I lean back, arms folded, and let my mind stretch into the dangerous places. Maybe she’s a pawn—someone with debts, caught in a web, following orders for a chance to buy her freedom.
Or maybe she’s a player, the kind who could eat someone like Nikola alive and leave nothing but a thank-you note. The idea that I might be looking at a real adversary makes something spark behind my ribs, a pulse of danger I haven’t felt in too long.
“Find her.” My voice drops, harder than steel.
My men don’t even pause. They move, quick and silent, the way you do when there’s no room for debate. They know that tone. There’s no margin for error. Nikola’s safety isn’t negotiable.
I remain behind, staring at her photo on the biggest monitor in the room. Suzy’s face, still and unreadable, fills the screen.
Her eyes are wide, mouth relaxed, posture all nerves and grace—but I know better now. She’s not nervous. She’s not here by accident. She’s not afraid.
My mind races: who trained her, who hired her, what the hell does she want? I plan out the next moves: tail her, tap her phone, lean on the building manager for entry, run her face through off-book channels. I want her followed until I can taste the air she breathes.
Under all of it, a wire tightens in my chest—not just tension, but something sharp and electric. She’s a threat. Not just to Nikola, not just to my family, but to me—my order, my control. I don’t like surprises. I don’t like ghosts in my city, but this girl… she might be the most interesting thing I’ve seen in years.
I tap the screen, the glass cold under my finger. “Let’s see what you’re really made of, Suzy.”
Chapter Three - Suzy
Smoke coils in the beams of the green glass desk lamp, thick enough to sting my eyes before I even step fully into the room.
My father doesn’t look up—not at first. The scent of his cigarettes is familiar, woven into my childhood the way other girls remember warm bread or new paint.
My pulse is a slow hammer in my chest. The air in here is dense with old money and old power, both things I’ve spent years learning to move through like water, never leaving a ripple.
I stand, silent, waiting for permission to exist in his world. After everything I did tonight, I thought maybe I’d earned more than that.
He glances up, ledger open beneath his ringed hand. The lines of his face are sharper than usual, the deep grooves bracketing his mouth shadowed by the lamp. He marks a sum in his perfect script, then sets the pen down with a click that sounds final.
“You did good work, Suze.” His voice is warm, worn smooth from years of practice; affection and command are braided so tight I can barely breathe.
I swallow, waiting for something more. The words I want—the words I’ve spent all night rehearsing—jam at the back of my throat. I imagine him saying you’re ready. I imagine him saying you belong here.
Then he sighs, barely a flicker of pride crossing his eyes. “That’s enough. You’re not to get further involved.”
The words slap cold. I flinch before I can catch myself, and I hate that he sees it. The finality is gentle, but it burns sharper than anger. It’s the kind of gentleness he only useson things he plans to keep locked away: heirlooms, secrets, daughters.
He slides the ledger closed, steeples his hands, and for a moment I think he’ll explain—tell me why, tell me what I’ve done wrong, what rule I broke. Instead, he gives me a look I’ve only seen a few times before: after my first real job, when he checked my hands for blood and found none.
After my sixteenth birthday, when he made sure the car he gave me was armored. He loves me, but it’s the kind of love that’s always braced for loss.
“I mean it, Suze. You did well, but I want you out now. You’re not for this.” His tone brooks no argument, but there’s an ache at the edge of it—something soft that he’d never call fear.
I nod, lips pressing into the shape of a smile. I can fake this; I’ve had years of practice.
“Of course, Dad,” I say, and my voice is the one I use for teachers and strangers, smooth and careful. “Whatever you think best.”
He smiles back, pleased at my obedience, and I can see the moment he lets himself relax—work finished, problem solved, daughter safely returned to the glass case. I wonder if he ever imagines how sharp the glass could be, if someone ever leaned on it too hard.
When I leave his office, the house feels colder, emptier. I walk the corridor slow, let my mind drift—not forward, but back, the way it always does when I feel him slipping away from me.
Two lives, always running in parallel. My mother’s world: all white teeth and red lips, camera flashes, the scent of perfume and hotel sheets. She told me, over and over, that I was destined for light, for things that sparkled and never stained. Magazine covers, glass awards, gallery openings.
When I was small she’d smooth my hair and tell me I’d thank her someday for keeping me clean. I never knew if she meant safe, or just unsullied.
My father’s world: all steel and shadow, measured in lessons never written down. He taught me how to drive a stick before I learned to parallel park, taught me to shoot a pistol before I ever tried a lipstick.
I’d sit on the rug in his study, tracing the map of his scars, listening to stories he’d never tell anyone else. I didn’t have his name. Not legally, but I learned the one lesson he never said out loud—never let anyone see you bleed, especially not the people who claim they love you.
