A/N: Agent 47 aka Dimitri, was Jonas's partner from the pervious book, The Amber Queen.

He should of known they were coming for him.

"You knew we were coming for you. Why didn't you run?"

He should've ran.

A sharp kick struck his bruised ribs, a groan leaving his bloody mouth, "Answer me!" his attacker demanded.

Dimitri glared at him through his good eye, the other already swollen shut, "Why fight?" he said, his voice hoarse, "You killed my partner. You ruined my cover at the CIA and you killed my family."

His attacker laughed, "Ah yes. You're the last of the powerful Romanov family." Dimitri hissed through his teeth at the mention of his family. "A royal family that met a tragic end," his father had said in a drunken night, the alcohol reviving nostalgic memories of Dimitri's grandmother who died when he was merely five. Anastasia was her name, the last royal to survive the tragic killings during the rebellion.

She could've taken the throne after the war but she fell in love with a soviet soldier who loved the peaceful countryside. But eventually happiness always ended, their peaceful lives were ruined when death rolled through the family. When he was two his grandfather died, at the age of five, his grandmother followed. And when Dimitri turned six his mother was tragically killed in an accident, breaking his poor father's heart. For Dimitri, everything went downhill from there. His father died from alcohol poisoning when he was ten, forcing him to live on the streets. He made friends, none of them a good influence.

A sharp punched to his bruised jaw bought him out of his past, bringing him to the present.

"Vladimir," someone said outside of his cell, "There is someone who is waiting to speak with the prisoner."

"We'll talk later," his attacker said with a huff, wiping away the sweat that accumulated on his forehead. He left, leaving Dimitri in the cold cell with his hands and feet bound tightly by rope that dug into his skin. Pain pulsed across Dimitri's body, every inch of himself sporting some kind of injury.

A groan left his lips, letting his head rest on the floor.

Dimitri knew his torturer. Blonde with cold green eyes, his Russian features giving him a rather rugged appearance and tattoos of the Russian mafia decorating his arms. Vladimir. A man Dimitri had grown up with, a constant competition between the too. They fought against each other, wanting to gain the favor of their mafia boss, Ian. While Vladimir used his fists to rise up the ranks, Dimitri used his mind. His focus was the KGB, a perfect way for the mafia to infiltrate the Russian government but opportunities arose and becoming a double agent in the CIA seemed much more appealing than a simple right hand for a mob boss.

That was his first mistake.

Betraying a mafia boss is something a dead man would want, but in that moment in his life, Dimitri was ambitious. A young man who had grown up in the slums of Moscow, whored on the streets for his pretty features but when he joined the mafia, for the first time he felt power. Power to destroy those who wronged him when he was a young boy and now, his ambition had grown to surpass the old childhood friend who now was his enemy.

His second mistake was when he became close friends with Agent 12. Blonde hair and green that always seemed to know what flitted through Dimitri's mind during their missions. Partners that always seemed to be in sync with Agent 12 protecting his left and Dimitri protecting 12's right. They knew so much of each other and yet so little.

His heart burned inside his chest, twisting when 12's smiling image flitted through his mind. He never knew his name, but he knew what made him laugh, what his favorite food was or the little tick in his jaw that he got when he grew nervous.

He loved him.

That was his third mistake.

Loving a man that would never return his feelings because he simply preferred a female. Even then, Dimitri would never see him again, for he was rotting away in the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. He loved a man who's last wish was to expose the corrupt director. A promise Dimitri couldn't fulfill.

Now he was stuck inside a cell with a single barred window. He needed to escape but even that seemed impossible. On the other side of the windowsill, waves crashed against the rocks below, the smell of the ocean providing a soothing memory for Dimitri. A memory he shared with 12.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" 12 murmured when he joined Dimitri's side. Dimitri stared at him, watching the serene expression on his handsome features. Green eyes that reminded him of forest that had inhabited his mother's home, a spray of faint freckles touching his tan cheeks. To Dimitri he was beautiful, he could've gotten a career in modeling if he wanted to, Well, he did go undercover once, he thought.

