Fox Hunt | Chapter 1
Summary: You are a shadow feared by the underworld. Precise, silent, and always deadly. As Nemesis, you’ve made a name for yourself as an assassin, and that’s exactly what brings you to this job in Tuscany. The only problem is that another top-tier killer has his sight set on the same target: Javier Peña, alias Jackal.
Warnings: mentioning of guns, other than that, none so far. Only a glimps of what enemies to lovers will be here... reader has a hair color for the intent of later changing it (assassin life, you know?)
wc: 3.3k
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Killing was easy. It was the imagination in between the killing that made the job hard.
Through the small crosshair scope the villa rose like a pale stone crown against the Tuscan dusk. Terracotta tiles caught the last of the sun, glowing as if lit from within. A road of cypress trees climbed the hill, long shadows stretching thin and blue across fields of gold - vineyards and olive groves sloping in lazy arcs to the valley below. The air shimmered with lingering heat, carrying the faint perfume of earth and citrus. Cicadas droned their mechanical hymn, a pulse beneath the softer music spilling from the courtyard.
It could have been a postcard. Wine, golden light, laughter drifting like silk through warm evening air. From your perch on a rooftop three buildings away, you almost let yourself imagine it that way - walking the marble steps in something light and impractical, sipping Chianti instead of adjusting your rifle.
Almost.
But imagining was dangerous. Soft edges got people killed. You reminded yourself of that as you adjusted the bipod and checked your sightlines.
Your position was perfect: high enough for distance, close enough for a clean escape across the rooftops. Three exit routes mapped and practiced - threads you could pull the moment the shot was fired.
The target was easy to find. Parties like these never hid their suns, drawing every orbiting guest close with gravity and heat. Through your scope, you found Lorenzo Vitale instantly: tall, lean, hair white as marble and combed back with the kind of intention meant to signal refinement instead of age. Midnight-blue suit, fitted like armor; his wife younger, in champagne silk, her laugh a practiced melody for people who mattered.
He was the kind of man who believed he owned the world he stepped on. People like you were paid to unmake him.
Your breathing stayed even, while your movements were slow and precise. Patience had kept you alive when better shooters ended up in shallow graves. It was why you'd taken this contract: one, clean, high-value payout. Enough to let you think - briefly, dangerously - that maybe you could stop after this one. Buy silence, something permanent, something that didn't leave you sleeping light, living like a ghost.
You didn't believe in forever. But sometimes, for a contract this good, long enough felt possible.
The rifle rested against your shoulder like an extension of yourself. You let your eye settle into the scope again, tracing angles, scanning for obstructions. One clean shot, that was all it would take. One squeeze, one breath, one heartbeat.
The party below was opulent but controlled. Strings played near the terrace, a singer's voice drifting faintly in Italian, warm as poured honey. Laughter rose and fell; champagne glasses chimed against fine crystal. Wealth on display, subtle, certain. You didn't care. Faces were data, targets were tasks, not lives.
Through your scope, you tracked the host and your target, greeting a guest, hand clasping hand, leaning in close. You adjusted with the smallest movement of your wrist. Crosshairs steady. Perfect.
For a flicker of a moment, you thought about how fragile it all was - how one breath, one bullet could erase decades of meticulous construction. Then you pushed the thought away. Thinking too hard invited hesitation. And hesitation killed.
Your earpiece was silent. Exactly how you liked it. No handler, no chatter. Tonight had been perfect.
Until -
A figure flickered at the edge of your scope, weaving through the crowd. Broad-shouldered, dark hair curling at the edges, posture loose but purposeful. And definitely not supposed to be there.
Your pulse hit a fraction faster. What the hell?
He held a glass of wine in his hand, like he belonged. Like he was just another guest. But something about him - too easy, too smooth - didn't fit. You adjusted your scope, recalibrating, following his movements across the terrace. Shifting weight, leaning, subtle steps - he moved with intent, but not like the host's guests. Every micro-motion said he wasn't just attending the party.
Then he turned, glanced toward the rooftops. In that instant, recognition sliced through your calm like a blade.
Jackal.
Your jaw tightened and your fingers flexed against the stock.
What the hell was he doing here?
For the first time tonight, you felt your control waver. He shouldn't be here. No one else should be here. Your meticulous evening, your perfect rhythm, had just fractured.
“What the fuck,” you muttered under your breath. The scope felt suddenly heavier in your hands and your evening felt a lot more complicated now.
