Blood And Valentine's

Assassins fall in love after a deadly Valentine’s hit.

Rafe D’ Cristo was currently rethinking his life as he stared at the body lying limp in front of him. He took in his current surroundings. The apartment he had broken into not ten minutes earlier, and wondered what this poor sop had done to be marked for assassination. Still, he had a job to do, yet, someone had beat him to that job. Now, he just wondered what he was going to do. He had bosses to answer to and they would want to know what happened.

Rafe began to have a conversation with the body that was once George Barnaby.

“What did I do to deserve this level of shit?”

The corpse offered no pearl of wisdom, which somehow felt rude.

With a sigh of resignation, Rafe made sure he left no evidence of his break in. The assassin had done a good job when they killed George; it seemed he was killed with a poison. Rafe could tell that by the purple swelling around the eye sockets.

Rafe wasn’t looking forward to talking with Kincaid, his handler, who would be pissed with the outcome of the hit. Still, that was far from Rafe’s mind as his thoughts were on something more human. Tomorrow was going to be February 14th, Valentine’s Day, and he was tired of not having someone to share the day with.

“Another year,” he muttered, checking his watch, “another reminder I’m professionally lethal and personally lonely.”

“You talk to your marks often?”

The voice came from behind him; calm, feminine, and laced with dry amusement.

Rafe froze. Slowly, deliberately, he turned.

A woman leaned casually against the doorway, a silenced pistol angled lazily in his direction. She had sharp eyes, dark hair pulled into a loose braid, and wore black tactical gear that somehow looked tailored. Her cheek bore a faint smear of crimson, either lipstick or blood; Rafe wasn’t sure which unsettled him more.

“Only when they’re rude enough to die before I arrive,” he replied.

She smirked. “George was never known for patience.”

“Neither are assassins,” Rafe said. “You want to explain why you’re pointing that at me?”

“Eliza Marconi,” she said, ignoring his question. “And you are?”

“Flattered you asked before shooting me.”

Her eyes sparkled with quiet excitement. “Depends on the answer.”

“Rafe D’ Cristo.”

Recognition flickered across her face. “Kincaid’s favorite contractor.”

“Used to be,” Rafe corrected. “You beat me to the punch.”

“I didn’t beat you,” Eliza said, stepping into the apartment. “I was hired three days earlier. You’re the redundancy hire.”

Rafe placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “That stings, darling.”

Eliza rolled her eyes, but lowered her weapon slightly. “Relax. If I planned to kill you, you’d already be reminiscing about your childhood while bleeding out.”

“Comforting.”

They stood in silence for a moment, studying one another with professional caution.

“So,” Rafe said, gesturing toward George’s body, “poison?”

“Experimental neurotoxin,” Eliza confirmed. “Fast, quiet, and aesthetically unpleasant. My client wanted certainty.”

“Clients always do.”

Rafe glanced toward the balcony doors. Snow drifted softly outside, city lights painting the sky in shades of muted red and amber. The scene felt strangely peaceful for a murder site.

“You ever think about quitting?” he asked suddenly.

Eliza raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold conversation starter over a corpse.”

“I’m serious. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day. I’ve spent more holidays cleaning blood off my boots than I can count.”

She studied him carefully. “You’re fishing.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe I’m tired of my dreams consisting entirely of exit routes and weapon maintenance.”

Eliza tilted her head. “You strike me as the type who’s never been adored.”

“That obvious?”

“Painfully.”

Rafe laughed softly. “What about you? Anyone waiting at home with chocolates and honeyed whispers?”

She snorted. “The last man who called me honey tried to plant a tracking device in my watch.”

“Romantic.”

“He was married,” she added dryly. “Not to me.”

They shared a brief, unexpected smile.

Rafe leaned against the wall. “You ever think about something...normal? Dinner reservations. Buying someone a ridiculous stuffed bear. Planning a surprise that doesn’t involve suppressors.”

Eliza hesitated, then sighed. “Once.”

“And?”

“I made a promised...well, Promised, technically. I misspelled it on a card,” she said with faint embarrassment. “It was supposed to say I’d leave the life after one last job.”

“What happened?”

“He didn’t wait,” she said quietly.

Rafe nodded, understanding settling between them like falling snow.

“You know,” he said, “we’re both here. Both breathing. That counts for something.”

Eliza studied him again, slower this time. “You’re either very brave or very stupid.”

“Those qualities often overlap.”

Another moment passed. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.

“We should leave,” she said.

“Together?” he asked.

“Temporarily,” she clarified.

They exited through the fire escape, descending into the cold February night. Their breath puffed into the air as they reached the alley.

“So,” Rafe said, hands tucked into his coat, “hypothetically speaking...if two assassins decided to take Valentine’s Day off, what would that look like?”

Eliza folded her arms, pretending to consider. “Hypothetically...it would involve public places, minimal surveillance, and food that isn’t microwaved.”

