Family Secret

Chapter 1

The brass lock clicked open beneath Steele’s gloved hands in less than four seconds.

Sloppy craftsmanship. Predictable security.

He eased the door open and stepped into the manor’s library, boots silent against polished wood. The faint scent of pipe smoke lingered in the air, though the room itself was empty. His watch ticked softly, gears spinning inside its steel casing—a reminder that he had thirteen minutes before the patrol loop returned.

Plenty of time.

The safe sat across the room, a heavy iron box built into the wall. Steele crossed the distance in three measured strides, cataloging everything as he moved—the number of windows, the weight distribution of the chandelier overhead, the faint draft whispering from the fireplace. Escape routes, weapons, threats. All memorized, all stored.

The safe’s lock resisted longer than the door had, but not by much. A flick of his wrist sent the brass dial spinning, the sound muffled by a strip of cloth between his fingers. Click. Click. Done.

Inside lay blueprints, ledgers, coded correspondences. He slid them into a leather folder and closed the safe precisely as he had found it. No disturbance. No trace.

He was halfway back across the library when the door creaked open. A guard stepped in, eyes widening in recognition, mouth parting to shout—

Steele moved first. His hand clamped down over the man’s jaw, the other driving a brass-edged blade beneath his ribs. A clean insertion, angled upward. The guard gave a strangled gasp, then sagged against him. Steele lowered the body soundlessly onto the carpet, wiped the blade, and continued on.

No hesitation. No remorse. Just necessity.

Exfiltration was as simple as entry. Out the window, down the drainpipe, into the shadows of the cobblestone alley. His boots left no prints; his shadow left no name. By the time the patrol circled back, Steele was already gone, just another ghost swallowed by the city.

At the safehouse, he filed the stolen intelligence into its compartment. Every folder aligned with military precision, every weapon cleaned and returned to its exact place. Order in the chaos.

The comm-line buzzed. A red light blinked once, twice.

He answered.

“Kirsten Martin,” came the voice—smooth, calm, precise. His handler. “Report.”

“Mission complete.” His tone was flat, clipped.

A pause. The faint scratch of her pen. “Good. I have something different for you. A long-term infiltration.”

Different. Unusual.

Her voice never changed cadence, never betrayed emotion. “You will construct a cover family. It will serve as the foundation of your next assignment.”

Family. The word was foreign, rusted, alien in his mind. Steele gave the only answer he ever gave.

“Understood.”

The line went dead, leaving him in silence. For the first time that night, his reflection in the darkened window lingered longer than it should have. His jaw tightened. His hand curled, then relaxed.

This mission would be unlike any other.

The headquarters of the Order stood like an iron monolith on the edge of the capital. Its walls were smooth, seamless stone reinforced with steel veins, and its windows were mirrors that reflected the city back in warped fragments. No insignia marked its exterior. No banners flew. It didn’t need them. Everyone knew what it was.

Steele entered without hesitation, passing through security checkpoints where guards in black uniforms scanned his retinas and checked his weapons. Each step echoed on polished marble until the elevator swallowed him whole.

The top floor. Silent. Sterile.

Kirsten Martin was already waiting.

She sat behind a broad desk of glass and brass, her posture as straight as a blade, her red hair gleaming like fire beneath the sterile lights. Her expression, as always, was unreadable—calm, detached, a machine wrapped in flawless flesh. She motioned for him to sit, though she never bothered with pleasantries.

“Your next mission,” she said, sliding a thin folder across the desk. Her voice was smooth, steady, devoid of warmth. “A long-term infiltration. High priority.”

Steele sat, taking the folder. Inside was a photograph: a middle-aged man with dark skin, sharp features, and a politician’s smile. The caption beneath read: Cisco Monroe.

“One of the wealthiest men in the country,” Kirsten continued. “Publicly, a philanthropist. Privately, our intelligence suggests ties to the Resistance. We believe he is preparing to fund something significant—something that could alter the tide of this war.”

Her pale blue eyes locked onto his. “We need proof.”

Steele flipped the photo. Another image, this time of a young boy with neat dark hair and an arrogant tilt to his smile. Miguel Monroe.