Javier Peña didn't look like a man about to kill someone. That was the trick really - the thing that had kept him breathing long after men faster, stronger, and meaner were buried six feet under. He looked like he belonged anywhere: warm smile, half-lazy posture, gaze drifting over the room as if admiring the décor. A talent he hadn't been born with but honed, a con he wore like a second skin.
Tonight, in Tuscany, it looked effortless. Cream summer suit, top buttons undone, a glass of wine balanced in one hand. Each step unhurried, as if he were on vacation instead of hunting.
The courtyard smelled of jasmine and expensive perfume, night air wrapped in the hum of conversation and the soft lilt of a live quartet near the terrace. Candlelight flickered in tall glass lanterns, painting everything warmer, softer than it really was.
He smiled, utterly at ease, like he had nowhere better to be.
A waiter passed with a tray of canapés. He plucked one without breaking stride, flashing a grin that made the young server flush and mutter, “Prego, signore.” He popped it into his mouth casually, eyes scanning the room and mind already mapping: where the guards were stationed, which guests carried weight in their posture, where the host's eyes darted when he thought no one was watching.
His earpiece buzzed softly.
“You've got someone on the roof.”
Javier didn't change pace. Expression open, relaxed, one hand sliding into his pocket like the words were about the weather, not the first complication of the evening.
“Someone?” His voice was low and smooth, lazy drawl disguising interest as mild curiosity.
“Scoped. Professional. Judging by posture and gear… they're not here to people-watch,” came the reply. Darren, a freelancer he'd worked with before. Sharp-eyed, twitchy but reliable when it came to surprises.
Javier's gaze drifted toward the roofline, adjusting casually as he licked a crumb from his thumb. “Sniper?”
“Yeah. And… uh…” Darren hesitated, the edge of uncertainty creeping in. “It's a woman.”
Javier's brow lifted slightly. “That so?”
“Yeah… Moves like she's done this a thousand times,” He could hear Darren working his keyboard in the background, running a quick cross-reference with previous contracts and faces. “But… uh… wait a second. Just a sec - let me check the files… if this matches what I think…”
Javier tilted his head, taking a slow sip of wine as Darren worked. He watched the roofline, tracking the faint glint of a scope catching the last amber light.
Darren exhaled, a hint of awe creeping into his voice. “Okay… yeah. I think it's her. Sofia Renard. Goes by Nemesis.”
Javier let the words sink in, a slow smile tugging at his lips. The name whispered in backrooms and safehouses, carrying the chill of inevitability. A ghost, a rumor wrapped in precision. Most people didn't know what you looked like. He certainly didn't.
A quiet chuckle escaped him, more for himself than anyone else.
“Well, shit. This night just got interesting.”
The corners of his mouth curled into that effortless grin again, the one strangers trusted for no good reason. He moved forward, casual as a shadow, already considering what having you here might mean.
Through your scope, you caught the faintest shift of his head, subtle but unmistakable. He'd glanced up. Not enough to give himself away, but just enough to let you know he'd felt eyes on him.
Cocky bastard.
You narrowed one eye and recalculated your breathing, steadying the rifle against your shoulder. He couldn't know for certain you were here - not this fast. Not unless…
Your jaw tightened. Unless he had support.
You realigned the crosshairs on the host. One squeeze and this would be over, done, paid. You could disappear into the night and let the world keep spinning.
But the host shifted unexpectedly, body turning just as Javier Peña stepped into his orbit with a grin that could've sold prayers to atheists.
Your exhale turned sharp.
He wasn't there by accident. He was inserting himself - a charming, casual disruption. Javier moved like he owned the room, leaning in close to some assistant, a hand brushing an elbow, lips moving in an easy rhythm of banter. You couldn't hear it, but you could see it in the body language: the assistant leaning toward him, shifting the host slightly away from your shot.
Fine, you could modify. You shifted two degrees, adjusted your cheek weld.
The crosshairs touched the target's chest for half a second - and then Javier “accidentally” stepped between them, pausing to shake someone's hand, wine glass lifted as though he were making a toast to your inconvenience.
Your finger flexed uselessly against the trigger guard and you breathed out slowly. “Cute,” you muttered, voice low enough that no one but you would hear it.
A gap opened, and you shifted again, finding a line through the balcony rail. One squeeze -
but Javier moved again, steering the host into a conversation near the fountain, conveniently behind a trio of guests and a decorative marble column.
It became a rhythm: every time you adjusted, he moved. A shoulder shift here, a step into the host's path there, his body language fluid and loud, pulling eyes toward him and, in turn, the host along with it.
He was using his presence like a shield.
