Addicted To My Genius Assassin Wife

Julian POV

The autumn sunset bled across the Manhattan skyline, turning the Hudson River into a vein of liquid gold. From the floor-to-ceiling window of my Brooklyn Heights study, the city looked like a gothic cathedral—sharp, imposing, and entirely unforgiving.

I took a slow sip of my bourbon. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of old leather, dust, and the quiet discipline of a man waiting for a war.

A sharp knock broke the silence. My most trusted Soldier, Leo, stepped into the room. His hand hovered near the lapel of his tailored suit, close to his shoulder holster.

"We have a situation, boss," Leo said, his voice tight. "A girl is at the door. Says she has a delivery that can't wait. She brought a shadow with her."

I turned away from the window, setting my crystal glass on the immaculate mahogany desk. "Bring them in."

Leo stepped aside. The person who walked into my sanctum was not a hardened Capo or a rival assassin. It was a girl. She couldn't have been older than sixteen, dressed in unassuming dark clothes, but her eyes held the cold, dead weight of a veteran killer. Behind her loomed a mountain of a man, his face scarred and expressionless.

I let my gaze sweep over her, projecting the absolute authority of the Morgan bloodline. "You have three seconds to explain how you found this safe house before Leo puts a bullet in your guard's head."

The girl didn't flinch. She walked straight to my desk and tossed a tarnished silver coin onto the polished wood. It spun with a sharp metallic ring before landing flat. Engraved on its surface was a distinct, archaic symbol.

My jaw tightened. It was a token from 'The Professor'—the most elusive and dangerous information broker in the underworld.

"My name is Athena Wise," she said, her voice steady, devoid of any childish tremor. "But you can call me Nemesis. I am the last breathing heir of the Valenzuela family."

The Valenzuela family. Slaughtered three years ago by Alistair Kirkland, the usurper who now sat on the Chairman's seat of the Commission—the very seat that belonged to my murdered father.

"Ghosts don't knock on my door, Athena," I said coldly, leaning against the edge of my desk. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to help you take back what's yours," she stated, holding my gaze with an intensity that demanded respect. "And burn Alistair Kirkland's empire to the ground."

I let out a low, humorless laugh. "A bold claim for a dead girl."

Athena didn't argue. She simply snapped her fingers. The giant behind her—Derek—stepped forward and placed a thick, black leather-bound ledger on my desk.

"Open it," she commanded.

I narrowed my eyes at her tone but flipped the cover open. The pages were filled with meticulous handwriting. Bank account numbers, shipping routes for bootleg liquor, the names of every corrupt judge and police captain on Kirkland's payroll, and the exact weaknesses of