His own blue eyes shifted towards the sunset, the sky painted with hues of orange, reds and purples. A picturesque moment that would probably trend on Instagram if Dimitri actually had one, but even then, his pictures would probably be made up of him and 12. He could already think up a few captions, "Killing the Bastard in Tokyo," or "Setting someone's house of fire." A chuckle left his lips.

"What's so funny?" 12 had asked.

Dimitri smirked and playfully shoved 12's shoulder, "Nothing. Just your face."

"Did you know this castle once belonged to a Lord who tortured and killed his eight wives?" a familiar voice said. Dimitri glanced upwards, his good eyes widening in recognition of the Director's face. The man grinned, popping a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. His lips curled in disgust at the smell of tobacco smoke. He hated drugs, not because of the "Don't do Drugs" campaign, but simply the smell of it bought bad memories.

"What do you want?" He croaked, shifting so his battered body could rest against the wall and his good eyes could properly see the director against the dim lighting.

The Director paced in front of his cell, his posture confident and ready to take what only Dimitri could offer, "You're the last Romanov," the director murmured, "And I know dear granny Anastasia had left quite the inheritance to you and your father when she died."

Dimitri snorted, "Inheritance? If she had I wouldn't have lived in the streets when I was younger." The man frowned, his beady black eyes pondering on Dimitri's statement. A plan formulated in his mind, quickly twisting his hands within the ropes, loosening the binds the more his hands squirmed behind his back. If he couldn't expose the director, the least he could do was kill him.

It was suicide.

But he needed to do it. It was a promise he needed to fulfill at least in his own twisted way.

Devil. How fitting, Agent 12 had said on the fateful night. If only Agent 12 knew the true meaning behind the mask, a meaning of all the sins he had committed but was willing to redeem when he meet 12.

"Not that I would tell you where it is," Agent 47 goaded, a smirk on his cracked lips, his hands finally free from the ropes but nonetheless he kept them hidden behind his back.

The director smirked and turned to the guard who was standing beside his cell door, "Open it." The guard complied, opening the door, letting the aging director into the devil's lair. Dimitri knew that the director was one who could not be trifled with and he took precaution in that.

The man dark eyes glittered, his calloused fists clenching, "You know how much I love to torture my prisoners, you've been there," he turned to the guard, "Leave." The guard obeyed and walked down the hall, the sound of a door closing echoing down the corridor.

Oh he is making this too easy, he thought.

Dimitri's eyes raked over the man, a weapon glinting in his holster located at his pants, "Oh yeah I have," he smirked. Without a second thought, he launched himself at the director, using the ropes to wrap around the man's neck and pull him down.

The director gasped, hands trying to pry the rope from his throat but Dimitri held on, despite the searing pain in his arm.

Dimitri has always been a killer, his hands forever drenched with blood. He had gotten so used to it, he didn't bother to shed a tear when the light left the director's eyes. Instead, he smiled. His revenge on 12's death finally coming to a close.

He glanced out of his cell, no one in sight. He needed to escape the seaside castle before Vladimir returned with his mob boss. He undid the ropes around his ankles and grabbed the gun from the director's holster before stepping out of his cell, his bare feet touching the cold stone beneath him. The entire corridor seemed to be made up of cells, all of them empty. A loud noise brought him out of his trance, the sounds of a siren nearly making him deaf. He ran towards the window, an all too familiar weapon coming towards the castle.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath as he ran towards a much larger window, swinging his legs over the ledge, his feet dangling above the ocean waves that crashed against the rocks below.

For the first time in his life, he prayed. He prayed to whatever god that listened.

And just before the missile hit the castle, he let himself drop, the searing heat of the explosive fire burning his back. He cried out in pain but the scream was silenced when he crashed into the ocean.

The water swallowed him whole, his body colliding against the rocks, his head cracking against the stone, turning his vision dark.