Ron Donaldo: Rise Of The Apex Don

Chapter 6: The Assassin in Red

The rain in the city was relentless. It washed the streets, but it couldn't wash away the fear sweating off Marcus Thorne.

Marcus sat in his limousine, parked in a dark alley behind Sterling Tech. His hands were shaking as he held a burner phone to his ear. The dashboard clock read 11:42 PM. His empire was crumbling. His wife was panicked. Ron Donaldo was tearing his life apart, piece by piece.

"Is it done?" Marcus whispered into the phone.

A voice on the other end answered. It was a deep, scratchy voice that sounded like grinding gravel. "Not yet, Mr. Thorne. The target is elusive. He moves like a ghost."

"I don't care!" Marcus shouted, spitting on the leather seat. "I paid you half a million dollars! I want him dead! Not sued, not arrested—dead. Tonight!"

"We sent The Viper," the voice said calmly. "She never misses. If she is on the job, your problem is already solved."

Marcus hung up. He wiped his forehead. The Viper. He had heard the stories. She was the city’s most expensive hitman. A woman who killed with a smile. Marcus leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Goodbye, Ron," he muttered.

Five miles away, the atmosphere was very different.

"The Velvet Lounge" was a small, underground jazz bar. It was the kind of place where the lights were always dim and the air smelled of expensive cigars and old wood. A saxophone player stood in the corner, playing a slow, sad tune that drifted through the smoke like a ribbon.

Ron Donaldo sat at the end of the bar.

He was alone. He nursed a glass of amber whiskey, staring at the ice melting in the glass. To anyone watching, he looked like a businessman relaxing after a long day. He didn't look like a man who had just destroyed a board of directors. He didn't look like a man who was being hunted.

But Ron was never truly relaxing.

He saw everything. In the mirror behind the bar, he watched the door. He watched the bartender’s hands. He watched the reflections in the window.

The heavy wooden door opened. The wind from outside blew in, carrying the scent of rain.

A woman walked in.

The conversation in the bar stopped for a second. She was stunning. She wore a dress the color of fresh blood. It was tight, showing off a body that was athletic and dangerous. Her heels clicked sharply on the wooden floor. Her hair was dark, falling over one eye.

She didn't look around. She walked straight to the bar. She walked straight to Ron.

She sat on the stool next to him. She didn't look at him. She looked at the bartender.

"Vodka. Neat," she said. Her voice was smooth, like honey mixed with poison.

The bartender, a tough old man, looked nervous. He poured the drink quickly and stepped away to the other end of the bar. He sensed something bad was about to happen.

Ron didn't turn his head. He kept looking at his whiskey.

"You're wearing red," Ron said softly. "It's a bold color for a funeral."

The woman smiled. It was a sharp, predatory smile. She picked up her glass but didn't drink.

"It’s not my funeral, handsome," she replied.

She reached into her small clutch bag. Ron’s muscles tightened under his suit. He was ready to move. He could break her wrist before she pulled a gun. He calculated the distance, the angle, the force needed.

But she didn't pull out a gun.

She pulled out a single bullet. It was a sniper round, long and deadly. It was silver, with a hollow point.

She slid it across the polished wood of the bar. It spun slowly and stopped right next to Ron’s glass.

Clink.

Ron looked at the bullet. Then, he finally turned to look at her.

Her eyes were green. Intelligence burned behind them.

"Marcus Thorne pays well," the woman said. "Fifty thousand for the contract. Another fifty if I make it look like an accident."

"And?" Ron asked. His voice was level. "Why am I still breathing?"

The woman took a sip of her vodka. She turned on her stool to face him fully. The flirtatious look vanished. In its place was something else. Respect.

"My name is Theresa Voretti. They call me The Viper."

Ron nodded. "I know. You work for the Syndicate. You killed the District Attorney last year."

"You have a good memory," she said. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice. "Do you remember Block D? In the Pit?"

Ron paused. Block D was the worst sector of the prison. It was where they put the animals. The ones who couldn't be controlled.

"I remember," Ron said.

"My brother was in Block D," the woman whispered. Her eyes softened, just for a moment. "His name was Lucas. He was a kid. He didn't belong there. He got cornered by the Aryan Brotherhood in the showers. Three men with shanks."

Ron took a sip of his drink. "I remember Lucas. He had a stutter. Good kid. He liked to draw."

"You stepped in," the woman said intensely. "You didn't have to. You were the 'Apex'—you ran the place. You could have let him die. But you broke three arms and a jaw to save him. You paid for his protection for two years until he got parole."

Ron shrugged. "He didn't deserve to die in a cage."

The woman looked at the bullet on the counter. She reached out and covered it with her hand.

"That is why you are breathing," she said. "The Viper doesn't bite the hand that fed her family. I don't kill the Apex."

She stood up. The red dress flowed around her legs like liquid fire. She placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter for her drink.

"Go home, Viper," Ron said. "Tell Marcus you missed."

"I can't go home," she said. She looked at the door, her expression tightening. "And neither can you."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a warning," she said urgently. "Marcus is desperate, Ron. He didn't just hire me. He didn't trust a single assassin to get the job done. He wanted insurance."

She nodded toward the front window of the bar. Through the rain-streaked glass, the streetlights reflected off wet pavement.

"There is a black van parked across the street," she said. "Tactical team. Ex-mercenaries. They aren't here to talk. They are here to liquidate the asset."

Ron looked at the window. He didn't see the van, but he knew she was telling the truth. He could feel the eyes on him.

"How many?" Ron asked. He picked up the bullet she had left on the counter. He rolled it between his fingers.

"Six," she said. "Heavy armor. Automatic weapons. They are waiting for you to walk out that door. If you stay inside, they will come in and kill everyone."

She looked at him with genuine concern. "There is a back exit through the kitchen. I can provide covering fire. If we run now, we might make it to my car."

Ron finished his whiskey. He set the glass down gently.

He stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket. He adjusted his cuffs. He looked immaculate, calm, and utterly terrifying.

"Run?" Ron asked. A small, cold smile touched his lips.

"Ron, be serious," she hissed. "These are professionals. Six of them."

Ron turned toward the front door. He cracked his neck. Crack. Crack.

"You said six?" Ron asked, checking his watch. "That’s disappointing."

He began to walk toward the front door, toward the rain and the waiting death squad.

"Wait!" The Viper called out, reaching for her concealed pistol. "What are you doing?"

Ron paused with his hand on the brass handle of the door. He looked back at her. His eyes were not the eyes of a prey animal. They were the eyes of the dragon.

"I'm not running, Theresa," Ron said calmly. "I'm taking out the trash."

He pushed the door open.

"Only six?" he whispered into the wind. "I hope they brought backup."