Chapter Two: The Weight of Shadows

The tunnel swallowed them.

The echo of their footsteps, boots grinding against old gravel and concrete, replaced the shrieking music and bursts of gunfire they'd left behind at the mansion. Gone was the glamour, the glitter, the lies stitched into every thread of that party. What remained was silence—heavy, sticky silence that settled into their bones.

Oma walked ahead, her shoulders squared, chin high, but her fingers… they trembled slightly. Inside her palm was the note. Small, creased, disturbingly warm for a piece of paper.

I always see you first.

She hadn't told anyone yet. Not because she was afraid. Fear wasn't something she let in. But the words itched in her chest like a warning—no, like a dare.

Behind her, Iffy muttered something under her breath and let out a low, amused whistle.

"Did you see that guy in the silver mask? Pulled his trigger before he even aimed."

Ann gave a little huff of amusement. "Your knife reached his throat faster than his bullet found the wall."

"I like a challenge," Iffy smirked, "but that was just embarrassing."

Further behind, Mia pulled her heels off with a quiet sigh of relief, the soles of her feet sore and slightly raw. Beside her, Madi tapped on her tablet, fingers swift, precise.

"No security breach," Madi murmured. "Nothing we didn't plan for. They'll scrub the scene and call it a political hit. We're ghosts again."

A round of low laughter moved through them like wind. Still, tension clung to their shoulders.

They reached the end of the tunnel—an old storm drain masked by an overgrown vineyard. As they emerged into the moonlit clearing, black SUVs waited for them, sleek and silent. The doors opened without a word.

Inside the vehicles, conversations resumed in patches.

Juliette leaned her head back and exhaled. "That dress was two thousand euros. And for what? Blood on the hem, a cracked heel, and a creeper trying to flirt mid-shootout."

Ether chuckled softly, eyes fixed on her phone. "You did look hot while stabbing him, though."

Juliette gave her a sideways glance. "Thanks. I practice."

In another car, Vee sat beside Tessie, her makeup immaculate, barely smudged. She looked smug.

"You didn't even break a sweat," Tessie grumbled.

Vee shrugged. "Distraction is an art. I just do it better."

"You almost got proposed to by a literal war criminal."

"Charm comes with risk."

Back in the lead SUV, Oma sat stiffly. Mia's eyes were on her—not judging, not pressing—just watching. Then quietly, Mia asked, "You've been holding something. What is it?"

Oma opened her palm.

Mia blinked as she read the note. She read it twice. "I always see you first."

"Who gave you this?"

"I don't know." Oma's voice was flat. "It was in my purse. I didn't even notice until we were underground."

Regg, who had been leaning against the window, glanced over. Her eyes narrowed. "Someone got close to you without any of us noticing?"

Oma nodded once. "Close enough to slip that in. And clean enough to leave no trace."

A beat of silence.

Then Iffy muttered, "Creepy romantic, or murder-vow type?"

Ann added, "Or both."

The tension cracked—barely—as Tessie's voice crackled over the comms from the other SUV. "Tell Oma her secret admirer has bad handwriting."

Pesha's voice followed. "Tell her it's not a secret if it ends in blood."

At that, Oma allowed a small smile. Just barely.

They drove in silence after that, the Monaco lights flickering like broken teeth in the distance.

—

The vineyard was quiet when they arrived—an expanse of old stone and ivy that masked their underground fortress. From above, it looked abandoned. Inside, it was war-ready.

Security checkpoints passed them through without a hitch. As the last SUV disappeared behind the steel gate, the atmosphere shifted. Here, they weren't dancers, seductresses, heiresses, or debutantes.

Here, they were lethal.

Inside, the group dispersed with a kind of practiced rhythm. Mia and Madi headed toward the control center. Ether disappeared into the lower tech vault without a word. Regg, Ann, and Iffy made their way to the weapons locker, voices low, movements sharp. Pesha yawned and dragged Tessie toward the medical bay, muttering something about bruised ribs and ego. Juliette and Debby walked side by side, laughing at something only the two of them seemed to understand.

Oma stood at the entrance for a long moment, the note still clutched in her hand. She turned it over. No other markings. No scent. No residue.

She finally pocketed it and moved toward her room.

The safehouse may have been their haven, but nothing about tonight felt safe.

