The music pulsed through the private club, vibrating through the floor and into the bones of everyone inside. It was loud enough to rattle the crystal glasses on the table, but not loud enough to interfere with business.

Nothing ever interfered with business.

I sat back in my chair, my gaze drifting lazily over the crowd below. The VIP section had been cleared hours ago. Only a handful of men remained— men I trusted enough to sit at my table, men who understood exactly what it meant to be here.

A bottle of whiskey sat untouched in front of me.

Everyone else drank.

I didn’t.

I watched.

Observed.

Listened.

People revealed far more than they intended when they believed no one was paying attention.

Marco shifted in his seat across from me, loosening his tie like the night had suddenly grown too tight around his throat.

"The shipment issue is handled."

I gave a single nod, my eyes still on the crowd.

"The docks?"

"Secure."

"The accounts?"

"Already cleaned."

Efficient.

Expected.

For a moment, silence settled between us, thick and deliberate. Marco reached for his glass, taking a slow sip, but I could see it, the hesitation in the way his fingers tightened slightly around the crystal.

Something was coming.

"There’s something else," he said finally.

I didn’t look at him.

"Then say it."

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Marco didn’t hesitate. Not with me. Not unless it mattered.

"You’ve heard about her?"

That got my attention.

Slowly, I turned my head and looked at him.

The shift was subtle, but it was enough. The air between us tightened instantly, like a wire pulled too far.

Marco held my gaze, but there was caution there now.

Careful.

Measured.

"The girl who took over Moretti Global Holdings."

I said nothing.

Just watched him.

Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Marco exhaled quietly, as if weighing how far he could push this.

"They’re talking about her everywhere," he continued. "Board members, investors, politicians. Half the city is already placing bets on how long she’ll last."

My fingers brushed against the glass in front of me, but I didn’t pick it up yet.

"Six months," Marco added. "That’s the general consensus."

A faint smirk touched my lips.

Not amusement.

Not approval.

Something sharper.

"People talk too much."

Marco leaned forward slightly, studying me now instead of the room.

"You don’t agree?"

I finally picked up the glass, swirling the whiskey slowly, watching the liquid catch the dim light.

"The people celebrating her downfall," I said calmly, "are usually the ones who failed to see her coming."

Marco’s jaw tightened just enough for me to notice.

"And what do you think?" he pressed.

There it was.

The tension he’d been holding back.

I took a slow sip before answering, letting the silence stretch just long enough to remind him who controlled it.

"I think," I said, setting the glass down with deliberate precision, "that anyone who manages to sit at the top of that world at twenty-one isn’t something you dismiss."

Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Or someone you underestimate?"

I met his gaze fully now.

"That would be a mistake."

The words hung between us, heavier than anything said before.

Marco leaned back again, but the ease from earlier was gone. His fingers tapped once against the table, restless.

"You sound almost… interested."

A corner of my mouth lifted.

"Dangerous things tend to be."

He held my gaze for a second longer, as if trying to read something deeper, something I wasn’t offering.

Then he exhaled quietly.

I stood, adjusting the cuff of my black shirt, and every man at the table straightened instinctively. No one spoke. No one needed to.

My attention shifted back to the glass walls overlooking Manhattan.

Bright lights.

Endless towers.

A city full of ambition and arrogance.

Most people burned out before they ever mattered.

Whether she would be different…

That remained to be seen.

I didn’t make judgments without facts.

The sharp vibration of my phone cut through my thoughts.

I glanced at the screen.

Isabella Romano.

My sister.

One of the very few people in this world whose calls I didn’t ignore.

I answered.

"What is it?"

"Wow, not even a hello?" Isabella’s voice came through, light, teasing, completely unaffected by the fact that she was speaking to me.

I said nothing.

She sighed dramatically.

"Fine. Since you’re clearly thrilled to hear from me, I’ll get straight to the point."

I waited.

"I’m coming back from London."

My expression didn’t change.

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

A brief pause.

"And before you say no, I’m staying with you."

My jaw tightened slightly.

"For how long?"

"Two months. Maybe less if I find an apartment quickly."

"No."

"Too late," she shot back instantly. "My tickets are already booked."

I leaned against the glass wall, my gaze fixed on the city below.

"You should have asked first."

"You would have said no."

"Exactly."

"Which is why I didn’t ask."

Silence.

Most people would have backed down by now.

Isabella never did.

"I’ve been living in London for years," she continued. "I want my own place in New York, and until I find one, you’re stuck with me."

I closed my eyes briefly.

Not frustration.

Acceptance.

She had always been good at turning decisions into facts.

"I’ll have a room prepared."

A small, victorious laugh came through the line.

"See? That wasn’t so difficult."

"Don’t make me regret it."

"Love you too, Luca."

The line disconnected before I could respond.

I lowered the phone and slipped it back into my pocket.

The city remained the same beneath me.

Cold.

Relentless.

Unforgiving.

Exactly the way I preferred it.

