The chandeliers shattered. Crystal rained down like falling stars.
Screams.
Gunfire.
The Midnight Ball had turned into a war zone.
Ochieng spun, his dagger flashing. A masked assassin lunged—he sidestepped, slit the man's throat, and kept moving.
Three minutes.
That's what she had given him.
Three minutes before hell swallowed the entire ballroom.
Valeria was already moving, pulling twin pistols from the slit of her dress. Amara, fluid as a shadow, took down a man twice her size with a single snap of his neck.
But Lucien Rykov?
He was smiling.
He leaned against the bar, sipping his wine. Watching.
Enjoying.
Because this?
This was entertainment.
---
The Black Widow disappeared into the chaos.
Ochieng didn't follow.
She had made her choice.
Instead, he turned his attention to the real threat—the men in white.
Assassins dressed in ivory suits.
The Gilded Reapers.
Hired by the wealthiest families. Feared across continents.
And now, they were here for him.
Ochieng dropped low as a blade whistled past his face. He drove his dagger upward—right between a Reaper's ribs.
Blood sprayed.
Another came.
He caught the man's wrist, twisted, and—snap.
The assassin crumpled.
Two down.
But there were more.
---
Lucien's voice echoed over the chaos. "Do you know how much your head is worth, Ochieng?"
Ochieng caught a champagne bottle, shattered it over an assassin's head, and smirked. "Not enough."
Lucien chuckled. "You're wrong."
A new figure stepped forward.
Tall. Dressed in a three-piece suit. Gloves pristine white.
His presence made the room shiver.
Lord Darius Blackthorne.
The man who controlled half of the world's underground economy.
And beside him?
The Black Widow.
She held a glass of wine.
Her eyes met Ochieng's.
And she raised her glass.
A silent farewell.
Ochieng's jaw tightened.
She had sold him out.
And now?
It was him against the world.
---
A blade pressed against his throat.
A whisper in his ear.
"Time's up."
---