---

Oma's door clicked shut behind her, sealing her into dim silence. The weight of the mission slid off her shoulders in layers—heels kicked off, jewelry unclasped, the dress tugged loose. But the note… that stayed close, like a second heartbeat.

She laid it flat on her desk.

I always see you first.

The script was handwritten—sharp, almost delicate. Masculine, but not rushed. A man who had time to think, and patience to stalk.

Her jaw clenched.

She opened the drawer beside her and pulled out a black-light pen, scanning the edges of the paper. Nothing. She slid on gloves, flipped it, checked for pressure marks, traces, hidden ink—still nothing.

Whoever left this… knew how to leave no trace.

And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

A knock sounded. Two soft taps. Pause. Then one.

Only one person knocked like that.

Mia entered before Oma could respond, barefoot, her hair tied up, a silk robe clinging to her like she'd just stepped off a Versailles painting. But her eyes? Sharp. Boss-sharp.

Without a word, she closed the distance and leaned over the desk, gaze on the note. "Still nothing?"

Oma shook her head.

"You feel anything?"

"Like I'm being hunted," Oma admitted.

Mia's lips curled slightly. "That's new. You're usually the hunter."

"Exactly." Oma's tone darkened. "Whoever he is, he was at the party, saw me, got close, and slipped this in without any of us noticing."

"Didn't touch you," Mia corrected softly. "You'd have felt that. So he used someone else. Or something else."

"Maybe."

A flicker of something passed between them—concern wrapped in steel.

"You think it's Kaine London?" Mia asked, voice hushed.

Oma paused.

His voice had haunted her since that moment on the balcony. The way he said absolutely. Not flirtation. Not threat.

A claim.

"I think," Oma said slowly, "if it is him… we're in more danger than we planned for."

Mia nodded. "Then we find out who he is. Fast."

She turned to leave but paused at the door. "By the way… you're not sleeping tonight."

Oma arched a brow. "Orders?"

"No. Intel," Mia said over her shoulder. "Juliette hacked the party's camera feeds. One frame caught him looking at you. No mask. Bare face. Recognition in his eyes."

Oma straightened, pulse kicking.

Mia gave a sly smirk. "He knows you, Oma. Or he's pretending to."

Then she was gone.

Oma stood still for a full minute before turning back to the note. She picked it up, stared at the words, then—slowly—she brought it to her lips and kissed it once.

"If this is your game… I hope you know, I don't play fair."

---

The control center glowed in tones of blue and white, monitors casting shadows on stone walls. The hum of servers filled the space like a second pulse. Madi sat at the central console, surrounded by a semicircle of screens. Her fingers flew across the keys, calling up feeds, freezing frames, enhancing angles.

Regg leaned against the table, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like she could will the footage to give her answers. Iffy sprawled in the chair next to her, a lollipop in her mouth and a knife she kept twirling between her fingers—both her weapons of choice. Juliette stood behind Madi, her curls in a loose bun, one heel still off from the escape earlier.

Mia sat at the head of it all. Barefoot, in a silk wrap, coffee in one hand, and power humming beneath her skin like a live wire.

"Play it again," Mia said.

Madi sighed but obeyed. "That's the sixth time."

"Seventh," Juliette corrected.

The screen flashed to life again. Security footage from the gala. Their entrance. The glitz. The crowd.

"There." Mia pointed. "Stop. Rewind. Zoom in on the terrace. Far left."

Madi dragged the frame back. Paused. Zoomed.

A man.

No mask.

Tailored suit. Dark hair, neatly styled. Calm. Not looking at the camera—looking toward the ballroom.

"He's not talking to anyone," Regg muttered. "Not moving either. Just watching."

Iffy leaned closer. "Zoom in again."

Madi enhanced. The image sharpened, just enough.

"Damn," Juliette whispered. "He's not watching the party."

Mia's jaw tightened. "He's watching her."

Even from the grainy footage, it was clear. His eyes were locked on a figure moving through the crowd in a deep emerald gown—Oma.

"Frame after this," Mia ordered.

Madi clicked forward.

The man turned. Vanished into the shadows just as the chaos started—gunfire, screaming, dancers scattering like broken chess pieces.

"Pause." Regg stepped closer. "Roll it back and run facial recognition."

Madi typed fast, dragging the image into their internal system. "Already queued."

The scan began. A red circle blinked around his face. The screen split into grids, running comparisons across databases—Interpol, MI6, CIA, Monaco's elite registry, and their own private blackbook of the dangerous and the dead.

