"Should we attack the Writhwood or target Miguel Writhwood himself?" Elias asked, his voice low and respectful in the quiet of Vittoria's cool bedroom. He stood stiffly in the middle of the room, his single good eye fixed on a point on the wall, deliberately avoiding the curtain shielding the bathroom. From within, the sound of running water and the faint clink of glass bottles carried, accompanied by the shadowy movement of Martha tending to Vittoria's injuries.
"This is my business, Elias," Vittoria replied, her voice sharp as it sliced through the air. "Focus on strengthening the Blood Circle like I asked you to. Nothing else."
Elias fell into a respectful silence before replying, "Yes, Miss." He didn't understand this new vendetta. In all his years working with Johnathan, managing the Blood Circle's legitimate fronts and shadowy dealings, the Writhwoods had always been peaceful and maintained their corporate space. They were bankers, innovators, and discreet financiers, not street brawlers or territory sharks. Miguel Writhwood, in particular, had always been a very simple, maybe too gentle figure at galas. This sudden, violent attack on him was confusing. Worse, the unthinkable had happened: Vittoria had lost to him. She had failed to harm him. The concept was so alien it shook the foundations of Elias's understanding of reality.
"And why are you still standing there?" Vittoria's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, laced with impatience.
He bowed deeply toward the curtain, a gesture of habit despite the fact that she couldn't see it. "I am sorry, Miss." He turned and exited the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. A profound, weary feeling settled in his chest as he walked away. Vittoria had grown so fierce, so formidable over the years, and seeing her always fighting and still managing to remain alive soothed his heart deeply. Her very existence was tied to a story so deep and dark it was buried beneath layers of blood and silence, a story Vittoria herself did not know. A story he and the few others who shared the truth prayed would never need to be spoken. He could only hope the fragile peace around the black circle could continue to hold.
Back in the room, the bathroom's steam carried the thick scent of antiseptic. Martha placed the final bottle back into the medical case, her movements final. As she turned to stand up, Vittoria's hand shot out, catching her wrist. Her grip was tight, squeezing with such sudden, fierce intensity that Martha winced, the bones in her wrist protesting.
"Don't ever try what you did today again," Vittoria said, her voice low and grating. "Do you know how badly you could have gotten hurt?"
Martha didn't pull away. Her calm, round face, so often a mask of passive obedience, set into stubborn lines. "But he would have killed you if I hadn't done so," she argued. It was a rare thing, but Martha only ever countered Vittoria on matters concerning Vittoria's own safety.
"Are you arguing with me?" The question was icy and threatening.
"I am sorry, Miss," Martha said, her tone firm, her gaze steady on Vittoria's furious face. "But I cannot heed that request. I would do it times without number, as long as it would save you." With that, she gently but firmly removed her wrist from Vittoria's grasp. She stood, gave a small, formal bow, and walked out of the bathroom, leaving Vittoria alone in the large, sunken tub.
Vittoria stared at the curtain, her jaw tight. Then her gaze dropped to the disturbed surface of the bathwater. Her reflection stared back: her famous, vibrant red Afro, now darkened and heavy with water, lay plastered against her scalp and neck. Her dark skin glistened under the lights like polished onyx, a canvas dotted with the pale, silvery signatures of old war: a knife slash along a rib and a bullet's graze on a shoulder. Her face, with its high cheekbones and severe elegance, was that of a warrior queen from an ancient story. But these things—beauty, scars, and reputation—were trivial, meaningless ornaments. The core of her world, the only things that held any weight, were three: the Blood Circle, herself, and Martha.
Martha. The persistent, silent force that had attached itself to Vittoria in childhood like a permanent glue. She had no family, or none that any of Vittoria's considerable resources had ever been able to unearth. The memory, sharp and clear, surfaced: Vittoria at nine years old, eager and vicious, on a "hunting" trip in a foreign jungle with some of her father's most hardened men. Her goal had been to bag a leopard, to present its pelt to Jonathan, and to earn a shred of approval. She hadn't seen the small, frail figure cowering in the bushes. Her shot, aimed with cold precision at the predator's heart, had been for glory, not to save anyone, but when she approached her prize, she found the girl by it, staring up at her with eyes that held a terrifying, absolute devotion.
"You saved me" had been Martha's first words, followed immediately by a deep, reverent bow.
Vittoria, confused and annoyed, had tried to explain it was a coincidence, a byproduct of her own ambition. Martha hadn't cared. From that moment, she became a shadow, promising to be Vittoria's shield until death. Jonathan, characteristically, had done nothing wrong about it; he simply didn't care, and slowly Vittoria's annoyance had slowly given way to a gruff, habitual acceptance. She became Vittoria's only companion all through growing up. Vittoria had clothed her, fed her, and given her the name 'Martha' when the girl claimed to have none. But Martha took her vow with a frightening seriousness. According to her story, she had been left in the wilderness as a small child, a blank slate with no past, and Vittoria had never stopped trying to find her roots, at least to help Martha know her family line, but to no avail. She had grown so attached to Martha over the years that she could die to protect Martha just like Martha would.
With a sudden, violent motion, Vittoria stood up, water sluicing from her body. She wrapped a thick, grey towel around herself. The heat of the bath had done nothing to warm the cold knot of purpose in her gut. The strange, unkillable Miguel Writhwood was a problem. And for every problem, there was a solution. She had work to do. There must be something, a weapon, a weakness that could kill him. She would find it, and she would use it.