The room was cold again. After Lorenzo stormed out, Isabella didn’t flinch. Her heart trembled, but her hands were steady as ever. There wasn’t time to process emotions — not now. The mission was already in motion.
She stripped off the tailored shirt she'd worn beneath the Balkan mafia jacket and changed into sleek tactical wear: matte black jeans, a crop top beneath a bulletproof vest, and steel-toed combat boots. Hair tied in a tight bun, blade tucked in her boot, and her silencer reattached to the thigh strap.
THE BRIEFING
Gigi came into the room, wordless, and placed the sealed black file on the glass table. Isabella opened it quickly. A high-profile arms dealer — ex-KGB, now independent — was in Boston for one night only, preparing to ship a container full of modified sniper systems across the Atlantic.
"We intercept at the dock," Gigi said flatly. "But he's not alone. Russian, Serbian, and Albanian guards. Heavy artillery."
"Tell William to lock down the east side. Enry will sweep with dogs from the shoreline," Isabella instructed, already moving.
Gigi nodded and left.
MISSION LAUNCH
By 9:30 PM, Isabella was at the harbor. She blended into the shadows — a phantom of precision and vengeance. The sea breeze curled around her like memory. She crouched behind a stack of rusting containers, eyes locked on the armed men moving crates.
She whispered into her earpiece. “Positions?”
“Gigi in the north. William’s crew in south watchtower. Enry moving with Ghost and Nero.”
“Execute in five. Quiet.”
At 9:35 sharp, the area erupted into silent violence. Suppressed shots. Throats slit. Isabella slid between shadows, each step a ghost’s kiss. Her target ran — but not fast enough.
She cornered him by a boat, gun raised.
“Who sent you?” he demanded.
Her smirk was deadly. “I am the storm.”
She fired.
THE AFTERMATH
The wind whistled like applause. Blood pooled near the boat ramp. She wiped the blade and retrieved the drive from the target’s inner coat pocket. She didn’t speak a word as she walked past her people.
By midnight, she was back in her penthouse office, drenched in moonlight and silence. She poured herself a glass of whiskey, curled into her leather chair, and pulled up the encrypted drive’s contents.
Blueprints. Names. Coordinates. All of it led to something bigger.
Something that smelled like war.
And she was ready.
-----
"Encrypted Shadows"
The glow of her office monitor cast sharp shadows across Isabella’s marble desk. Boston was asleep, but she wasn’t. Not after what she found.
The drive sat in the glass tray between a silver dagger and a half-empty glass of neat whiskey. A cold breeze from the open window rustled the edges of a report, the city lights flickering like ghosts in the distance. She inserted the USB into her secure port.
> “Firewall initialized. Encryption detected. Foreign coding structure... English-Middle Eastern hybrid.”
Of course. This wasn’t just any arms route. This was an auction. One that included buyers from three known terror cells. Private militias. Rogue governments. And... someone she hadn’t seen in years.
She froze when the metadata opened.
> "Operator ID: MTS-X7-TH. Last login: Italy. File origin: Verona.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
> “MTS-X7-TH.”
“Matthew Theodore Sinclair.”
Her blood ran cold. The man she was sent to kill. The man who was supposed to be just a mission. The one who left his fingerprints all over her mind — and apparently... this drive.
She stood suddenly, pushing away from the desk as the leather chair rolled back with a low scrape. Heart thudding, she stalked to the liquor cabinet and poured more whiskey. No ice. No hesitation. The burn was welcome.
> “No fucking way.”
“No. He’s not just in this. He’s deep in this.”
She sat again, this time with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. The files were massive, coded in layers. Hundreds of buyer entries. Alias upon alias. And in between — locations. Weapons. Blood money.
She flipped through them with cold efficiency, eyes scanning for keywords: bioweapons, drones, Ferragamo shell codes, secure vaults, drop points in Istanbul...
And then, in the heart of it — a name she hadn’t heard in twelve years.
> “Valentino.”
Her jaw locked. That was the alias her father used in covert weapons trades. But he retired. Or so she thought. Had someone resurrected his name to trade again? Was it bait? Was it a cover?
Suddenly, the encrypted terminal flickered.
> “Connection traced. Unknown server attempting to breach firewall.”
Isabella reacted like lightning. She slammed the terminal shut, yanked the drive, tossed it into the signal-killing box, and ran diagnostics across her network. Whoever was on the other end — they wanted that drive back.
She muttered under her breath:
> “Try again, bastard. See what happens.”
But she knew what this meant — the network wasn’t just dangerous.
It was active. Alive. Hunting.
------
YOU ARE READING
MAFIA QUEEN
Short StoryAfter the 3 sentries she is born, the only girl in the family. But they are not the ordinary people they are famous Italian Mafia. THE FERRARI FAMILY But they lost her because of the work they are in and because of their reputation. ************...