The process stalled.

Match Not Found.

"What?" Juliette blinked. "No match? None?"

"Not in any system," Madi confirmed.

"Either he's a ghost…" Iffy said slowly, lollipop crunching between her teeth.

"…or someone's protecting his name," Regg finished grimly.

Mia exhaled slowly, eyes still on the screen.

"He knew where the cameras were. Knew the blind spots. Knew how to slip the note into her purse."

Juliette tilted her head. "You think this is Kaine London?"

Mia didn't answer right away. Then:

"I think this man has no past. And no past means someone built him that way." She rose to her feet. "We find him. Now."

Iffy cracked her knuckles. "What if he's watching us too?"

Mia turned, lips curling into something cold.

"Then let him. Let him see we're coming."

---

The surveillance room breathed with soft hums and pulses of blue light, carved into the belly of an unnamed penthouse overlooking Monaco's sleeping skyline. Monitors lined the walls—cold, glowing eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing.

Three men occupied the space, each embodying a different kind of danger.

Ashur Kael leaned against a metal console, all in black, his lean frame coiled like a predator at rest. A thin scar ran from his jaw to the curve of his neck, a reminder of a knife that got too close. His golden eyes never left the screens.

Beside him, Corin Draed sat motionless, like stone in leather. He had the look of a ghost that'd refused to die—scarred, broad-shouldered, with ink crawling out from under the collar of his shirt. His hands moved with habitual precision as he cleaned a disassembled pistol across his lap, piece by piece.

The third, Lior Veyne, lounged with theatrical grace in a low chair, tapping his fingers against a tumbler of ice water. His silver rings glinted under the soft red hue of a monitor. He smirked as he watched the feeds, a man who'd made art out of surveillance and sarcasm alike.

"She's getting suspicious," Lior murmured, gesturing at the screen showing Regg, her brows furrowed as she scrutinized a hallway glitch. "Little Regg's sniffing too close to the feed loop."

"Doesn't matter," Corin said, calm, his voice gravel and shadow. "Their entire system's chasing ghosts. They won't catch us."

Ashur folded his arms. "That blonde one... Oma. She paused. Looked straight into Cam 7. I don't think she saw the camera. I think she felt it."

Lior chuckled. "Instinct. That one's wired tight. You can't fake a sixth sense."

There was a sudden shift in the room. A stillness. Like the air thickened, holding its breath.

The door slid open with the softest hiss.

Kaine London stepped in.

His white hair brushed his shoulders in lazy waves, stark against the tailored black he wore. A lollipop stem poked between his lips. His eyes were unreadable—stone gray, deep-set, and colder than the machines around him.

He didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

All three men straightened subtly, like soldiers sensing their general's shadow.

Kaine walked slowly through the room, silent except for the click of his shoes on steel. He gave the screens a single passing glance, barely more than a flicker of interest. His fingers toyed with the lollipop, tongue running across the candy's surface with idle thought.

He stopped by a console showing Oma's last pause at the camera.

His gaze lingered.

Then he pulled the lollipop from his lips and studied it.

"Cherry?" Lior asked casually, breaking the silence.

Kaine's voice was quiet. Crisp. "Blood orange."

That was all.

He turned and walked out, leaving only the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Ashur let out a breath, rubbing a hand down his jaw. "He's going to haunt that girl."

Corin snapped the pistol back together. "Only if she's lucky."

Lior smirked, eyes still on the screen. "Now that... is going to be fun."

---

Later that night, the storm had settled. The city stretched beneath the penthouse like a kingdom lost in velvet dreams.

Kaine stood on the balcony, wind brushing his white hair across his face. He had changed into a looser shirt, one side of it half-tucked, the collar lazily open to his chest. The night curled around him like smoke.

Behind him, Lior stepped out quietly, holding a fresh lollipop between two fingers. He offered it out with a tilt of his brow.

"Try this one," Lior said. "Caramel lemon. Tastes like revenge and childhood trauma."

Kaine took it wordlessly, peeled off the wrapper, and slid it into his mouth. His jaw worked once, then he let it sit on his tongue.

"You didn't say a word when Ashur mentioned Oma," Lior continued, leaning against the balcony rail beside him. "That usually means you're thinking."

Kaine's eyes remained fixed on the horizon. "Thinking is your job."

