It was a sweltering summer night on Doulo Campus. The Macon apartment complex on the campus’s edge pulsed with music, thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol. It’s July 4th—though the exact date hardly mattered to anyone caught in the blur of heat and hedonism.

On the fourth floor, one apartment stood out. Its two balconies were crammed with bodies—laughing, drinking, swaying to the bass-heavy rhythm pounding from inside. Women in tight dresses leaned over the railing, tossing back shots, while men downed whatever liquor they could get their hands on. There were young men hitting on women and women taking their pick of the litter. A group of young women approached the building, giggling, their left wrists marked with purple bands—an unspoken invitation to the night’s chaos.

Across the street, a black Mustang pulled into the lot away from other cars. It’s clear this wasn’t like other Mustangs. The windows were tinted far beyond the legal limit, the glass so thick it might be bulletproof. There’s a fresh bullet hole in the license plate that reads: LUV 4 U. The engine cut off. A pause. Then the door swung open.

A single, smooth toned leg stepped onto the pavement—bare, toned, ending in a three-inch red heel that caught the streetlight just right. As the woman stood, the slit of her red dress parted, revealing the curve of her thigh… and the gleam of a knife holster.

She reached back into the car and pulled out her pink purse. A small fuzzy thing with a gold strap. She took a military grade serrated knife from it and slipped it into her hollister. She adjusted the weapon, securing it in place before straightening. The name was Mango.

She wasn’t here to party, but she was looking forward to a good time.

She was thin but curvy enough to make her red dress stretch in all the right ways. The shiny red dress was low cut at the top and had a slit up the side for easy access.

Short golden hair and emerald green eyes. The kind of face that’s worth thousands and has stolen the hearts of many more.

Before stepping away from the Mustang, she casually pulled out a tube of red lipstick from a small pink purse. A quick swipe across her lips. A glance in the side mirror. Oh yeah, she was hot!

Then she spotted them—the group of girls heading toward the apartment. Laughing. Carefree. Wristbands on their left arms.

Mango’s own wrist was bare. She rubbed it absentmindedly. She’d have to blend in.

Shaking the thought away, she followed them, somehow managing to move unnoticed in three-inch heels. This is a feat of course she had practiced over the many years. As they reached the entrance, she studied the group more closely—different hairstyles, different walks, but all of them marked by the purple band.

The lead girl knocked on the door.

It only took a moment before it swung open.

A young man, obviously drunk, stood in the doorway. Backwards cap, black Adidas tracksuit and a smell Mango could only assume was the cheapest cologne at Target. When he saw the women, a slow, sloppy grin spread across his face.

“Oh, what’s up, girls? I mean, ladies! Hey, Sarah,” he said, locking eyes with the one in front. “Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “We stopped by because, well, there’s nothing else to do.”

He smirked and gave a dumb bow as if he was a fancy butler. “I’m sure we can find a way to entertain you.”

He stepped aside, letting them in. Mango moved with them—until his hand came up, stopping her. He grabbed her kind of high, but she let him. Didn’t want to break any fingers just yet.

“Yo, I don’t know you,” he said. “Where’s your wristband?”

Mango didn’t hesitate. “I’m with them,” she said. Then, lowering her voice and patting him on his face, she spoke sternly. “And if you don’t want me telling people your party sucks because you’re turning away girls like me… I’d suggest you let me through.”

The guy chuckled, tipsy but not stupid. He turned his cap forward like he suddenly wanted to look respectable.

“Well, excuse me,” he said with a grin. “Why don’t you come right on in?”

Step one, Mango thought as she slipped inside. Easier than I expected.

As Mango walked past him, the drunk let out a whistle at the sight of her ass. Every muscle in her face wanted to twist into a snarl, but she forced a small, polite smile instead.

Inside, the apartment was exactly as loud and chaotic as she expected—flashing lights, pulsing bass, bodies grinding together in a blur of sweat and cheap perfume.

What she didn’t expect was how nice the place was. Not just expensive-looking, but actually expensive. No cheap knockoffs, no faux fur rugs or spray-painted Goodwill furniture pretending to be antique. Everything here was real. She had always heard rich kids went to this school, but was it really a college dorm? Whoever owned this place had serious money.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

And maybe a problem with keeping that money. The type of guy she would go after on a regular night.

Her fingers twitched with old instincts, her kleptomaniac side stirring in the back of her mind. She knew which drawer he kept the money in just by the look of the place. She needed a drink before she got distracted and let the demon out.

Then—salvation.

From across the room, people emerged from the kitchen with full cups of liquor. Mango made her way over, stretching onto her toes to see past the crowd.

She got closer and there it was. The most beautiful sight she’d ever seen at a party like this—an actual bartender. Not some drunk dude mixing vodka with whatever soda was left in the fridge, but a tan woman with dark hair in sweats standing behind a table stocked with real bottles.

Mango fell in line behind a couple already lost in each other, their bodies tangled even as they waited for drinks. Their lip smacking was loud enough to wake the dead. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the balcony—earlier packed with people, now mysteriously empty.

