Felicia Hardy stood outside the warehouse in the shadow of a leaning lamppost, arms crossed, her leather jacket pulled tight against the morning chill. She hated jobs like this—quiet, anonymous drops where she didn't even get to see the reaction of the person she was helping. But Ethan Kane had asked, and when Ethan asked, there was usually a reason that paid off later.
She balanced the duffel in her hand, heavier than it looked. Inside were simple things: food, clothes, a stack of bills, the kind of supplies someone might need when they couldn't risk stepping into the light.
Felicia smirked, muttering under her breath. "If this assassin needs another assist, I'm charging Ethan double next time."
The warehouse smelled of dust, old seawater, and rusting steel. Somewhere in the rafters, a gull croaked, the sound echoing through the cavernous dark. Delilah sat on a cracked crate, back hunched, the ache in her muscles easing by the hour. Her body healed faster than most, but her head still swam from the fight, the coma, the betrayal.
Footsteps outside stirred her senses. She reached for the pistol resting across her lap—but the steps faded. Then something scraped against the metal door. The lock clicked, the frame rattled once, and a duffel bag slid inside before the door slammed shut again.
Delilah rose cautiously, gun trained, but whoever had left the bag was already gone. She dragged it closer, unzipped it, and found clothes folded with quick precision, sealed packs of food, a thick envelope of cash, and a new burner phone.
Her lip curled. 'Luc.'
Before she could think, the phone buzzed. A single word on the screen: Answer.
Blocks away, Felicia Hardy bounded across a rooftop, adjusting her leather gloves. She hadn't stuck around to see the woman's reaction—Ethan's requests always came with strings, and she wasn't in the mood for a long talk. Dropping a bag unseen was one thing. Babysitting a broken assassin? Not her problem.
"Two favors, kid," she muttered to herself, brushing damp hair out of her eyes as she vanished into the night. "You're racking up a hell of a tab."
By the time she vaulted onto the roof of a neighboring building, she was already dialing Ethan.
"Your assassin has groceries," she said dryly.
Ethan's voice on the other end was amused. "Perfect. Thanks, Felicia."
"You know," she drawled, "I've done a lot of shady errands for you lately. Might start charging interest."
"Keep a tab," Ethan replied smoothly. "I'll make it worth your while."
She rolled her eyes, but smiled despite herself, then hung up.
Down at the warehouse, Delilah looked down at the phone, waiting for the call. Soon, the phone on top buzzed as she reached for it.
She snatched it up. "What the hell is this, Luc?"
The voice that came through the line was older, distorted, and touched with a French accent. Calm. Controlled.
"Provisions," Luc said. "You were unconscious long enough for people to start looking for you. You'll need these if you're to remain out of sight."
Her jaw tightened. "I don't hide. I don't cower. I go after my enemies."
"And yet," Luc replied, "here you are. Alive. Because I made sure of it. So please, ma chère, a little patience and obedience goes a long way."
Delilah's teeth ground together. She hated being reminded that she owed anyone anything.
Luc's tone shifted—colder, deliberate. "But that's not why I'm calling. I have something else for you, ma chère. A new identity. A clean slate. One that no bounty, no Rose, can touch."
Delilah almost laughed. "You think you can just give me a name and—"
"Fiore Artino."
The words hit her like a bullet. She froze, blood rushing to her ears.
"…what did you just say?"
"Fiore Artino," Luc repeated. "Your real name. The one you buried with your old life. The name that disappeared when you did. I brought it back to life for you."
Her throat tightened. For years, she'd built herself out of nothing, a weapon with no past, no attachments. Fiore was dead. No one alive should have known that name. Even the name Delilah was something she used under Rose and wasn't her moniker.
"How—" Her voice cracked, something it hadn't done since childhood. "How do you know that?"
Luc chuckled softly, a sound that carried no warmth. "Because I make it my business to know most things. Because you are useful to me, and I cannot afford to work with ghosts. You wanted to be reborn. I merely found the bones you left behind and gave them a new skin."
Delilah gripped the phone tighter, breath uneven. She hated it—hated the sudden coil of fear in her gut. But alongside it came something worse: respect. Luc hadn't been bluffing when he promised resources, when he claimed to see things others didn't. He had stripped her bare with a single sentence.
"You think knowing my name makes you my master?" she spat.
"No," Luc replied smoothly. "But it makes me your architect, ma chère. You wanted to build an empire? Then we must start with the foundation. Right now, you are wanted. Hunted. You cannot fight Rose while his men scour the streets for you. But if you vanish into Fiore Artino, if you let me craft the papers, the bank accounts, the history—then you will rise again not as an assassin on the run, but as a queen laying her first stone."
Delilah's nails dug into the crate beside her, crushing it. Every part of her wanted to storm out, find Rose, and spill blood until the streets ran red. But Luc's words coiled through her mind like chains.
"Black Tarantula will deal with Rose," Luc continued, his tone razor-sharp. "Let them tear each other apart. You intervene now, and you will be nothing more than collateral. Sit. Watch. Wait. And when the dust clears, you will step in—not as Delilah the killer or hired hand, but as Fiore Artino, the woman who will one day command New York's underworld."
Silence stretched. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, fury and unease fighting for dominance.
Finally, she forced out a bitter laugh. "You make hiding sound like a throne."
"That's because it is," Luc replied. "The first step to any worthwhile empire-building is patience, ma chère. Every ruler was once in shadow, waiting for the right time to step into the light."
Delilah swallowed hard. Against her will, the words sank deep.
"Fine," she muttered. "But if you're lying to me—"
"Yes, I know, you'll kill me," Luc finished. "I'm sure you could. Until then, eat, rest, and stay unseen. Your day will come. But only if you let me shape it."
The line clicked dead.
Ethan Kane set the burner and voice changer down on his desk, the mask of Luc Moreau dissolving with the silence. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
Delilah—or Fiore, as she'd once been—was reeling. Her foundation cracked, her sense of self shaken. That was good.
He didn't need her stable. He needed her desperate. Loyal. Ready to cling to the only hand that had reached down into the dark and pulled her out.
"Break it down," Ethan murmured to himself. "Then rebuild it better."
He opened his notebook and began to sketch the outline of her new life: forged passports, seeded records, a place to call her own. All of it designed not just to hide her, but to bind her.
Because one day, Fiore Artino would rise again. And when she did, she would owe her new throne to Luc Moreau.