Lior chuckled. "Mine is talking. Yours is... disturbing."

Silence.

Then Kaine turned, only slightly, enough to let his voice drift between them like a blade.

"She's not ready for me yet."

Lior looked at him. "But you're going anyway?"

Kaine's smile was barely there. A cold, exquisite thing.

"I'm not going. I'm already inside."

He turned his back to the night and walked away again, the faintest hum of citrus sugar on his breath.

And Lior, still smiling, watched the lights of Monaco flicker below, like the sparks of a war about to begin.

---

The night sat heavy over Monaco like a velvet noose. In the quietest part of their hideout, the girls tried to sleep—but rest was a luxury none of them could afford now. Not with that note burning in their minds.

Oma's Room

A soft knock echoed once, then twice.

Oma lifted her head from where she sat curled up on the edge of her bed, the note still clutched like a secret too dangerous to share.

"Oma?" came Ann's voice, soft but firm.

She opened the door slightly. Her expression was unreadable—dark eyes calm, but her fingers twisted the hem of her sweatshirt. Oma let her in wordlessly.

Ann sat on the bed. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The paper sat between them like a ticking clock.

"You didn't tell them everything," Ann finally said.

Oma didn't flinch. "I couldn't. Not yet."

Ann tilted her head, watching her carefully. "Tell me."

Oma exhaled, her voice low. "I didn't see anyone. Just… a coldness. Like something brushed past me. And then the note was in my bag. I hadn't even touched it until we got back."

Ann picked up the note. The handwriting was clean, masculine. Confident.

She read it again.

She shivered. "This isn't a threat. It's… personal. Calculated."

Oma's hands clenched. "I think it's only the beginning."

---

Surveillance Room – Morning

The team had gathered, hair messy, coffees half-drunk, tension slicing the air like a blade. Madi sat in front of the screens, her fingers dancing over the keyboard with mechanical precision.

Regg stood beside her, arms crossed.

Mia paced.

"Play the footage from when we left the lounge," Regg instructed.

It rolled. Grainy. Still.

They watched the girls laughing, walking out. Then the footage blurred for a second—just a flicker, as if the camera hiccuped.

Madi slowed it down. "Quarter speed."

A shadow.

A movement.

"Reverse. Pause. Play."

The screen froze.

Behind Oma, in a far mirror that barely caught the angle, a figure walked past. White shoulder-length hair. Black coat. A lollipop glinting red in his mouth. The camera didn't catch his face—only the side of his head, a cool tilt, casual as sin.

Silence dropped like a bomb.

"That's him," Oma whispered.

They watched again, looking for more.

Nothing.

But Madi wasn't done.

She opened a second program, this one raw, powerful. She peeled back the footage layer by layer, like a surgeon dissecting a corpse.

Then it blinked.

"Wait… go back." Mia leaned in. "Zoom into the corner."

There, barely visible in the far right of the screen, something shimmered under infrared filter. A sigil—circular, etched like an ancient crest. A serpent biting its own tail, crowned in thorns.

"I've seen that," Juliette said slowly. "On that lighter… someone left at the bar last month. I thought it was some obscure designer logo."

"It's not," Mia said, voice tight. "That's a mafia symbol."

They all turned to her.

"It belongs to Kaine."

Mia's fingers trembled as she dialed. The only number she'd memorized by heart since she was seven.

Rafaella Moretti answered on the third ring.

"Speak."

"Mom," Mia whispered. "We found a symbol. It's his."

The line went silent. Then: "Kaine?"

"Yes."

Another pause. When her mother finally spoke, her voice was low and lethal. "If Kaine has reached out, then you girls are already in his game."

The air turned colder.

"He doesn't make contact unless he's watching you. Closely. Intimately."

Juliette glanced at the others, tension rippling.

"What do we do?" Mia asked.

"You dig," her mother said. "Deep. You find out why he's watching, what he wants. Because if he left a mark, then the real message isn't in the note."

"It's in the silence."

Click.

The call ended.

And so did their illusion of safety.

---

As the girls stood in the dark, the screen flickered again behind them. Static. Then for one breathless second—a different frame.

Not from the club. Not from that night.

It was their apartment.

From the hallway.

A camera angle no one remembered installing.

And in the center of the frame, for just one second—

A gloved hand, leaving something on their doorstep.

Another note.

This one addressed to all of them.

Game on.

.

.

.

.

.

To Be Continued....