Chapter 28: Silvana

Within minutes after the address, the agents were moved to an open field on the Bureau’s outskirts. Tents were raised in quick succession — khaki rows under the relentless sun, humming generators, and dust swirling through every breath. What used to be an empty stretch of training ground had turned into a living, breathing organism: cables snaked along the dirt like veins, shouts and orders crisscrossed the air, and the metallic tang of sweat and oil filled the wind.

They called it the Red Watch base one.

The Vatican representatives wasted no time. The agents were divided into three operational units:

Silvana led Investigation — intelligence, analysis, and case correlation.

Bam commanded SWAT — field enforcement, direct contact.

And Fenris was given a third, unnamed division — “specialized operations.” No details were provided, only that recruitment would be selective and “discretion mandatory.” Even the higher-ups avoided asking.

By the third hour, field drills had already begun.

“Agent Fleury!” a man shouted, voice cutting through the churn of bootsteps and orders.

“Sir!” came Fleury’s reply from within a jogging formation. He broke away from the line, sweat glinting on his dark skin, chest rising and falling fast.

“Control tent needs you,” the man said, already walking off.

Fleury wiped his face with a sleeve and started toward the tent. The air outside was blistering, every inhale a taste of dust and heat. Inside, it was the opposite — cold, humming, sharp with the scent of electronics and disinfectant.

Rows of computers blinked softly, wires spilling like dead snakes from tables to the dirt. And at the center, sitting with a jerky strip between her fingers and one leg crossed lazily over the desk, was Silvana.

“Hello, Adam,” she said, her tone smooth and casual, as if she’d been expecting him for hours. Her accent was faintly European — cool, deliberate.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” Fleury straightened, forcing professionalism into the words.

“Oh, please,” she said, lowering her legs from the desk. “No need for the formality. Call me by name.”

As she moved, the light caught her — black crop top under a tactical vest, khaki cargos tucked into matte combat boots. Her presence was effortless authority, like she didn’t need rank to own a room.

“Your case file just came in,” she continued, biting off another piece of jerky. “And it’s the most interesting one so far.”

Fleury stayed standing. “From what I’ve heard, it’s not that special. Same thing as the others — dead civilians, blood drained. Nothing new… ma’am.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Adam.” She looked up at him, the corner of her mouth curling. “May I call you Adam?”

“You already have,” he said.

“Good.” The smirk vanished for a fraction of a second — the temperature in the room seemed to drop, not from the air conditioner, but something colder, instinctive. “Then you’ll call me Silvana.”

He nodded. “Yes… Silvana.”

Her smirk returned, sharper now. “Good boy.”

He didn’t like that. Something in her tone — half amusement, half command — prickled under his skin.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the chair beside her.

Fleury sat. Her eyes followed him like she was studying something beneath his posture — something she recognized.

He began, voice steady.

“The homicides took place around three to four p.m. yesterday. Victims were Tyler Hagen, Jeffrey West, and Tyson Alfredson. All found drained of blood, bodies stuffed into a restroom compartment. There was evidence of a fight — Hagen likely initiated it, unaware his attacker was a vampire.” He hesitated on the word. “That’s the working theory.”

“You’re taking this rather well,” she said, leaning back slightly.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Most agents I’ve met can’t even say the word vampire without choking on it. Even some of the higher-ups after seeing one are still in doubt.”

Fleury gave a weak laugh. “Maybe I just don’t know how to react. Vampires, really? What’s next — Santa Claus? Werewolves? Monsters from Hotel Transylvania?” He exhaled a small, nervous chuckle. “Or maybe I just don’t know what’s real anymore. Maybe I’m just following orders.”

“Just following orders,” she echoed softly. “heard that before. It's how humans cope”

He looked at her then — really looked. “Is this real?” he asked, half in disbelief, half in quiet fear.

Silvana’s gaze didn’t waver. “Save that question for when you see one.”

He looked away. “Maybe we’re misunderstanding something,” he said, as though reasoning could undo what he’d heard. “Maybe it’s just a killer with a blood fetish. I mean… vampires aren't supposed walk in daylight, right? Maybe we’re just making myths out of things we don’t understand.”

Silvana smiled faintly — a predator’s amusement. “You’re right. Most can’t. But not all. There are few left in the shadows now, thanks to the Church’s purge. Fewer still who’ve managed to resist the sun. We call them purebloods.”

“Purebloods?” He frowned, the word heavy and strange.

She nodded. “You’ll receive documentation soon. Histories, classifications, recorded encounters. A thousand years of lore no one told you about.” Her tone shifted slightly — colder, authoritative. “But remember this, Adam: those who doubt usually die first.”

Something in the way she said it — calm, absolute — made his stomach tighten. It wasn’t a warning. It was a statement of fact.

Silvana’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then she said, “Anything else you want to add?”

He cleared his throat. “We found CCTV footage from the scene, but the suspect wasn’t identifiable. However…” He hesitated. “It seems the Mafia might be involved. One of the victims, Tyler Hagen, has family ties to the Gambino syndicate. And the suspect was seen with a woman — the daughter of another crime family. This could ignite something ugly or maybe it has already. Street war, maybe. Nobody moves like that unless they know they’ll win. Unless they have a secret weapon”

“Vampires and Mafia warfare,” Silvana mused, eyes half-lidded. “Before GTA Six even drops.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Never mind.” The smirk deepened. “What’s the girl’s name?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure that matters right now. The suspect—”

Her voice sliced through his. “Her name.”

Not a question — a command.

“Francesca Falcone,” he said after a beat.

“Thank you, Adam.” Silvana’s tone softened again, almost pleasant. “That’ll be all.”

Fleury stood, nodded, and turned for the exit. As the tent flap fell behind him, the cold air thinned, replaced by the hot wind and noise of the field. He exhaled, his pulse still unsteady.

Inside, Silvana leaned back in her chair, her smirk no longer playful but quietly dangerous.

“Oh, Lucian,” she murmured, eyes on the monitor. “You’ve dragged a poor girl into this.”