“Cisco’s son attends Star Academy,” Kirsten said. “Prestigious. Elite. Miguel has been known to bring friends home—with parental supervision. It is the only viable point of entry into the Monroe estate. Their security measures make a direct infiltration impossible. Not even you could get through.”

Steele’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“You will construct a cover family,” Kirsten continued, her tone matter-of-fact. “A wife. A child. The child will be enrolled at Star Academy, and will befriend Miguel Monroe. Once you are invited into the Monroe residence, you will plant surveillance equipment and gather intelligence. This is the directive.”

The folder closed with a soft snap beneath his hand.

A family.

The word lingered, heavy, alien. Steele had never known one, never wanted one. He lived in shadows and silence, in weapons and orders. A family was weakness. A liability. Attachments slowed the hand that pulled the trigger.

And yet—

He leaned back in his chair, face unreadable. “And the cover identities?”

“Arrangements are being prepared,” Kirsten replied. “You’ll be provided with assets suited for the role. Their cooperation will not be optional.”

He gave a single nod. There was no point in protesting, no room for refusal. He was the blade the Order wielded. A blade did not question the hand that guided it.

Still, as he rose to leave, the thought clung to him like a splinter under the skin.

A wife. A child.

He could infiltrate fortresses, assassinate warlords, slip past a hundred guards unseen. But pretending to be something he had never been—something he could never imagine being—felt more daunting than any mission before.

Yet there was no hesitation in his steps as he left Kirsten’s office. The mission would be done.

It always was.

The quiet of his quarters was a stark contrast to Kirsten’s office. No pictures on the walls, no personal trinkets, no reminders of a life beyond his assignments. Just a desk, a bed, and the faint hum of the ventilation system.

Steele sat at the desk, the folder spread open before him. His eyes lingered on the first page—Cisco Monroe.

Born in the southern provinces, son of immigrants who worked the factories until their hands gave out. Cisco had clawed his way up from poverty, creating a trade empire from nothing. Investments in shipping, tech, pharmaceuticals. His fortune now measured in the hundreds of millions. To the public, he was the golden example of success—proof that anyone could rise if they were clever, ruthless, and ambitious enough.

But wealth had a way of hiding darker truths. And according to the Order’s intelligence, Cisco’s money wasn’t just propping up industries—it was feeding the Resistance.

Steele turned the page. Miguel Monroe.

Seven years old. Bright. Clever. Spoiled. Every report spoke of the boy’s arrogance, his tendency to lord his wealth over classmates, but also of his sharpness. He wasn’t merely intelligent—he was gifted. Teachers whispered that Miguel would one day surpass even his father’s achievements. That made him both a key and a potential weakness.

The boy’s school, Star Academy, was as much a fortress as it was an institution. Steele scanned the admissions criteria: rigorous testing, flawless scores, interviews with entire panels of educators. Only the best and brightest gained entrance. Discipline was strict, punishment swift. Mediocrity had no place within its walls.

Perfect for a cover.

But also a problem.

If Steele was to infiltrate the Monroe estate, he needed a child. Not just any child—one brilliant enough to pass the Academy’s gates, disciplined enough to hold the ruse, and flexible enough to pretend he had been Steele’s son all along.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Finding a child would be difficult enough. Finding one who could live a lie for years? Nearly impossible.

And then there was the wife.

His gaze drifted to the notes he had been scrawling across a blank sheet of paper.

Nate Atkins.

His cover name. A therapist—perfect. Late nights, emergency calls, explanations for absences. It would allow him to vanish when duty demanded.

Married once, years ago. His wife had died during childbirth, leaving him a single father. That story was efficient, airtight. It explained the absence of a mother in the child’s earliest years. Explained the emotional distance, should anyone notice it.

Then—remarried, just a year and a half ago. Enough time for people to believe in a new family, but not enough to require a long, fabricated history.

Simple. Clean. Believable.

Steele sat back, staring at the papers spread across the desk. Hours had slipped by without him realizing it, his meticulous hands arranging every lie into a seamless truth.

The story was perfect.

All he needed now was the right child. And the right woman.

Pieces on a board. Pawns to build the illusion.

He closed the folder and let silence settle over him. For the first time, the mission felt… heavier. Not because of its difficulty—he had faced worse. But because of what it demanded.

A family.

Even a false one.

And for Steele, that might be harder to build than breaking into any fortress.