“I know a place,” Rafe said. “An out of the way Italian restaurant. Candlelight. Real silverware. A waiter who minds his business.”

“That sounds dangerously normal.”

“They have excellent red velvet cake,” he added.

Her lips twitched. “You’re bribing me with dessert?”

“And good company.”

Eliza stepped closer, studying his face as though searching for hidden angles or weapons. Her gaze softened almost imperceptibly.

“You’re serious,” she said.

“I am.”

“You’re terrible at first impressions, Rafe D’ Cristo,” she murmured.

“I’m hoping to improve.”

She exhaled slowly. “Dinner. That’s all.”

He grinned. “Of course.”

“And if this turns into a trap...”

“You can kill me,” he finished easily.

“Good.”

They began walking down the snow dusted sidewalk together.

“You realize,” Eliza said after a moment, “this might be the worst Valentine’s Day decision I’ve ever made.”

“Or the most special,” Rafe countered.

She glanced at him sideways. “Don’t push your luck, darling.”

“No luck involved,” he said, offering his arm. “Just hopes.”

She hesitated, then slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The simple gesture felt more intimate than any weapon drawn between them earlier.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you order heart-shaped pasta, I’m leaving.”

“Noted.”

“And no singing waiter's.”

“Agreed.”

They walked on, two killers stepping cautiously into something neither fully understood, yet both secretly craved, a chance at love, fragile and dangerous as the life they lived.

For the first time in years, Rafe didn’t feel quite so lonely.

And for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Eliza allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this strange night held the beginning of something worth fighting for.

~ ~ ~ ~

Snow fell in soft spirals over the city as Rafe D’ Cristo held open the door to Trattoria Bellanotte, a narrow Italian restaurant tucked between a closed florist shop and a pawn broker that specialized in stolen heirlooms and unspoken favors.

Warmth spilled out to greet them, carrying scents of garlic butter, rosemary, and simmering tomato sauce. Candlelight flickered across polished wood tables draped in white linen and small glass vases filled with single red roses.

Eliza Marconi paused at the entrance, scanning reflections in the windows, mirrored surfaces, and angles of exit routes before stepping inside.

“You always take women to places that look like honeymoon brochures?” she asked.

“Only when I’m hoping they don’t shoot me halfway through dinner,” Rafe replied.

“Bold strategy.”

The hostess smiled politely, unaware she was greeting two of the most efficient killers in the eastern network.

“Reservation for two?” she asked.

“Yes,” Rafe said smoothly. “Under D’ Cristo.”

They were seated near the back wall , one window, one hallway exit, kitchen access nearby. Rafe hadn’t chosen it by accident.

Eliza noticed.

“You picked the defensive triangle,” she said quietly once the hostess left.

“Old habits.”

She studied him across the table. Candlelight softened the sharp lines of her expression, revealing something younger beneath the professional detachment.

“You’re nervous,” she observed.

“I am on a Valentine dinner with another assassin,” he said. “That feels statistically dangerous.”

“Fair.”

The waiter approached, presenting menus and setting down water glasses. Rafe waited until he left before leaning forward slightly.

“Tell me something honest,” he said.

Eliza raised a brow.

“When was the last time you had dinner with someone who didn’t know how many ways you could kill them with cutlery?”

She paused.

“...Never.”

Rafe smiled faintly. “Well. That’s about to change.”

For a moment, the restaurant noise wrapped around them; laughter, clinking glasses, murmured conversation. Something normal. Something fragile.

Eliza traced the rim of her glass.

“I used to have dreams,” she admitted quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Not tactical ones. Real ones. Traveling. Owning a vineyard somewhere warm. Being...married.” The word sounded foreign on her tongue.

Rafe leaned back, studying her with surprising softness.

“You’d terrify vineyard tourists.”

“They’d be very well protected,” she said dryly.

The waiter returned and took their order. Rafe requested Veal Marsala. Eliza ordered Seafood Risotto.

“And a bottle of red,” Rafe added.

“Celebrating something?” the waiter asked.

Rafe glanced at Eliza.

“Possibly surviving dessert.”

The waiter laughed and left.

Eliza shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you haven’t left yet.”

Silence settled comfortably between them for the first time that evening.

Then Eliza’s posture shifted.

Barely noticeable. But Rafe saw it.

Her eyes flicked toward the front window. Toward the reflection of a man adjusting his coat sleeve, revealing the faint silver embroidery of a serpent coiled around a dagger.

Rafe felt the air change.

“How many?” he asked under his breath.

Eliza didn’t look at him. “At least four inside. More outside.”

Rafe cursed quietly. “Serpentine Syndicate?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

The Serpentine Syndicate wasn’t just a rival organization. They were execution purists; fanatics who believed assassination should remain an art untouched by personal attachments.

And they hated freelancers like Rafe.

More importantly...

They despised defectors like Eliza.

“You bring them with you?” Rafe murmured.

“I left them,” she corrected. “Apparently they disagree.”

A wineglass shattered near the bar.

The restaurant lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then died.

