Chapter 2 The Birthmark Storm

# Chapter 2: The Birthmark Storm

I woke to the sound of rain hammering against windows that weren't prison-issue. For a moment, the soft sheets and absence of fluorescent lighting disoriented me. Freedom felt like a fever dream after three years of concrete and steel.

My safe house in the warehouse district was sparse but functional—a ghost property registered to a shell corporation that even the FBI's forensic accountants couldn't trace back to me. The kind of place where neighbors minded their business and cash payments erased questions.

I stretched, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles used for something other than prison yard exercises. Yesterday's encounter with Dominic had been illuminating. The truth serum had confirmed what I'd suspected: his obsession with me went beyond professional duty. He was haunted, just as I was.

Rolling onto my stomach, I reached for the burner phone on the nightstand. No messages. Good. My network was staying quiet, just as instructed. After my release, silence was crucial until I could verify which of my old contacts were still loyal and which had been turned.

The Fremont Gala was eight days away. Plenty of time to set my plan in motion.

I slipped from the bed and padded to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. Three years had changed me—my cheekbones sharper, my eyes harder. Prison strips away pretense. What remained was pure survival instinct.

The snake tattoo curled around my collarbone, its ruby eyes seeming to follow my movements. Most people saw only an elaborate design, but hidden within the scales was a pattern that, under the right conditions, would project the map I needed. A dead woman's final gift.

My shower was interrupted by a sound no thief ever wants to hear—the subtle click of a lock being picked. I shut off the water, listening. One set of footsteps, heavy enough to be male. Professional—avoiding the creaky floorboard near the entrance that I'd deliberately loosened.

I wrapped myself in a towel and reached for the blade taped beneath the sink. Three potential escape routes: the bathroom window leading to the fire escape, the ventilation shaft behind the mirror, or directly through the intruder.

The bathroom door opened before I could decide.

"Breaking and entering is a crime, Agent Graves," I said, not bothering to cover myself more adequately. "Even for the FBI."

Dominic stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his coat onto my tile floor. His eyes tracked from the knife in my hand to the droplets of water sliding down my collarbone.

"So is identity theft," he replied, tossing a folder onto the counter. Inside were copies of the five different IDs I'd used to establish my new residence. "You've been busy for someone who's been out for less than twenty-four hours."

I smiled. "I had three years to plan. Did you expect me to waste time?"

His jaw tightened. The truth serum had worn off, but its effects lingered in the form of a headache, if the slight tension around his eyes was any indication.

"Get dressed," he ordered, turning to leave the bathroom. "We need to talk."

"So talk." I made no move to follow his instruction. "Or did you come here to watch me dress?"

He didn't take the bait, just closed the door with controlled precision. I listened to his footsteps move toward my kitchen, cabinets opening and closing. Making himself at home. Marking territory.

I dressed quickly—black jeans, a deep red blouse that complemented the viper tattoo. No point in hiding what he'd already seen. When I emerged, he was examining my meager possessions: a stack of books, a set of lock picks disguised as manicure tools, a bottle of expensive perfume that doubled as acid.

"How did you find me?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He sipped from a mug of coffee he'd apparently made himself. "You're good, Valentina, but I've been studying you for years. You always stay within five miles of your next target."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what's my next target?"

"The McClellan diamonds. Just like you hinted yesterday." He set down the mug. "But that's not why I'm here."

"No? Did you miss me already?" I moved to the kitchen, deliberately brushing past him to reach for a mug of my own. Playing with fire had always been my specialty.

Instead of backing away, he gripped my arm, turning it to expose the inside of my elbow where a small bruise marked yesterday's encounter. "You drugged me."

I met his gaze steadily. "Prove it."

His fingers tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might actually arrest me. Instead, he released my arm and reached into his coat, producing a syringe.

"What's that for?" I asked, tensing.

"DNA test."

I laughed, though my pulse quickened. "You need a warrant for that, Agent Graves."

"Not when the subject is on parole and suspected of violating the terms of release." His eyes held mine. "Either voluntarily provide a sample, or I take you in right now."

We both knew he was bluffing about the legal justification, but we also knew I couldn't afford to be taken in. My plans required freedom.

"Fine," I said, extending my arm. "But you're not using that rusty thing on me. I have clean needles in the bathroom."

He followed me closely, watching as I opened a medical kit hidden behind the toilet tank. Inside were supplies that would raise questions—surgical-grade tools, antibiotics, suture kits.

"Planning to perform surgery?" he asked dryly.

"In my line of work, hospitals ask too many questions." I handed him an individually wrapped syringe. "Use this."

He took it, but instead of drawing blood from my arm, he suddenly knelt and grabbed my ankle, pushing up my pant leg. The movement was so unexpected I didn't have time to react before he'd exposed the small rose-shaped birthmark on my right ankle.

The room seemed to freeze. His fingers traced the mark, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

"How long have you known?" I asked, my voice betraying nothing of the storm inside me.

"I suspected since your arrest." His eyes remained fixed on the birthmark. "But I needed proof."