You tapped the stock with your finger, your jaw locked. You'd read the files on Jackal: adaptable, smooth, disarming. A man who made chaos look like choreography. This was what it looked like in real time, and it was infuriating.
You shifted again, scanning for a different angle - roofline to the east? Blocked by trees. A window reflection? Too unstable. You were running out of clean lines, and Javier was still talking, still laughing, still charming his way through your perfect setup like he was doing it for sport.
He thinks this is a game.
Your lips pressed into a thin line. For someone like you, jobs were clean. Efficient. A single line drawn from A to B, unbroken. But Javier Peña? He was the squiggle, the chaos factor you'd avoided your entire career.
You exhaled once more and made the decision before you even fully realized you were making it.
Long-range was dead tonight. You weren't going to sit up here, fighting for an angle he would ruin the second you found it. And you sure as hell weren't going to give up the payout.
But to do that, you'd have to adapt, too.
Fine.
If he wanted to play interference, then you'd shift the game entirely.
Close quarters.
Your eyes swept the villa once more as you knelt on the rooftop edge, studying guard rotations, service entrances, the slow turn of cameras. Javier had forced your hand, and for that alone you wanted to put a bullet near his feet when this was over, just to watch that damn grin falter.
But for now? For now, you needed to get inside and finish this job face-to-face.
Getting into the party wasn’t impossible; it was just inconvenient.
You crouched low on the roof’s edge, double-checked the latch on your conduit box, and slid your rifle inside, tucking it beneath a bundled canvas to muffle the metallic clink. You pulled the panel shut with a muted click, wiped a faint smear of dust off your gloves, and adjusted your jacket. The transition from sniper to infiltrator felt like shifting into a stranger’s skin - your rhythm changing from patient, slow-breath precision to the quick, deliberate pulse of improvisation.
You descended the fire escape silently, boots whispering against metal rungs. A warm breeze carried faint hints of lemon trees, cigars, and floral perfume clinging to the gathering. By the time your feet touched the ground, your mind was already several steps ahead, recalculating pathways and planning your new role.
The side entrance was guarded by two men in black suits, more posture than skill. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder near an arched gate, scanning casually, faces blank with the ease of those who’d never truly been tested. You adjusted the strap of your tablet bag - the universal symbol of invisibility: IT contractors, AV specialists, security consultants. People who went unnoticed unless they failed spectacularly.
One guard straightened slightly. His eyes flicked to the bag, to your professional-but-unassuming clothes.
“Badge?” he asked flatly.
You offered a neutral, corporate-friendly smile and pulled a slim pass from your pocket. The QR code gleamed under the light - a forgery crafted three days ago from schematics you’d lifted from an unsecured node.
The green light blinked once, and he handed it back. No follow-up, no eye check. People trusted tech more than instincts.
“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing past.
Inside, the villa was a different world. Warm light bounced off polished marble floors, chandeliers glinting like inverted constellations. Waiters floated through with trays of wine and delicate bites, each movement precise, rehearsed. Citrus and champagne mixed with perfume and the faint metallic scent of jewelry warmed against skin. Voices overlapped in a dozen languages, weaving the hum of power: people who owned, influenced, laughed as though the world bent naturally to their will.
You disliked crowds. They slowed exits, amplified noise, and introduced too many variables. But you moved through them like water, back straight, shoulders slightly forward, posture focused-but-harmless. Your eyes tracked cameras, mobile guards, and the soft clink of weapons beneath suit jackets.
Your brain filed everything fast: two choke points to the main hall, emergency exit behind the bar, balcony access left of the quartet. Peña’s last position - three o’clock, near the host.
The music shifted, a livelier rhythm resonating off the vaulted ceiling. Laughter burst nearby, sharp and bright. You suppressed a grimace. Wealth tried to pass as warmth, but it made your skin itch.
Near a high marble column, you pretended to scroll your tablet, mapping the quickest path to regain a line on the host without crossing Javier Peña. He was laughing at something the host said.
Your jaw ticked and you inhaled slowly, reset your pace, and walked deeper into the golden-lit crowd, every step deliberate, already plotting how to neutralize the human roadblock named Jackal.
Javier’s eyes caught you the moment you entered. Something about the way you moved, the calm authority in your posture, screamed professional.
Darren’s intel had been good, as usual - but Javier still needed to reconcile what he was seeing with the stories he’d heard.
Nemesis. A ghost, a rumor with teeth. And here you were, threading through the crowd like you were a shadow.