Screams erupted as emergency lighting bathed the room in dim crimson glow.

“Showtime,” Rafe muttered.

Two masked figures rose simultaneously from separate tables, drawing suppressed pistols. Another burst through the kitchen doors. A fourth blocked the main exit.

Eliza flipped the table between them in one smooth motion as gunfire erupted, splintering wood and exploding plates into porcelain shrapnel.

“Stay behind me,” Rafe said.

She gave him a look. “Absolutely not.”

She rolled sideways, drawing twin compact blades from hidden wrist sheaths and launching herself toward the nearest attacker. Her movements were fluid, precise, almost elegant as she deflected a gun arm and drove her blade into the man's collarbone.

Rafe overturned a chair, using it as cover while drawing his own suppressed pistol. Two quick shots; one to the kneecap, one to the throat, dropped a Syndicate operative advancing down the aisle.

Customers crawled toward exits, crying, scrambling over fallen chairs.

Another assassin vaulted over the bar, firing wildly.

“Eliza!” Rafe shouted.

She ducked, grabbed a fallen wine bottle, smashed it against the table edge, and hurled the jagged glass into the shooter’s face before finishing him with a spinning elbow strike that snapped his jaw sideways.

“You still think dessert was ambitious?” she called.

A heavy crash shook the front entrance as reinforced glass shattered inward.

More Syndicate agents flooded through.

“Okay,” Rafe said, reloading. “this might qualify as a surprise.”

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward the kitchen corridor.

“Back exit. Alley access.”

They sprinted through swinging doors as another volley of gunfire tore through the dining area behind them.

Kitchen staff scattered, ducking behind steel counters as the assassins moved like ghosts through steam and smoke.

An operative emerged from the freezer doorway, blade flashing.

Eliza intercepted him mid-stride, twisting his arm until bone cracked audibly. She disarmed him and finished the fight with brutal efficiency.

They burst into the alley just as black SUVs screeched around the corner.

“Down!” Rafe shouted.

Automatic gunfire shredded dumpsters and brickwork. They dove behind a delivery truck as bullets sparked against metal.

Eliza stopped and checked her person. She pulled a compact transmitter from her belt, crushing it beneath her heel.

“That was my last Syndicate tracker,” she said.

“Meaning?”

“They’re not just here to kill us.”

Rafe met her eyes.

“They’re here to make examples.”

A grappling line shot down from a rooftop across the alley. Two more Syndicate agents descended like spiders.

Rafe fired upward, clipping one. The second landed hard, charging with a curved combat blade.

Eliza met him head on. Steel rang against steel as their blades clashed, sparks flying in the falling snow. She twisted inside his guard, drove her knee into his ribs, and slammed his head into the truck door with a sickening crack.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

The SUVs peeled away. Remaining Syndicate operatives retreated into shadows with disciplined precision.

Silence fell except for their breathing.

Snow drifted through shattered glass and drifting steam from broken pipes.

Rafe leaned against the truck, exhaling slowly.

“Well,” he said, “that escalated quickly.”

Eliza wiped blood from her cheek, her hands trembling slightly, whether from adrenaline or something deeper, he couldn’t tell.

“They don’t stop,” she said quietly. “Not once they mark someone.”

Rafe studied her.

“Then I guess we stop running alone.”

She looked at him, startled.

“You realize staying near me paints a target on you.”

“You realize,” he replied, “they already shot up my dinner.”

Despite herself, she laughed; short, breathless, real.

“You’re insane.”

“Possibly,” he said. “But I meant what I said earlier.”

He stepped closer, hesitating only a fraction before gently brushing snow from her shoulder. His touch lingered, careful, uncertain… human.

“I don’t want to spend another Valentine’s Day surviving,” he said. “I want to spend one living. With someone who understands what survival costs.”

Eliza searched his face, measuring sincerity like she measured trajectories and threat angles.

“You’re asking me to partner with you?” she asked.

“I’m asking you to try,” he said. “Professionally. Personally. Both.”

Snow settled into her hair like scattered stars as she considered.

“The Syndicate won’t be the only ones after us,” she said finally. “Kincaid won’t tolerate divided loyalties. My former employers will want me dead. And if word spreads...every contract house from Prague to Hong Kong will test us.”

Rafe smiled slowly.

“Sounds like the start of a beautiful relationship.”

She stared at him.

Then, unexpectedly, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight, sudden hug. The gesture caught him completely off guard.

For a moment, he froze.

Then he returned it.

“Fine,” she whispered against his shoulder. “But if this ends badly, I reserve the right to haunt you.”

“Deal,” he murmured.

Word Count: 2489
Prompt: Write a Valentine tale that includes each word listed below.
Lonely, Cheek, Adored, Married, Love, Special, Reminiscing, Honey, Excitement, Darling
Hopes, Dreams, Valentine, Hug, Heart, Promised, Surprise, Red, Chocolates, Dinner.
Written for: "Valentine Tales Contest"