Tomorrow, Isabella Romano would return to New York.

And whether I liked it or not, things were about to change.

Blackwater Point,

The old warehouse stood at the edge of Blackwater Point, a forgotten stretch of abandoned docks hidden far beyond the parts of New York that appeared on postcards and tourist maps. The city lights were visible in the distance, glowing like a different world altogether, but here there was only darkness, rusted metal, and silence. It was the kind of place people avoided instinctively, even if they had no idea why.

In the center of the warehouse, beneath a dim hanging light, sat a boy in his early twenties.

He was trembling and drenched in sweat despite the cold night air. Thick ropes dug into his wrists and ankles, securing him firmly to a metal chair. A black blindfold covered his eyes, forcing him to sit in complete darkness while his imagination tortured him far more effectively than any weapon ever could.

Minutes had passed.

Or maybe hours.

He had lost track.

Every distant creak of the warehouse made his body tense. Every gust of wind slipping through the broken windows made his heart jump. His breathing had become uneven long ago, and his throat felt dry from repeatedly asking the same question.

"Who's there?"

No one answered.

"Please... if this is about money, I can get it."

Still nothing.

The silence was far worse than threats.

At least threats gave a person hope.

Silence only gave them time to imagine the worst.

Then suddenly, the sound of heels echoed through the warehouse.

Sharp.

Steady.

Deliberate.

The boy instantly froze.

The footsteps weren't rushed. Whoever was approaching wasn't nervous, wasn't angry, and certainly wasn't afraid. The sound carried through the empty space with an unsettling confidence that made his stomach twist.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Each step felt louder than the last.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Until finally, the footsteps stopped directly in front of him.

The warehouse fell completely silent.

For several long seconds, nobody spoke.

The boy could feel someone's presence standing before him, studying him. The feeling alone was enough to make his pulse race uncontrollably.

Then a hand lifted slightly. A simple gesture.Nothing more.

One of the armed men standing nearby immediately stepped forward and removed the blindfold. The cloth fell away. The sudden light forced the boy to squint; his vision blurred for a moment before slowly focusing. The first thing he noticed was black heels, then the tailored black clothing. Then the expensive watch glinting beneath the warehouse light.

And finally—

Her face.

His entire body stiffened, for a second, he genuinely looked as though he had seen a ghost. His eyes widened so dramatically they almost seemed painful.

"You?" he blurted out. Shock flooded every feature, Disbelief followed. Then anger.

"You bitch—"

The slap landed before he could finish. The sharp crack echoed through the warehouse walls. His head snapped violently to the side, and a stunned silence followed. A thin stream of blood trickled from his nose, the men surrounding them didn't react.

Neither did she.

She simply stood there, completely unaffected, as though striking him had required no more effort than brushing dust from her sleeve.

The boy slowly turned his head back toward her, breathing heavily. For the first time, genuine fear appeared in his eyes. Because she wasn't angry, she wasn't screaming, she wasn't threatening him.

She looked calm.

And somehow, that was far more terrifying.

The mysterious woman stared at him quietly for a few moments, her expression impossible to read. There was no satisfaction in her eyes. No pity. No hesitation. Only cold indifference.

The kind that made a person feel less like a human being and more like a problem waiting to be solved.

"N-No..." he stammered, suddenly understanding that this situation was far worse than he had imagined. "Listen to me. Whatever you've heard, it isn't true." the boy cried.

She remained silent.

"I swear, I didn't mean—". His voice faltered when she took a single step closer.The confidence he had tried to hold onto shattered completely.

"Please," he whispered. His breathing became frantic." I'll pay you. I'll leave the city. I'll disappear. Just—"

A small smile touched her lips, not a warm smile, not a kind one. The sort of smile that appeared when a decision had already been made. Without responding to a single word, she turned away from him.

The movement was smooth and effortless, as though she had already grown bored of the conversation, then she looked toward one of her men. The warehouse immediately seemed to hold its breath.

"Kill him." she ordered, her voice was calm. Elegant. Terrifyingly casual.

The man nodded once.

But before she continued walking, she added one final sentence.

"Make sure he feels the same terror he once made that girl feel."

The words hit harder than any weapon. The boy's face drained of color. Pure panic exploded across his features. Whatever secret he thought was buried in the past had clearly been found.

And now it had come back for him.

"No!" he shouted desperately. "Please! Please, don't do this! I didn't—"

His voice dissolved into desperate pleading. Promises. Excuses. Tears. The woman ignored every single one of them. Without looking back even once, she continued walking toward the warehouse exit.

Outside, a sleek black car waited beneath the darkness, its engine running quietly. One of the guards stepped forward and opened the rear door. She slid inside without a word.

The door closed.

A second later, the car pulled away from the abandoned docks and disappeared into the night. Within moments, there was no sign it had ever been there. As if it had simply emerged from the darkness and returned to it again. As if she herself had been nothing more than a ghost.

But the terror she left behind was painfully real.