Chapter 3
The party is lavish, excessive in a way that only men with too much money and too little morality can afford. Crystal chandeliers hang low from the high ceilings, casting golden light over guests in tailored suits and silk gowns. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that breeds corruption.
Natalia blends in with practiced ease.
Her dress is midnight blue, slit high on one side, elegant but understated. Her hair is styled just enough to look effortless. Everything about her is calculated — how she moves, how she smiles, how she makes eye contact with the right people at the right time. The art of deception is second nature, almost as instinctive as breathing.
And she hates it.
Hates the way she has to mold herself into something desirable, something intriguing. Hates the way powerful men look at her like she is a prize to be won. Hates the way she plays into it because it makes her job easier.
Hates that she is good at it.
A roar of laughter at the bar catches her attention. Her target is there.
She’s known since the moment she stepped inside. Leonard Kessler, billionaire financier, a man with fingers in more black-market dealings than he cares to admit. He’s laughing too loudly at a joke that isn’t funny, one hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon, the other resting on the waist of a woman young enough to be his daughter.
He doesn’t know he’s already dead.
Natalia catches his eye with precision. Just a glance — enough to make him notice. Enough to make him curious. And then she looks away, as if dismissing him. The game begins.
She lingers at the bar, not drinking, letting the night unfold as expected. It doesn’t take long before Kessler approaches, ego leading the way. He plays his role well: the charming businessman, the man who has everything and still believes he deserves more.
She plays hers even better.
They talk. They flirt. He laughs too easily, a man who believes the world bends to his will. He asks where she’s from, and she feeds him a lie. He asks what she does, and she gives him a half-truth. She lets him believe he is the one in control, lets him think she is just another beautiful thing to add to his collection.
And then, when the moment is right, she touches his arm, leans in just enough for her breath to brush against his ear, and murmurs, “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
Fool.
She leads him through the corridors of the estate, moving past other guests with an ease born from experience. No one stops them. No one notices. It takes less than a minute to slip into an unoccupied room, a study lined with bookshelves and mahogany furniture. The door clicks shut behind them.
Kessler turns to her, smiling. “I was hoping we’d have some time alone.”
Natalia smiles back. “So was I.”
She moves fast. One step forward, one fluid motion — her hands glide up his chest, slow and deliberate. His breath hitches, his pulse quickening under her fingertips, but he doesn’t recognize the real danger.
Not until it’s too late.
In a blink, her grip tightens — one hand shoots up to clamp over his mouth, cutting off his startled grunt, while the other snakes around his throat. She forces him back against the bookshelf, his spine hitting the wood with a dull thud. The bourbon sloshes over the rim of his glass as he flails, confusion turning to panic.
Then comes the blade.
Sleek and thin, slipping from the slit of her dress, cold steel gleaming under the dim light. Kessler thrashes, but she’s already driving the knife up, quick and merciless.
The blade sinks between his ribs with a sickening, wet noise.
Kessler jerks, eyes going wide, pupils blown with terror. He tries to scream, but her hand muffles the sound. His body spasms as she twists the knife, the sharp edge slicing through flesh, muscle, lung. A choked gurgle escapes him as blood rises in his throat, bubbling over his lips.
She waits.
She holds him there, her grip unyielding, watching as his struggles weaken, as his limbs lose their strength. His fingers claw at her wrist, but there’s no real fight left in him. He slumps against her, the weight of his body sagging as his heartbeat slows, then falters, then—
Silence.
Natalia exhales, withdrawing the blade with a steady hand. A fresh bloom of blood spills down his silk shirt, pooling dark against the fabric. She steps back, letting his body slide down onto the polished wooden floor.
Blood pools beneath him.
The room is silent except for the steady drip of blood against the hardwood, each drop hitting the floor like a metronome counting down the seconds of her life. She crouches beside the body, wiping the blade against his suit, and it’s only then — only when she sees her own hands, the red staining her fingers, the warmth of life still clinging to her skin — that the nausea kicks in.
