Chapter Text
The water on the canal sparkled in the dying light; everything was washed in golden-orange. You breathed into the saturated scarf around your neck and watched the gondolas pass by. Lovers, lost in each other. You observed with indifference. Pulling your jacket collar up over long blonde curls, you pushed away from the railing. Less than four hours until your next mission began.
Masks of all kinds filled the streets of Venice. It was Carnevale and the evening pulsed with energy. The piazza in front of the Palazzo Ducale was crowded with locals and tourists alike—all excited for the decadent events nightfall brought. You surveyed the balcony of the palazzo; a few of the staff were hurrying between doors. A man in a golden Bauta mask stared out at the crowd below him, framed perfectly by the gothic arches. Ludovico Mezzasalma: the host of tonight’s exclusive ball. An extremely affluent man; a ruthless man with a taste for dealing in blackmarket goods.
Someone jostled into your shoulder, interrupting you from your observations.
“Mi scusa, signorina.” The Italian was heavily mangled, almost by what sounded like a Scottish accent, but the masked man was already walking away. He was intensely focused on something.
“Non si preoccupi…” You followed the back of his black and green cape until he disappeared into the crowd. It could be nothing, but you always played it cautious on missions. Perhaps you weren’t the only one after Mezzasalma tonight.
The sun was nearly set, as you deftly maneuvered the crowds on your way back to your room. It was nondescript, through a quiet alleyway and on the second floor. You tossed your blonde curls onto the bed next to an elaborate outfit and scratched your temples; your choppy, black hair stuck out at funny angles.
You studied the litter of photographs of your target and the costume he would be wearing tonight, as well as the floorpan of the palazzo. Ludovico Mezzasalma was an older man, but quite handsome—with a strong Roman nose and a head full of wavy locks, streaked with grey. His outfit was equally as beautiful: a gold and black, aristocratic suit paired with a detailed, golden mask.
Tonight’s mission was a stray from your usual contracts. No killing; just a clean snatch of intel. Mezzasalma had the locations to multiple military-grade weapon caches on his person, and was supposed to make a handoff to his buyer tonight at the ball. You were hired to intercept the flash-drive before that happened.
Your employers were kind enough to do the heavy lifting and get you on the register as Nikoleta Phan, creating a lavish backstory to match. Tonight, you would play the part of just another unprincipled bitch, with unethical thoughts and looks to kill. It was exciting though—all the layers of deceit. Sure, you’d always had aliases for previous jobs, but never had to act in such an intimate role. All that was left for you to do was get the Italian alone and secure the data. Should be easy.
You had a list of potential ways to acquire the drive; all, of course, were up-close and personal. Admittedly, you felt exposed without the length of your sniper between you and the target. But maybe you'd chosen something outside your comfort zone because for the past year, you’d been trying to fill the vacancy left inside of you since Ghost departed San Francisco.
The three days you shared together made you a confused mess. You hardly departed the apartment as you fucked each other on every square inch of the place. It felt so right. He felt so right. Just two damaged pieces fitting together seamlessly. And Simon “Ghost” Riley filled you in ways you didn’t even know you needed to be filled. When he had you on the kitchen counter, or you had him on your living room floor.
That’s right, luv, he exhaled shakily, take what you need from me.
You bit and clawed and dug as you rode him into oblivion.
You wanted to fuse with him. Become something more intense than a supernova. His touches burned across your skin—when he left, he starved the fever he started inside you.
But then you sabotaged it—that delicate arrangement that you had. He asked you to join the 141. You gave an excuse. He wrote to you—sent little gifts occasionally, but you never replied. Blamed it on the lack of return address, or that you were too busy, even though you could have easily found his information yourself. Hell, you could have even called up Price; you had his number. Was thinking of you… The letters started to dwindle over the months. I’m sure you’re away on a mission… Until finally they stopped completely. Then the new year rolled around, and now you actually were busy. With this mission. Happy endings were never in the cards for people in your line of work.
You looked at the all-black Jaguar watch on your wrist—one of his gifts. Its leather band still smelled like him all these months later.
Two hours remaining.
You let out a long exhale. Focus.
Getting dressed was a production, from the decadent crimson costume to the curly auburn wig and lavish makeup, but you had to look the part. The ball was an invitation of a breadth of opulence throughout Europe and Asia—most of whom made their money with unclean hands. Miss Phan had to be short of perfect. Your fingers fumbled with the laces of the corset.
By the time you finished, your entire body was covered in splendor. Head-to-toe, adorned with dripping silks and emerald accents; your toned neckline and cleavage sparkled on display; your scars obscured by a few layers of foundation. There were plenty of hidden pockets throughout the costume too. You filled them with various substances for the mission. Tucking a small knife into the side of your boot, you covered it with your billowy pant leg. All that was left was the mask. It was a velvet, black Moretta mask, secured behind the head by a simple ribbon. The rim fell just below your nose, exposing your full scarlet lips but obscuring the rest of your facial features. Hopefully it would grab Mezzasalma’s attention—him being a man fond of the classics.
All your other possessions in the room were packed in a small duffle and stashed under the bed. You gave yourself one last glance-over in the mirror, then exited. The ancient door stuttered on your way out.