What he saw did not match up with the picture he had made up in his mind. Taller, broader, more imposing - an intimidating presence to match your reputation. Instead, you were lean lines and sharp angles, every movement precise and near to invisible. Tactical elegance wrapped in subtlety, understated but impossible to ignore once you noticed.
Your clothes reinforced the illusion: dark tailored jacket cropped to your form, simple trousers cut for freedom of movement, low boots that wouldn’t betray you if you ran. A soft gray shirt peeked beneath the jacket, collar neat, buttons done to the top. No jewelry except a slim watch.
Your hair, dark as polished walnut, was pulled into a sleek, low knot at your nape. Yet… there was something more.
You moved with certainty. Not the casual flow of someone at ease in a party, not the stiff caution of someone blending in. This was different - predatory. You threaded between guests without brushing a shoulder or drawing a glance, each step smooth, as if gliding through invisible gaps in the crowd.
Your eyes swept the room then moved on.
A slow, crooked grin tugged at Javier’s lips. Professional, he thought. The kind who walked into a nest of vipers with nothing but precision and expected to walk out alive.
He lifted his glass, sipping smoothly, eyes following you as you paused near a security checkpoint. Pulling a small tablet from your jacket, you swiped across it as if you were staff, running silent diagnostics. Nobody questioned you. Nobody even looked twice.
Except him.
“Darren,” he murmured, masking his interest behind the glass. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” Darren replied, voice edged with awe. “Congratulations, Peña. You’re looking at the reason half of Europe’s top hitters quit. That woman’s a ghost. Nobody sees her coming, nobody sees her leave.”
Javier’s grin widened. He watched you again.
“Well,” he whispered, “she’s adorable.”
“Javi -” Darren started, but it was too late.
Javier shifted into his easy, open rhythm, already testing how far he could push before you reacted.
He liked beautiful things.
Beautiful things with teeth? Those were his favorites.
You felt him before you saw him - like static in the air, a pressure along the edges of your awareness. Some people disappeared in a crowd. Others made themselves felt by force of personality. He was different. He didn’t push; he pulled. People glanced at him not because he demanded it, but because he moved as if it were inevitable.
Your jaw tightened even before his voice came in a low and warm tone, edged with amusement.
“You look a little out of place,” he teased, eyes glinting. “Rooftop’s more your style, isn’t it?”
You turned, gaze sharp as glass. Up close, Javier Peña was exactly as the whispers had promised: relaxed, maddeningly confident, warm-eyed but sharp. Dangerous, not with weapons, but with presence.
“Get out of my way,” you said, deadpan.
Both brows went up. His grin deepened, as if he was more amused rather than insulted. “I’m just saying… tactical chic?” His gaze slid down unapologetically to your jacket and boots, then back to your face. “Little hard to blend in at this kind of event.”
“Then stop staring.”
“Can’t help it. Big fan of your work.” He tilted the glass, eyes glinting over the rim. “Although tonight? Kinda sloppy so far.”
Your mouth tilted - a twitch of disdain, not a smile. “Funny, coming from someone who treats a contract like a cocktail party.”
He chuckled, leaning just enough to make it feel like conversation. “Some of us like to multitask.”
“Some of us like to finish the job,” you said, brushing past.
He pivoted with you, letting his presence stick like static cling.
“Hostile,” he murmured. “I like it. Your reputation doesn’t do you justice.”
You stopped, attention pricked - not by the compliment, but by the assessment. He knew you.
You turned just enough to meet his eyes. Flat and unimpressed you spat back the next words.
“You’re in my way, Jackal.”
And god, the way you said his alias - like you’d been waiting to use it - hit something primal. You’d done your homework.
“You know me.” His voice dropped with intrigue. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be.”
They held each other’s gaze, two professionals who measured and assessed too quickly to be fooled. He tilted his head catlike. “You’re prettier than I expected.”
You didn’t blink. “You’re louder than I expected.”
Your energy, wound tight like a blade balanced on its point, met his effortless charm. He laughed quietly, because you’d met him head-on without flinching.
You stepped past again, shoulder brushing air near him. “Enjoy the party,” you said, dry, final and without giving him another look.
“Oh, I intend to.” His grin never faltered as he watched your retreating form. Into his comm he murmured, “Yep. That’s Nemesis. And she hates me already.”
Next Chapter
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And with that: welcome to our new adventure! I can tell you, this is so much fun to write. If you couldn't tell up until now, I am a sssssuuuuucker for enemies to lovers and Sofia hates Javier with all her heart 🔪
I am looking forward to your thoughts and hope, this action packed romance thriller will keep you entertained. If you liked to be added to the taglist and not miss a new chapter every sunday let me know!
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