The Assassins Kiss
The air in the grand foyer was thick with unspoken tension, a silence broken only by the sharp echo of Ezra's boots against the polished marble.
Her hands, poised low at her hips, twitched with a predatory readiness, her gaze sweeping over the men who flanked the entrance. Their guns were raised, safeties off, but their fingers trembled – a tell-tale sign of their fear.
"Cowards," she thought, her lips barely curving in disdain. These were the notorious mafia men, yet they cowered before her, their tailored suits doing little to conceal their weakness.
Ezra didn't break stride, didn't flinch. She simply stared them down, daring any one of them to make a move.
At the foot of the sweeping staircase, he stood. The one man in the room who commanded power without a weapon, his figure silhouetted against the chandelier's glow, an ethereal menace.
"Father," Ezra's voice cut through the air, sharp as broken glass.
"Ezra," he replied, his tone unnervingly calm, as if this were a cordial family gathering, not a prelude to war.
She didn't waste time on pleasantries. "Where's my daughter?"
A calculated pause. "She's in her room," he stated, his voice unreadable. "But first—we need to talk."
He turned, ascending the stairs as if he still held any right to dictate her actions. Ezra groaned internally, her jaw clenching. Every step he took pulled her deeper into a conversation she dreaded, yet she followed. Answers were needed, before more blood was spilled.
