't about directions, it was about instinct.

I took a quieter path to the left, letting the walls swallow me. My footwear crunched softly on the gravel. Thorny vines curled from the hedges like warning fingers.

I could've gone for the kill the second I saw the heir. Slit his throat while his guard was down. But I wasn't that reckless. I'd felt his power, his force, and brute strength? I'd give him that. He could crush bones with those hands.

But other abilities? I surpass him there.

BANG!!!

A sharp crack echoed through the maze.

Gunshot. I turned toward it like a moth to flame.

As I moved, I slowed my breath. The scent hit me before I even saw it-iron, thick and metallic. Blood.

I rounded a corner and there it was. A body on the ground, twisted and still, soaked in red. One of the applicants. Young. Maybe twenty.

Dead.

And beside him, crouched with a smirk and a smoking barrel in hand, wasn't another applicant.