She hates this part.
The mess. The blood. The way it clings to her, seeping into the cracks of her skin like ink that will never wash away. She has killed more times than she can count, and yet it never gets easier. The Red Room conditioned her to see it as necessary, as survival, as a purpose. But the truth is, it is nothing but filth.
And she is drowning in it.
Leonard Kessler was not a good man. But neither is she.
She should feel nothing. That’s what they taught her. That’s what she should be by now — just a tool, a weapon with no conscience, no hesitation, no regret. But tonight, standing over the fresh corpse of a man whose sins will never absolve her own, she feels something worse than guilt.
She feels tired.
Tired of playing puppet for an empire that no longer exists. Tired of being a killer for men who hide behind false politics and wealth. Tired of the Red Room still having its claws in her, even when she pretends she is free.
If she had any sense, she would disappear. Take the easy way out, vanish like Fedorov tried to. He had failed, but maybe she wouldn’t; she’s good at what she does. Maybe she could find some quiet corner of the world where no one knew her name, where no one whispered Black Widow like a curse.
But the problem with ghosts is that they never truly rest.
Clint perches on the rooftop, still as a statue, eyes locked onto the grand estate below. The party is a swirling mass of excess — glittering dresses, sharp tuxedos, champagne flowing like water. It’s all a stage, and the people inside are playing their roles, blissfully unaware of the danger lurking among them.
His earpiece hums with intercepted chatter — security updates, drunken laughter, idle conversation. None of it matters. Not really. His focus is on her.
The Black Widow.
She moves like she belongs here, but Clint can tell the difference. There’s no indulgence in her posture, no wasted movement. Where the other guests try to be seen, she maneuvers through them like a shadow, letting attention skim past her without sticking. But Kessler notices her.
Of course, he does.
Clint watches the way she plays it — never too obvious, never too eager. She lets Kessler think he’s in control, leading him deeper into the web she’s spun. She tilts her chin at just the right angle, lets a hint of a smirk curl her lips, and Kessler takes the bait.
Clint follows from above as they move through the estate, silent on the rooftop. His vantage point is limited, but he doesn’t need a perfect view to understand what’s happening. She’s isolating him.
The room she leads him into is richly furnished, bookshelves lining the walls, a decanter of whiskey sitting untouched on a mahogany table. Private. Intimate. A perfect place for a man like Kessler to think he’s about to get something he wants.
Clint adjusts his position, training his sight on the sliver of space visible through the curtain. Kessler steps closer, and she doesn’t step back. He says something — Clint can’t hear the words, but he can see the arrogant tilt of the man’s head, the way he reaches for her.
She lets him get close.
Too close.
And then it happens.
Quick. Efficient. Ruthless.
There’s no hesitation in the way she moves — one moment, Kessler is breathing, and the next, he’s slumping against the bookshelf, fingers twitching at the knife embedded between his ribs. His lips part, eyes blown wide, a faint, choked sound escaping before his body gives out entirely.
She doesn’t watch him die. She’s already moving, yanking the knife free, wiping the blade clean against his expensive suit. There’s no satisfaction in her expression. No cruelty. Just cold, practiced precision.
And something else.
Something Clint can’t quite name.
She presses two fingers to her ear, murmuring in Russian. He catches only fragments of the transmission, but it’s enough. It’s done.
Then she exhales.
It’s small, almost imperceptible. Not relief. Not regret. Just… weight. A quiet, invisible burden settling into her shoulders.
Clint stays still, watching as she composes herself, as she smooths down her dress and straightens her posture. For a moment, she just stands there, fingers curling slightly at her sides. Then she turns, slipping out the door the same way she entered.
And Clint… Clint doesn’t move.
He could intercept her now. End this mission before it drags out any further.
But he doesn’t.
Because for the first time, he isn’t just looking at a target. He’s looking at someone who’s still breathing in a grave she hasn’t figured out how to climb out of yet.
And for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, he wants to see what she does next.