My father—Raymond Clark, the man who taught me to ride a bike and then pawned it for poker money enters my thoughts, unbidden. The man who held my hand at my mother’s funeral and then disappeared into a casino for three days. The man whose debts became my inheritance, whose failures became my chains.
I should hate him. Most days, I do.
But I also remember the man he was before. Before the gambling swallowed him whole. Before my mother’s medical bills broke his brain in a way that pills and therapy couldn’t fix. He used to make pancakes shaped like animals on Sunday mornings. He used to read me bedtime stories with different voices for every character. He used to be a father.
Now he’s a debt I’ll never finish paying.
I wipe my face, square my shoulders, and start planning.
Leone said Viktor believed I was innocent. That means Leone might believe it too. And if the right-hand man of this whole operation thinks I’m not the enemy, that’s leverage.
Leverage is how you survive in a world that wants you dead.
I look around my prison, the burgundy walls, the crystal decanter, the cameras watching my every breath, and I make myself a promise.
I will get out of here.
I will make them regret underestimating me.
And I will never, ever let another man decide my fate.
Tomorrow,I think, climbing into the ridiculous bed and pulling the cold sheets up to my chin.
Tomorrow, we play a different game.
Chapter Three: Leone
Theoldman’sstudysmells like cigars and old money.
I stand at attention in front of his desk, hands clasped behind my back, spine straight enough to pass military inspection. Aurelio Bonaccorso sits in his leather chair like a king on a throne, fingers steepled beneath his chin, steel-grey eyes fixed on my face. He hasn’t spoken in four minutes. I’ve been counting.
Behind me, the grandfather clock ticks. Each second feels like a small death.
“Viktor Sava,” Aurelio says finally. “Tell me.”
I keep my voice steady. “Mid-level runner for the Castillo’s. Handled courier logistics for their eastern routes. He’d been feeding them information on our warehouse schedules for approximately six weeks before we identified the leak.”
“And the woman?”
“Alexandra Clark. Twenty-six. No criminal record, no family connections to either organization. Her father, Raymond Clark, owes significant gambling debts across the city—Castillo-affiliated lenders among them. Viktor was using her as a courier without her knowledge of who she was actually working for.”
Aurelio’s fingers tap against the desk. Once. Twice. “So, she’s innocent.”
“Viktor confirmed it before he died. She didn’t know what she was carrying. Didn’t know who hired her. She thought she was paying off her father’s debts.”
“And you believe him?”
I hesitate. It’s a fraction of a second, barely perceptible, but Aurelio catches it. He catches everything.
“Yes,” I say. “I believe him.”
The old man leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. The lamp on his desk casts deep shadows across his face, making him look like a statue. He looks older tonight. Tired. The war is wearing on all of us, but Aurelio carries the weight of the entire empire on those narrow shoulders.
“The Castillo’s wanted her,” he says. Not a question.
“Badly enough to burn valuable assets trying to stop us from getting to her.”
“Which means she has value we don’t yet understand.”
