Chapter One
Gabe
Snow turned the street into a blank page.The Grant house waited at the end of the cul-de-sac, bright windows throwing yellow across the driveway.Everything looked peaceful from a distance.From the inside, it wouldn’t stay that way.
I left my SUV where I always did, three blocks back.The walk gave me time to settle into the headspace I needed—not rage, not thrill, not dread.Just clarity.I already knew every porch light on this route, every sensor, every camera angle.Precision guaranteed survival.
Temperature dropped as I neared the house, but my mind didn’t register cold anymore.I focused on the driveway—Mercedes, sedan, crossover.All home.Good.
The door stood cracked open.My informant earned his payout.
Warm air rushed over me when I stepped into the foyer.Cinnamon and pine hit first, then slow instrumental music someone probably thought sounded classy.A towering Christmas tree filled the space, thousands of tiny lights blinking in rotation.Packaging for a happy family.Underneath, corruption.
My weapon rested under my coat, fitted for the job.My grip found the handle and stayed there while I walked.Hardwood muted under the runner, portraits lining both sides of the hall.Vacations, graduations, celebrations.The camera caught everyone smiling every time.Pictures lie.People lie.Actions don’t.
Movement in the living room doorway—Maxwell.
He recognized me right away.His hand loosened around a crystal glass, liquor splashing when it hit the floor.He looked like a man who thought he still had options.
“Gabriel...why are you here?”
A stall.He already knew.
He backed away when I drew the gun.“Listen.We can fix this.I’ll match whatever price—double.Triple.”
“Not money.”
A pulse flickered under the skin of his throat.“Then tell me what you want.”
“You crossed the wrong person.”
His focus darted to the stairs.Desperation replaced arrogance.“My family doesn’t deserve this.”
His voice shook.His hands trembled.He wanted to bargain, plead, negotiate.The powerful always assumed villains could be reasoned with.I wasn’t a villain.I was the correction.
“Turn around.”
“No—please—”
“Turn around.”
He didn’t obey.Maybe courage.Maybe cowardice.Either way, defiance ended the same.
I fired.
The suppressor reduced the sound to a short punch of air.His knees buckled.His body hit the floor hard.Blood spread fast over the runner, soaking deep.Warm color against polished wood.My attention tracked details—breathing, pulse, micro-movement.Nothing.
One target down.
I stepped over him and headed for the stairs.The job required precision, not emotion.Maxwell made decisions; consequences reached his family too.Real power didn’t show mercy.Mercy got people killed.
The second floor waited—three more names.
Snow kept falling outside.The world didn’t pause.Noon or midnight, holiday or not, actions paid out.Tonight wasn’t personal.
It was necessary.
The stairs groaned under my steps.I froze halfway up, listening for even the smallest shift.Nothing touched the silence except muted television noise from downstairs and the steady hum of the furnace.Christmas decorations lined the banister—fake pine, red velvet bows, precision and perfection meant for people who expected comfort.
