FATAL CONTRACT

Chapter One: The Silver Dagger

The Su Syndicate fell in that car crash.

Before her father's body was even cold, creditors were beating at the door. The day men from Lucian delivered the marriage contract, Ava was staring blankly at the court's seizure notice. Sign, or watch her brother taken away — there was no third option.

The organ's last note fell, and someone gripped the back of her neck and shoved her half a step forward.

The red carpet sucked at her heels; the wine-red plush was stamped into two hollows. There were no guests below the stage — only men seated in black suits, each with a dark-red thorn brooch pinned at the collar, knees pressed straight together, hands resting on their thighs. No one applauded, no one whispered. The way they watched her climb the stage was exactly how an old pawnbroker eyes a jade bracelet with its string snapped — first the quality, then the price.

Ava had counted: twenty-one black suits, twenty-one thorn brooches. The missing one was at Lucian's collar. He did not wear it.

In the front row sat Lucian. No formal wear — a matte-black suit, tie knotted just below the Adam's apple, seamless. He was like a blade sheathed in its scabbard: you knew it was sharp, yet could not see where the edge lay.

The officiant read the vows. Ava heard not a word; her ears were full of the muffled rush of blood against her temples.

"I do," she heard herself answer. The voice floated, not like her own.

The ring slid onto her ring finger. Lucian took her hand; his palm was abnormally hot, his knuckles ridged with a thin callus — worn by years of gripping a gun, a kind of hand she had seen too many of in the hall.

"Look up," he said.

Ava raised her eyes. He looked down at her, pupils black and bottomless, his face holding none of what a bridegroom should — blank, as if she did not exist.

The ceremony disbanded faster than it began. No wedding banquet, no bouquet toss. Bodyguards closed in from both sides and led them toward the private hall on the second floor.

The corridor was long. Sconces threw their two shadows onto the wall, now long, now short. Lucian walked ahead, not fast, and she had to half-run to keep up. Her heels struck the tiles; the echo was swallowed halfway by the sound-absorbing walls.

He stopped suddenly and drew a dagger from his inner pocket. A silver-white blade, its handle wound with black cord, a line of indecipherable Latin etched at its root.

"Take it," he said, offering it. "For defense."

Ava did not move. He pressed the dagger straight into her palm; his fingertips brushed the inside of her wrist, leaving a coldness sharper than the room's air conditioning.

He lifted a hand to adjust his cuff, casually, and the cuff slid up a notch.

Ava saw on the inside of his left wrist a small dark-red tattoo. Thorns coiled into a knot, each barb distinct, glowing dark red under the light.

She stared for a moment. At her father's funeral it had rained; someone had reached a left arm past her right shoulder to hand her an umbrella — the arm angled, the wrist turned inward, its inner side facing up, and there too was a stretch of dark red, square in her eyes. One rib of the umbrella was broken, so it always sagged to one side when opened. The umbrella was delivered only to her right side before the grip went slack, the fingers loosely circling the handle, the person never stepping around to her front — she never saw that face; she took the umbrella, and the person was gone.

Marks on gang members were nothing strange; among her father's old men, tattoos were everywhere. She looked away and tightened her grip on the dagger.

"Remember the rules," Lucian lowered his hand, his voice flat as if reading a contract. "Be a proper wife. Mind your own business. Or I'll snap your neck myself."

Ava's nails dug into her palm, a fine pain spreading under the skin. She said nothing, and tucked the dagger deeper into the fold of her skirt.

He turned and walked on. She followed, her heartbeat hammering her ribs, each beat heavier than the last.

The door of the private hall closed behind them. Lucian had wine brought in — two glasses, an amber liquid, beads of condensation on the glass.

"To you," he raised a glass, not touching hers.

Ava lifted her own and pretended to sip. The wine was sweet, with a sour edge that burned going down; her stomach turned, and she swallowed hard.

The toast turned her sideways. In that tilt, her peripheral vision caught the edge of Lucian's open inner pocket, where a corner of paper showed.

On the paper was a photograph.

Her father's face.

Ava's breath caught. Beneath the photo was a line of printed type; she caught only the front of one word before it ran into the fold: INVESTIGA—

Lucian set his glass down and turned to her. "The wine not to your taste?"

Ava set her glass on the table, her knuckles white. "Quite good," she said.

He looked at her for two seconds, then turned and walked to the window, his back to her, fingertips tapping the frame.

The chance was only this instant.

Ava dropped her hand; her fingertips met the cold hilt of the silver dagger in the fold of her skirt. Her father had taught her: when taking something off another's body, the blade tip must be lighter than a breath.

She turned to reach for the wine bottle on the table, but her hand went for his inner pocket. The dagger slid from her sleeve; its tip caught the corner of the photograph peeking out, and with a flick of her wrist the paper left the fabric soundlessly and fell into her palm. Another sheet lay beneath; she left it — one more taken, one more flaw exposed.

The photograph rolled into a thin strip and was tucked into her bodice.

Lucian's tapping on the window stopped. He turned.

Ava slid her hand behind her back, her knuckles still pressing the cold blade. She looked up and met his eyes levelly, her face expressionless.

His gaze fell first on the hand behind her back — even through the fabric, the wrong tremor was visible. Then it lifted to her face.

"My wife," he said, "your hand is shaking."

Ava did not move. She clenched the hand behind her back tighter, willing the sound of her heartbeat against her ribs to stay from his ears.