“Want anything?” the bartender asked.

Mango blinked back to the moment. “Uh, yeah. Got vodka?”

“Hard vodka?”

“The hardest.”

The bartender smirked. “We’ve got Touch. Straight from Tampa Bay.”

Mango’s eyes flickered with recognition. Touch vodka— American made in Florida, but a small private distillery. It was known for not giving hangovers as easily. Someone had connections. Or at least good taste.

For a second, she considered it. Then she caught herself. Wait. I can’t get too hammered.

She sighed. “Just a Corona.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Never seen you before.”

“I’m new in town,” Mango said, her voice smooth and practiced.

“Well, nice to meet you. I’m Lea.” The bartender slid a bottle across the table. “Need anything else, you let me know.”

Mango grabbed the beer, pressed the cap to the table’s edge, and slammed it down with a practiced flick. The top popped off cleanly, not a single bubble fizzing over. More so, without leaving a dent in the table.

Leia gave a smirk. “You’ve done that a couple times.”

“Years of experience,” Mango said, taking a sip before slipping back into the party.

As Mango moved through the crowd, she scanned the room, her body swaying just enough to blend in—half-dancing, half-hunting.

Then she saw him.

Across the room, sitting alone on a couch.

Tall, even seated. Dark skin. Shaved sides with thick dreads pulled back into a ponytail.

Just her type.

Like a hungry panther stalking its prey, she started toward him.

He wore an all-black suit, a red tie knotted tight at his throat in a double windsor. In his hand, a glass of dark liquor over ice—no plastic cup, no cheap beer. The kind of drink that signaled taste. Class. A man like this didn’t belong here.

So why was he?

Mango adjusted her dress, pushed up her bra, and closed the distance. Just as she was about to reach him—

Slip!

She stepped straight into a puddle of water.

Her heel slipped, her Corona flew from her hand, and in one horrifying second, the beer went cascading straight into his lap—splashing across his suit, his tie, even his face.

He shot to his feet, his glass falling out of his hand.

“The fuck?” he barked.

Mango hit the ground with a graceless thud. The music pounded on, too loud for anyone else to notice. That’s the thing about these parties. There’s so many people, it’s like no one’s even there.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, and for a moment her mind raced. Then she said, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

He ran a hand down his soaked shirt, fuming. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I—I didn’t mean to!” She scrambled up, reaching instinctively to pat his clothes dry—her hands brushing against his chest, his abs. Well, damn. This guy is toned.

“Are you okay?” she asked, tilting her head.

He exhaled sharply. “I’m wet.”

Mango bit back a smirk, scooping up her empty bottle. “Here, let me—” She pulled a few napkins from her purse and dabbed at his shirt, though it was clearly a lost cause. “God, I knew I should’ve worn the wedges.”

Something in his expression shifted. The anger faded, replaced with… indifference. Like she wasn’t even worth the energy to be mad.

“It’s fine,” he muttered.

“No, no,” Mango insisted. “Let me get you another drink.”

“Really, it’s—”

“I insist. Just stay right here.”

Before he could argue, she grabbed his glass and turned toward the kitchen, her lips curving into a sly grin.

“This is your target.”

She remembered the words from earlier that week.

***

An empty and dark warehouse. The kind of place you would only do bad things in. Dust swirling in the dim light. A bald man in dark shades slides a photo across the only table. A photo of the man she had just spilled her drink on. On the other side is Mango. But not like you know her. Across the table, Mango was wearing a tight black and gray body suit, toying with the silencer of her gun.

"This is your target," the man had said.

The name printed beneath the image was John Nero.

Mango shrugged. “Oh yeah? What’s the deal?”

Across from her, the bald man leaned forward. “I need him dead.”

“No shit.”

Flanking him were two tall men, both wearing dark shades. Muscle. The kind of guys who didn’t talk unless they had to. All three were dressed in street clothes, but it was obvious—they weren’t just hired help. They were the higher tough-guy types.

Mango picked up the photo, studying it.

He was cute. Very cute.

“John Nero. Black. 6’1. I need it done clean,” the bald man continued. “Fast. Discreet. They say you’re good at handling sensitive situations like this.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “No one can know about this. Do you understand?”

Mango smirked. “You don’t even know my name. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” She flicked the edge of the photo with her thumb. “It’ll get done—if the money’s right.”

The man snapped his fingers and one of his goons handed him a silver briefcase. He slid the silver suitcase across the table and popped it open.

Inside: stacks of crisp bills.

“Five hundred grand up front, like we agreed,” he said. “Other half when the job’s done.”

Mango smiled and put away the gun. After she checked it and was satisfied, she placed the photo of John neatly on top of the cash, then shut the suitcase with a soft click.

“It’s a shame to let such a man go to waste, but he’s too pretty a penny to pass up. Alright,” she said, standing. “Just one quick question.”

She met his gaze, her smirk widening.

“Any particular reason you want me to murder your brother?”