The nightclub was a cathedral of sin—mirrored walls, thumping bass, and shadows that danced like predators. Everything reeked of wealth, lust, and danger.
Alfreda didn't walk in.
She commanded in.
Blood-red leather clung to her body like a second skin. Her heels stabbed the floor. Eyes followed her like heat-seeking missiles.
She didn't blink.
She had a name, a face, a target: Silas Crane. The Widowmaker's second-in-command. The man who'd signed off on the orphanage raid. The one who knew where the Widowmaker would strike next.
He was here.
VIP level.
Behind three layers of guns and glamour.
But Alfreda?
She'd never met a locked door she couldn't seduce.
Upstairs – Midnight
"Name?" barked the bouncer.
She tilted her head. "Scarlet Bishop. I'm expected."
A tiny lie. A forged chip. A smirk.
The scanner buzzed green.
Seconds later, she stepped into the velvet-wrapped hellscape of the elite.
Silas was at the center.
Armani suit. Silver cufflinks. A scar across his jaw from a childhood fight he never lost.
His eyes met hers instantly.
They were shark eyes—flat and unreadable.
"Well," he purred. "The ghost walks."
"Surprised I'm not ashes?" she replied, sliding into the booth like a serpent.
He poured her a drink. "Surprised Nathaniel let you off the leash."
"Oh honey," she said. "He didn't even know I was on one."
Their conversation danced between flirtation and death threats.
"You want the Widowmaker?" Silas asked. "You're playing with more than fire, sweetheart. You're dancing through a minefield blind."
"I'll find her. Or I'll burn the whole damn network down trying."
His smirk vanished.
"I warned him not to spare you back then," Silas muttered.
Her blood ran cold.
"What did you say?"
"I told Nathaniel to leave you in the fire," Silas said, his smile icy. "But he carried out your sister's body. Not yours."
Boom.
Alfreda lunged across the table, pinning his throat with the edge of a steak knife.
"You watched me burn?" she hissed.
Silas didn't flinch.
"No," he choked. "I made sure you didn't die. I bribed the fire crew. I knew what you were. What you'd become."
"What am I?"
He smiled. "The Widowmaker's legacy."
The truth hit harder than a bullet.
She recoiled.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" he said. "Ask yourself why she's been killing people tied to your past. She doesn't want you dead—she wants you reborn."
Before she could respond—glass shattered.
Gunshot.
Silas's chest bloomed red.
Sniper.
Chaos erupted.
Alfreda dove as bullets sprayed through the room. Bodyguards scattered. Screams filled the air.
She rolled behind the bar, pulling a pistol from her thigh strap.
She scanned the carnage.
The sniper wasn't aiming at her.
Only Silas.
Who didn't want him to talk?
She crawled toward his dying body. Blood soaked the marble.
"Who… sent the shot?" she asked.
He gasped. Reached into his pocket.
Handed her a coin.
Etched with a snake swallowing its tail.
Her hands shook.
She'd seen that mark before—on the wall of the orphanage, carved above the altar. A symbol they were all told to "worship."
The same one stitched onto Celia's baby blanket the night of the fire.
Her vision blurred.
This wasn't about revenge anymore.
This was about origins.
About blood.
About destiny.
Alfreda escaped into the night, her side grazed, adrenaline burning hot.
The coin felt like a curse in her palm.
She wasn't just hunting the Widowmaker.
She was born of her.
And the war had only just begun.