Chapter 3: The Art Critic
Rain blurred the rooftop's edge, turning the distant neon signs into watery smears of color. Ciara lay prone, the cold of the rusted steel seeping through her jacket. The rifle was a hard, familiar line against her cheek. Below, in the warehouse courtyard, the three men were still. The downpour painted dark streaks through the ash and blood, diluting the violence into something the sea wind could begin to carry away.
She’d made it a sculpture.
The first, the loudmouth from the video, she’d taken through the throat mid-shout, his curse becoming a wet gurgle. The second had reached for his weapon—a clean shot through the wrist, then the knee, dropping him to the concrete before the final, merciful one through the temple. The third had tried to run. He’d made it almost to the chain-link gate. The bullet took him in the spine, precise, paralyzing. He’d fallen, twitching, and she’d had to wait through five long, drumming heartbeats for him to still enough for the finishing touch.
A quiet verse. Not a shout.
Now, the stink of cordite was almost gone, washed away by the petrichor and salt. She was dismantling the rifle, her movements methodical, smooth, every piece wiped clean and stowed, when headlights sliced through the rain below.
A black sedan, sleek and out of place among the puddles and crates, nosed into the courtyard. It stopped a respectful distance from the scene. The driver’s door opened, and a hulking figure with an umbrella emerged, circling to the passenger side.
Ciara froze, a scope component in her hand. She hadn’t expected this. Not so soon.
The passenger door opened. A heel, sharp as a stiletto blade, touched the wet ground. Then another. Toni Romano stepped out, ducking slightly under the umbrella her driver held. She was smaller in person than in the surveillance files, but the space around her seemed to shrink, to tighten in respect or fear.
Ciara’s breath caught. She fumbled for her compact binoculars, bringing them to her eyes.
Toni wore a tailored black coat, the collar turned up against the damp. Her raven hair was gathered in a severe knot. She didn’t hurry. She walked toward the bodies with the casual authority of a curator approaching new acquisitions. Her driver followed, a silent shadow, keeping the umbrella aligned.
Ciara watched, her own wet clothes clinging to her skin, a shiver starting that had nothing to do with the cold.
Toni stopped before the first body—the loudmouth. She stared down for a long moment, then slowly crouched. The coat pooled around her. With a hand gloved in black leather, she reached out and turned the man’s head, exposing the entry wound. Even from this distance, Ciara could see the focused tilt of Toni’s head, the clinical assessment. It was the same look from the Mario video, but now it was directed at her work.
Toni moved to the second man, examining the shots to the wrist and knee with a faint, approving nod. She spent the longest time with the third, the runner. She traced a gloved finger in the air above the path of his final, crawling attempt, from where he fell to where he finally died. Her lips moved, silent words lost in the rain. Ciara could almost hear them. Ambitious. But you left him no grace.
Then, Toni straightened. She looked around, not at the warehouse shadows, but up. Her gaze swept over the surrounding rooftops, a slow, searching arc. Ciara held perfectly still, knowing the rain and the gloom were her best cover, feeling that hazel stare pass over her hiding place like a physical touch.
Toni’s hand went into her coat pocket. She pulled out a phone. She tapped the screen, once, and looked down at it.
Ciara’s own burner, tucked against her ribs, buzzed silently.
She didn’t reach for it. She kept the binoculars fixed on Toni’s face.
A moment passed. Toni’s blood-red lips, stark against the grey scene, curved. It wasn’t a full smile. It was something darker, more intimate—a recognition of a shared language. A pleased, private acknowledgment. She showed the screen to her driver, who gave a single, grave nod.
Toni typed a reply, her thumbs moving quickly. She tucked the phone away, gave one last, lingering look at the bodies—her problem, solved—and turned back to the car. She didn’t look up again.
The car door closed. The red taillights bled into the mist and were gone.
Only then did Ciara let out the breath she’d been holding. She scrabbled for her phone, her wet fingers slipping on the plastic.
One new message.
Unknown Sender: The sculptor has a steady hand. Come see me. There’s a bar on the Via Partenope. Be there at ten. Come alone. -T
An address followed.
Ciara stared at the words until they blurred. The adrenaline that had been a sharp, clear line through her body collapsed into a jittery, post-op buzz. She’d passed. More than passed. She’d impressed.
Alex Carlin would be horrified. She’d just executed three men in cold blood. She’d staged a scene. She was now being summoned by the target.
Ciara McKenna felt a vicious, electric thrill. The hook was set. The long game was in motion.
She stuffed the last of her gear into the bag, her movements now hurried. The rooftop felt exposed. The rain was easing to a drizzle. Down in the courtyard, the evidence of her work remained, a violent exhibit waiting for someone else to clean up.
As she slipped down the fire escape, the metal slick under her hands, her mind was already racing ahead. What to wear. How to act. What Toni Romano would be like face-to-face, without two hundred meters of rain and scope lens between them.
She hit the alley, merging with the late evening foot traffic, just another shadow in a city full of them. The salt-and-garlic smell of Naples wrapped around her, a welcome replacement for the scent of blood and gunpowder. She replayed that dark, pleased smile on Toni’s lips. It was a reward. A promise.
And a danger, so profound it made her stomach clench.
She had wanted in. Now, she was being invited.
Alex-Ciara walked faster, her boots clicking on the wet cobblestones, heading for the safehouse, for a shower, for the next skin she had to put on. The ghost had been seen, and appreciated. Now, the ghost had to learn how to speak.