Chapter 5 The Poisoned Kiss Truth

# Chapter 5: The Poisoned Kiss Truth

The Westbrook Theater had been grand once—an art deco palace with gilded ceilings and velvet seats. Now it stood as a decaying monument to forgotten glamour, its marquee dark, its lobby haunted by memories of applause long silenced. Perfect for Costa's theatrical sensibilities.

I entered alone as instructed, the Duchess's necklace cold against my throat. Dominic had taken position on the rooftop across the street, rifle trained on the theater's entrance—a last resort if things went sideways. Which, given my history with Costa, seemed inevitable.

The lobby lights flickered on as I crossed the threshold, illuminating faded murals of Greek muses and tarnished brass fixtures. A voice echoed from hidden speakers.

"Center stage, Valentina. Where you belong."

Costa. His accent thicker than I remembered, vowels stretched like taffy. I followed the sound through the empty auditorium, past rows of broken seats toward the illuminated stage. A single chair waited in the spotlight, facing an antique projector.

"Sit," the voice commanded.

I remained standing, scanning the shadows for movement. "I prefer to face my accusers, Marcus."

Laughter rippled through the darkness. "Always defiant. It's what made you special among my children."

"I was never your child." My hand moved to the small blade concealed in my sleeve. "Where are you?"

"Patience. First, your homecoming gift."

The projector whirred to life, casting flickering images onto a screen that descended from the ceiling. Home movies, grainy and sun-bleached: a little girl with my eyes playing in a garden; the same child blowing out birthday candles; a family picnic by a lake.

"Do you remember any of this?" Costa's voice asked, closer now.

I stared at the images, searching for emotional recognition, finding none. "Should I?"

"Your fifth birthday. Two weeks before the incident." He materialized from stage right, older than I remembered—hair silver at the temples, lines etched deeper around his eyes—but still carrying himself with the coiled readiness of a predator. "The last day Elena allowed me to film you."

"Elena Graves wasn't my mother," I said, the lie automatic. "You told me my mother died when I was an infant."

"A necessary fiction." He gestured to the chair. "Please, sit. This will be easier if you're comfortable."

"I doubt that." But I sat, keeping my hands visible while calculating the distance between us. Too far for the blade. I'd need to get closer.

Costa approached, his limp more pronounced than I remembered. "The necklace becomes you. A queen among thieves."

"Cut the flattery, Marcus. You didn't bring me here to reminisce about birthdays and jewelry."

He smiled thinly. "Direct as always." He produced a small remote and clicked it. The projection changed to clinical footage—a sterile room, medical equipment, a child strapped to a table. Me.

My stomach clenched. "What is this?"

"Your rebirth." He stood beside the projection, his face half-illuminated by the flickering images. "Elena Graves was pioneering neurological research for the government—memory manipulation, personality construction. Creating the perfect deep-cover operatives."

On screen, doctors in masks surrounded the child—me—attaching electrodes to my small head. I forced myself to watch without flinching.

"She refused to use children in her trials," Costa continued. "Until I persuaded her otherwise."

"You killed her family," I said flatly. "Kidnapped her daughter. Blackmail."

"Motivation," he corrected. "She would perfect her technique on you, or watch her son die next. A mother's love—so easily exploited."

The projection showed Elena now, her face haggard with exhaustion and grief, adjusting equipment with trembling hands. I recognized her from the photograph found with her remains.

"She worked for three years," Costa said, his voice taking on an almost reverential quality. "Creating in you what the government had spent billions failing to achieve—a clean-slate operative. Someone who could infiltrate organizations without triggering psychological screening, because your cover identity wasn't a cover at all. It was you."

"What was the target?" I asked, playing for time as I absorbed this horror. "Who was I supposed to infiltrate?"

"American intelligence, eventually. But Elena built in safeguards—triggers only she could activate. Her final act of defiance."

On screen, Elena was injecting something into my arm while I screamed silently behind a mask.

"When I discovered her sabotage, punishment was necessary." Costa sighed, as if disappointed by a child's poor grades. "She chose death over cooperation. Quite dramatically injected herself with the same compound she'd been using on you—one that preserves neural tissue for study. Died in minutes. Impressive commitment."

"So you put her on display," I said, disgust rising in my throat. "Like a trophy."

"Like a reminder. Of the price of betrayal." He moved closer, studying my face. "You look like her. I never noticed before."

I met his gaze steadily. "Why am I here, Marcus? You could have killed me at the mansion or had your men finish the job at the gala. Why this?" I gestured to the projection.

"Because you're still valuable." He produced a small device from his pocket—similar to a remote, but with a single red button. "Your programming remains intact. Elena's triggers were embedded in items she knew you would eventually seek out—her diary, the necklace, the map in your tattoo. Breadcrumbs leading you back to your true purpose."

My hand moved unconsciously to the Duchess's necklace. "And what is that purpose?"

"To finish what she started." Costa's smile chilled me. "You're not just a thief, Valentina. You're a weapon aimed at the heart of a system that would create children like you. Elena's revenge, patiently waiting to be activated."

The necklace suddenly felt heavier, its diamonds pressing against my throat like tiny knives. "The microchip."

"Contains the final activation sequence. Once triggered, your programming will override your constructed personality. The Viper will shed her skin, revealing the weapon beneath."

I laughed, the sound harsh in the empty theater. "And you expect me to believe you brought me here to... what? Activate me? Turn me against the government that approved my creation?"

"In part." Costa circled behind my chair, his voice dropping. "But first, there's the matter of your brother."

My pulse jumped. "I don't have a brother."

"Dominic Graves. FBI Special Agent. Currently aiming a rifle at this building from the rooftop across the street."

I kept my expression neutral despite the shock. How had he known?

