The Damned
{The De Luca Crime Syndicate}
This is a story about survival.
He has "Questa Cosa Nostra" tattooed on his chest while she has "Жизнь за жизнь."
This thing of ours VS A life for a life.
La Cosa Nostra VS the Bratva
She is running from her...
Please listen to the song above; it is a perfect description of Nandini...
At the start of every chapter, there will be a snippet of Nandini's past from the beginning.
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Seated in the council room of the Assassins' mansion, Natasha Ivanshov leaned back in her chair. "It's past three in the morning," she said, adjusting the folds of her crimson silk dressing gown and crossing her bare legs beneath the wooden table, as a proper lady should before looking up to meet the eyes of Dmitri studying her like she was a painting encased in glass at the Louvre. "This better be important."
It was said that Natasha's face rarely changed especially in the presence of company; her poker face remained in spite of the circumstances and even now despite having been up all night and despite the tiredness in her eyes, she scowled at her Master, leaning back in her chair.
Her knuckles were bruised from the knight before where she vented her frustrations at a punching bag instead of punching Nikolai in the face for his disrespect.
"Perhaps if you actually went to sleep at nights, you wouldn't be so tired." snapped the young man seated across from her. She ignored him and studied the four other people assembled. All male, all far older than she, and all refusing to meet her stare. Picking at her manicured nails, Natasha schooled her features into neutrality. She almost rolled her eyes at the sheer cowardice.
The five assassins gathered at the long table—including herself—were five of Dmitri Hamel's most trusted companions. This meeting was undeniably important. She'd known that from the moment a servant pounded on her door, insisting Natasha come downstairs and not even bother to get dressed. When Dmitri summoned you, you didn't keep him waiting. Thankfully, her sleepwear was as exquisite as her daytime wardrobe—and cost nearly as much.
Her beauty was a weapon—one she kept honed—but it could also be a vulnerability. Beauty may be dangerous but her intelligence was lethal; she liked being the smarted person in the room. And she was.
It had almost been a year since she was here and jealousy ripped through the other assassins as she climbed the ranks higher than anyone there.
Dmitri Hamel, King of the Assassins, lounged at the head of the table, his hair shining in the light from the glass chandelier. His eyes met hers, and he frowned. Her stomach twisted into a knot.
"Robert's been caught," Dmitri finally said. "It was a trap. He's now being held in the dungeons."
Natasha sighed and rolled her eyes. This was why she'd been awakened? She tapped an impatient foot on the marble floor. "Then kill him," she said.
Robert had thrown a dagger at her head for it. She'd caught the dagger, of course, and ever since, Robert had borne the scar on his cheek from her return throw. No one had messed with her since. He was no one of particular importance but of course, he meant a great deal to some of the assassins here. To her, he was no one.
