Prologue

A/N: I didn't use this pov for the rest of the book. Enjoy 😊.

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Midnight, a gunshot, and a figure frozen in the shadows.

The sound echoes longer than necessary, vibrating through the marble floor and up into the soles of my shoes. I don't make a move. Neither do the men behind me. On the floor, the body does what bodies always do after the last breath—it goes slack, as if surprised the world kept going without it. Blood spreads with agonizing slowness, dark and viscous against the white stone.

A tilt of my head reveals a shadow near the far doorway. The figure is half-hidden by a decorative column. Thin. Standing too still.

Not running.

That's the first mistake.

The second mistake is breathing too quietly. I notice it anyway; the air in the room is too heavy for a ghost, and the rhythm of that frantic, suppressed inhalation is a beacon in the dark.

"Clear," one of my men says from the far side of the room.

I don't answer. My attention is already elsewhere, locked onto the sliver of fabric peeking from behind the pillar.

"Lock the room."

They obey. Windows and doors are sealed with the synchronized clicks of professional efficiency. My men retreat, clearing the space until only three things remain: the dead, the shadow, and me.

The silence that follows is sharp. I don't raise my voice.

"Come out."

The boy doesn't move.

That's the third mistake.

A hand slips into my coat, retrieving the gun with a motion that is deliberate rather than fast. It isn't a threat yet. It is merely a reminder of the reality we are standing in. I let the low light catch the slide of the weapon.

"I won't ask twice."

A pause. Then, the shadow steps forward.

He is younger than expected. Early twenties, perhaps. The clothes clinging to his frame are far too thin for the midnight chill. Scuffed toes on his shoes. No jewelry. No weapon. His hands are empty, offering no obvious way to protect himself from the violence currently decorating the floor.

But his eyes are steady.

That's the fourth mistake.

Most witnesses can't hold eye contact. They look at the blood. They look at the gun. They look at the door. They look for an escape root at the very least. But this one looks at me. He stops a few feet away from the corpse, measuring the distance like a surveyor, ensuring his soles don't touch the expanding crimson pool.

Smart.

"Name," I say.

The boy swallows. "Adrian."

Just that. No family name. No plea for mercy.

Interesting.

"How long were you standing there?"

"I didn't time it."

Honest. Or careful.

"Did you see his face?" I gesture toward the man on the floor.

"Yes."

"Did you hear what he said?"

"Yes."

"Repeat it."

A fraction of a second passes. He hesitates, but the fear doesn't break his voice.

"He said you were too young then to understand what you were inheriting," Adrian says.

I tilt my head. The accuracy is chilling.

"Anything else?"

"He asked if you'd sleep at night knowing you did this."

"And?"

"And you said you already don't."

The silence after that admission is heavier than the gunshot. I step closer, invading the space he's tried so carefully to curate. He doesn't back away. Up close, the tension in his jaw is a visible cord. His shoulders are held too straight, a mimicry of courage. He's afraid, certainly, but he is disciplined about it.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what happens to witnesses."

"Yes."

"Why aren't you begging?"

Adrian blinks once. The light from the hallway catches a spark of defiance in his pupils.

"I don't think it would help."

The answer comes too fast.

That's the fifth mistake. Or perhaps the first smart thing he's done tonight.

The gun rises to his chest again, the barrel centering over his heart. One pull and this ends exactly the way it should. The mess would be minimal. The secret would stay in the room.

Yet I hesitate.

Recognition keeps my finger off the trigger. It isn't mercy; I don't possess the capacity for it. It is the way he stands—already accepting the outcome, yet refusing to collapse into the inevitability of it. I've seen that posture before.

In mirrors.

"Who sent you?"

"No one."

"Wrong answer."

"I wasn't spying," he says, his voice gaining a desperate edge of pragmatism. "I was delivering food."

My gaze shifts to the paper bag resting near the column. Grease is already soaking through the bottom, turning the brown paper translucent. My mouth tightens.

"Continue."

"I took the wrong hallway. The elevator was blocked. I heard voices and stopped."

"And didn't turn around."

"I didn't know it was you."

That isn't better.

"Who do you work for?"

"A restaurant."

"Name it."

"Cat and Dogs All the Way."

I cringe inwardly. I recognize the name. It's a neutral ground establishment—no affiliations, no side-taking. It is cheap enough that men like mine never notice the delivery staff. He is telling the truth, which complicates matters.

"Do you have family?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"My mother."

"Anyone else?"

"No."

The information is filed away for future leverage.

"How much do you know about the families?"

"Enough to know which streets to avoid."

"Which family do you belong to?"

The boy's throat moves as he swallows hard. "I don't belong anywhere."

That is when the resemblance strikes me. It is subtle—a specific line in the cheekbone, the defiant set of the eyes. It isn't something obvious enough to get him claimed on the street, but it is enough that someone older would recognize the bloodline instantly.

"Your father," I say. "Who was he?"

His gaze sharpens, turning into a blade. "Someone who lives poorly."

Not wrong. But incomplete.

I lower the gun slightly, the weight of the weapon feeling different in my palm.

"Do you know why you're still alive?"

"Because you're deciding if killing me is worth it."

Sharp.

A smile touches my lips, though it doesn't reach my eyes. "You're alive because killing you would be inconvenient."

Adrian exhales. It is a slow, controlled release of air.

"What happens now?"

I study him. He hasn't tried to run. He hasn't screamed. He hasn't lied.

"I can't let you go."

His shoulders tense, the finality of the statement sinking in. "And you won't kill me..."

"Correct." I step past him, close enough that the wool of my coat brushes his arm. He stiffens but doesn't recoil. "Congratulations. You've become a problem."

He almost laughs. "Am I your hostage?"

"No."

"Your prisoner?"

"No."

"Then what am I?"

I stop at the door and glance back over my shoulder.

"You're under my protection," I say. "Which means you'll stay exactly where I can see you."

The doors open. My men look up, their faces reflecting visible surprise at the sight of the boy still breathing. I offer no explanation.

"Search him," I command. "Then bring him."

Adrian's jaw tightens as hands pat him down for weapons he doesn't have. He offers no resistance. As we walk down the corridor, a shift occurs in the air—a sense of gravity pulling us both into a new orbit.

I don't believe in fate. I believe in consequences.

And I've just chosen one.