The Mafia Boss's Deadly Maid

"Target redirected. The explosive is a dud, Vixen."

Zane's encrypted voice crackled in my earpiece. My jaw clenched. The stifling heat of the JFK airport ventilation shaft pressed against my chest, making every breath taste like dust and hot metal. I stared through the aluminum grate at the empty VIP lounge below.

My pulse hammered a steady, cold rhythm against my throat. Zane's voice was abruptly swallowed by a harsh burst of static. "Signal jammers activated," I muttered. I immediately cut the comms to prevent reverse tracing.

My fingers moved with brutal efficiency, stripping the custom sniper rifle apart in the dark. I shoved the cold metal components into the padded slots of my tactical backpack, disguised as a cello case. I zipped it shut just as the piercing shriek of the terminal alarms ripped through the air.

Red emergency lights began to strobe wildly, bleeding through the grate and painting my hands in flashes of crimson.

I kicked the grate. It gave way with a metallic groan.

I dropped silently to the carpeted floor below. A janitor's cart sat abandoned near the door. I grabbed the oversized blue uniform draped over the handle and pulled it over my tactical gear.

Heavy boots pounded against the tile outside. Two airport SWAT officers rounded the corner, their assault rifles raised.

I immediately lowered my head, hunched my shoulders, and pushed the trash cart toward the wall with slow, clumsy movements, making way for them. My entire body language radiated submission and terror. I became nothing more than a frightened background extra. "Move!" one of the officers barked, shoving my shoulder, but they didn't even look down as they sprinted past me, their radios blaring orders.

I stayed on the floor until their footsteps faded. The terrified tremor in my hands vanished instantly. I brushed the dirt off my knees and stood up. My eyes scanned the corridor, cold and calculating.

I pushed the cart toward the employee exit, needing to beat the total lockdown.

A weak tug on my ankle stopped me dead.

My muscles coiled. My hand hovered over the concealed blade at my thigh. I looked down.

A little boy, maybe four or five years old, was curled into a tight ball beneath a row of metal waiting chairs. His face was flushed a dangerous, bright red. His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. He was burning up.

I turned away. Not my mission. Not my problem.

But as I pivoted, the red emergency light caught the dark gold embroidery on the collar of his expensive jacket. A Wyvern.

My stomach dropped. It was the crest of the Ninth Circle. The exclusive mark of Apollo Buck's family.

My brain processed the data in a fraction of a second. This kid was the perfect bait. The ultimate key to getting inside Thanatos's inner circle.

I crouched down and reached for him. The boy panicked, kicking his small sneakers against my forearm, fighting me with whatever weak energy he had left.