"You think I wouldn't recognize him?" Costa laughed. "I've had him watched for years—the boy who escaped, who grew up to hunt me. When he started visiting you in prison, I knew it was only a matter of time before he figured out who you really were."

"You could have killed him," I said carefully. "Why didn't you?"

"The same reason I preserved you. Value." Costa moved back into my line of sight. "Your brother has spent his career building access and credibility within the FBI. Combined with your skills and Elena's programming, you two make the perfect infiltration team. Brother and sister, reunited in purpose."

"You're insane."

"I'm pragmatic." He extended the device toward me. "Press the button, activate your true self, and I'll share everything—the complete files on what was done to you, the identities of those who authorized it, and the location of Elena's backup research. Your birthright."

I stared at the device, mind racing. "And if I refuse?"

Costa shrugged. "Then the sniper I have positioned behind your brother takes his shot, and I activate you anyway. The choice is whether he lives to see what you become."

My fingers tightened around the concealed blade. "You're bluffing. You don't have a sniper."

He produced a phone, showing me a live feed of Dominic on the rooftop, the red dot of a laser sight dancing between his shoulder blades.

"Ten seconds to decide, Valentina." Costa's voice hardened. "Your programming or your brother's life."

I stood slowly, calculating angles and distances. "I want to see the files first."

"After activation."

"No." I took a deliberate step toward him. "You've lied to me my entire life, Marcus. Why start trusting you now?"

His eyes narrowed, but he reached into his jacket and withdrew a flash drive. "Everything is here. Activation first, then it's yours."

Five steps between us. I needed three.

"How do I know the activation won't simply erase me?" I took another step. "Turn me into your puppet?"

"Elena was many things, but she would never destroy her daughter's consciousness." Another step. "She built you to be autonomous—a weapon that chooses its targets."

I was within striking distance now. "And who would I choose, I wonder?"

Costa smiled. "We're about to find out."

In one fluid motion, I knocked the device from his hand and drove my blade toward his throat. He was faster than his age suggested, deflecting my arm and countering with a blow to my sternum that sent me staggering backward.

"I expected better from you," he said, disappointment evident. He retrieved the device from where it had fallen. "Perhaps you need motivation."

He pressed a button on his phone. On the rooftop across the street, the laser sight on Dominic's back steadied.

"Stop!" I gasped, my resolve fracturing. "I'll do it."

Costa lowered the phone. "Wise choice."

He tossed the activation device to me. I caught it reflexively, its weight insignificant compared to the decision it represented. Press the button, and I might lose myself to Elena's programming. Refuse, and I would certainly lose Dominic.

"Do it," Costa urged. "Become what you were meant to be."

My thumb hovered over the button as memories flooded back—not of my childhood with the Graves family, but of moments throughout my life when I'd felt disconnected from myself. Heists executed with precision I hadn't consciously trained for. Languages I somehow knew without studying. The instinctive understanding of security systems beyond what any self-taught thief should possess.

Had I ever truly been free? Or had I been following an invisible script, written in my neural pathways by a desperate mother trying to save what remained of her daughter?

"Valentina," Costa prompted. "Choose."

I looked up, meeting his gaze. "I already have."

I pressed the button.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then pain exploded behind my eyes—white-hot and all-consuming. I dropped to my knees, the theater spinning around me as memories cascaded through my consciousness. Not new memories, but old ones suddenly accessible—a hidden door flung open in my mind.

I remembered Elena—not as a corpse in a glass coffin, but as a mother who sang lullabies and checked for monsters under the bed. I remembered Dominic teaching me to ride a bike, my father's deep laugh, our home before the blood and screaming.

And I remembered Costa—younger, standing in our doorway with men holding guns. "Take the girl," he had ordered. "Kill the rest."

The pain subsided, leaving clarity in its wake. I rose slowly, feeling different yet fundamentally the same. The Viper was still me—the skills, the instincts, the determination. But now I understood their origin. Not Costa's training, but Elena's design. My mother had turned me into a weapon, yes—but one aimed at her killers, not their targets.

"How do you feel?" Costa asked, watching me carefully.

"Complete," I answered truthfully.

He smiled, satisfied. "Excellent. Your first assignment—"

"Is already decided." In one swift movement, I pulled the necklace from my throat and swung it like a garrote, the diamonds slicing into Costa's neck as I pulled it tight. "This is for my mother."

Blood welled around the diamonds as I increased pressure. Costa clawed at the necklace, his eyes bulging with shock and betrayal.

"You don't understand," he gasped. "The programming—"

"Worked exactly as designed." I leaned close to his ear. "Elena built me to dismantle the people who destroyed our family. Starting with you."

Understanding dawned in his eyes a moment before they glazed over. His body went limp, and I released the necklace, letting him crumple to the stage floor.

I retrieved the flash drive from his pocket and the phone that controlled his sniper. A quick text—"Target eliminated. Stand down."—would buy enough time for Dominic to relocate.

As I stood over Costa's body, I felt no triumph, only the weight of twenty years of manipulated existence. I had been a puppet with invisible strings—first Elena's, then Costa's. Now those strings were cut.

I activated the theater's ancient fire alarm, ensuring the body would be discovered, and slipped into the shadows as sirens began to wail in the distance. Dominic would be waiting at our rendezvous point, expecting a report on my confrontation with Costa.

I touched the spot where the necklace had rested against my skin. The activation had changed me, but not in the way Costa expected. I wasn't a mindless assassin or a sleeper agent awaiting commands. I was Valentina—both Graves and Costa, both victim and survivor.

But as I disappeared into the night, one question burned brighter than the rest: Now that I remembered who I was, could I ever trust the brother who had spent years hunting me? Or was he, too, part of a game more complex than either of us understood?

The diary Elena had hidden in her makeshift tomb might hold those answers. It was time to read my mother's final words.