With clinical efficiency, he swabbed my ankle and inserted the needle, drawing blood directly from a vein near the birthmark. The pain was sharp but brief.

"This is assault," I said evenly.

"Add it to my list of sins." He capped the syringe and stood, towering over me in the small bathroom. "Where did you get this birthmark, Valentina?"

"I was born with it. That's what birthmarks are."

His expression darkened. "Don't lie to me. Not about this."

"Why is a birthmark so important to the great Agent Graves? Running out of evidence for real crimes?"

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. He grabbed my shoulders, pushing me against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs.

"My sister had this exact birthmark," he said, his voice barely controlled. "She was taken twenty years ago. She'd be your age now."

I kept my expression neutral, even as my mind raced. "There are millions of birthmarks in the world, Agent Graves. Your obsession is making you see connections that don't exist."

He released me suddenly, as if burned. "We'll see what the DNA says."

"And if it doesn't match? Will you finally leave me alone?"

Instead of answering, he turned away, tucking the blood sample into his coat. "I'll be watching you, Valentina. Don't leave town."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I replied, following him to the door. "The Fremont Gala is in town, after all."

He paused in the doorway, rain still pouring outside. "Stay away from the gala."

"Or what? You'll arrest me for attending a public event?"

His expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Or I'll have to stop you. And neither of us wants that."

After he left, I locked the door and leaned against it, my heart hammering. The DNA test changed everything. I needed to accelerate my plans.

I moved to the bedroom closet, pushing aside hanging clothes to reveal a small safe embedded in the wall. Inside was a black velvet pouch containing a small vial of clear liquid—the catalyst needed to activate the projection in my tattoo. I'd been saving it for after the gala, but Dominic's DNA test forced my hand.

In the bathroom, I stripped off my blouse and applied the liquid to the snake tattoo, watching as the scales began to shimmer under the harsh fluorescent light. Slowly, lines of bioluminescent ink became visible, forming a pattern that only partially made sense—half a map, with coordinates leading to a location outside the city.

I needed a blacklight to see the rest. Fortunately, I had one hidden in my lock-picking kit.

Under the purple glow, the map revealed itself fully—a property in the mountains, once owned by the Costa family. My supposed family. The place where my mother had been murdered.

As I studied the map, memories flickered at the edges of my consciousness—a woman's laughter, the scent of roses, a music box playing a lullaby I could almost, but not quite, remember. Were they real memories or fabrications created from years of searching for my identity?

I was so absorbed in the projection that I almost missed the small red dot that appeared on my chest—a laser sight. Sniper.

I dropped to the floor as the window shattered, glass raining down where I'd been standing seconds before. Rolling toward the bed, I reached for the gun taped to the underside of the frame.

Two more shots splintered the headboard. Professional shooter, using a silencer. Not police—they would have announced themselves. This was someone who wanted me dead without witnesses.

I crawled to the bathroom, keeping low. The ventilation shaft was my only option now. I pried open the cover and hoisted myself inside, ignoring the scrape of metal against my skin.

As I navigated the narrow space, I heard my apartment door crash open. Multiple footsteps now. A team.

"Clear the bedroom," a muffled voice ordered. Not Dominic's voice. Someone else.

I froze, controlling my breathing. The shaft led to a rooftop exit, but moving would create noise. I had to wait until they checked the bathroom and moved on.

"She's not here," someone called. "Check the tracking device."

Tracking device? My mind raced. The blood sample. Dominic hadn't come for DNA—he'd planted a tracker.

Rage burned through me. He'd used my curiosity about the birthmark against me. The blood draw was just a cover.

I heard them moving toward the bathroom. No more time to wait. I crawled forward as quietly as possible, wincing at every small sound. Behind me, someone entered the bathroom.

"Ventilation shaft," a voice called. "She's in the vents!"

A shot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off metal inches from my feet. I moved faster, no longer caring about noise. The exit was just ahead—a grate leading to the rooftop. I kicked it open and emerged into the pouring rain.

Three buildings over, on a higher rooftop, I caught a glimpse of a figure watching through a scope. Not shooting, just observing. Even at this distance, I recognized the silhouette.

Dominic.

He'd sent a team to capture me, then positioned himself to watch. Testing me. Or perhaps ensuring I escaped?

I had no time to decipher his game. Sirens wailed in the distance. I ran across the rooftop, leapt to the adjacent building, and disappeared into the storm.

The birthmark, the DNA test, the attack—they were all connected. Dominic knew more than he was revealing. He'd recognized the birthmark instantly, which meant he'd been looking for it. Waiting for it.

As I climbed down a fire escape and melted into the crowded street below, one thought consumed me: if I was who he suspected—his long-lost sister—then who was I before I became Valentina Costa? And why had I been taken?

The rain washed away the catalyst on my skin, the map fading back into an ordinary tattoo. But the coordinates remained burned into my memory. My next destination was clear.

It was time to discover what secrets the Costa family estate held—and why someone had gone to such lengths to keep me from my past.