Jane was known in the neighborhood, though not in the way that brought respect or recognition. People knew her as the girl who cleaned, who cooked, who swept floors until they shined and scrubbed kitchens until her hands burned. She moved quietly through other people’s lives, restoring order to spaces she would never truly belong to.Some homeowners greeted her with polite distance. Others barely acknowledged her at all. A few spoke kindly, but kindness did not pay bills. At the end of each day, she gathered whatever she had earned—sometimes cash, sometimes leftovers, sometimes promises that never materialized—and carried it home like it was enough.Because it had to be.There was no one else.No safety net. No family to fall back on. No second chance waiting somewhere else.Just work.Just survival.By afternoon, her body would begin to ache—the dull, persistent kind of pain that settled into her bones. Still, she kept moving. There was always another house. Another floor to sweep. Another sink full of dishes. Rest was a luxury she couldn’t afford, and hope… hope was something she had quietly learned to live without.—Across town, far removed from the modest homes and worn-out routines, Madam Cynthia lived behind gates that rarely opened.Her world was controlled. Structured. Intentional.She was known, though never fully understood. People referred to her as a businesswoman, but the word felt incomplete, like it only told part of the story. Her connections ran deeper, darker—woven into something far more powerful than ordinary trade.She worked with a group known only in hushed tones as the Dog Men.

Jason Blackwell, the man who made titans piss themselves, felt something dangerously close to fear.Because Lily wasn’t just coming home.She was bringing Christmas.And Christmas, in the Blackwell household, had always been a weapon.He drained the whisky in one burning swallow, set the glass down with a sound like a judge’s gavel, and went to prepare for war.The city glittered below, oblivious.High above it, in a palace of ice and money and old ghosts, Jason Blackwell rolled up his sleeves (Brioni, $14,000, fuck it) and did something he hadn’t done since he was twenty-one.He waited.For the first time in eleven years, Jason Blackwell was not the most dangerous thing in the room.His little sister was coming home.And God help anyone who stood in her way.