PROLOGUE
557 Words
“There are two kinds of people in this world. The ones who hold the knife… and the ones who bleed.”
—E.B.
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New York City glittered like a lie at midnight.
From the thirty-ninth floor of the Blackwell Estate, it looked almost innocent—streets pulsing with neon, wind slicing through the skyline like a blade. But Elena knew better. This city wasn’t alive. It was feeding. Breathing in the sins of the powerful and exhaling smoke through the cracks of the innocent.
She stood in front of the towering window, barefoot on cold marble, dressed in nothing but her father's silk robe. It still smelled like his cologne. Like wealth and war. Like a man who never apologized, even when the gun was pressed to his chest.
He died in that robe.
A bullet to the heart. Neat. Professional. No fingerprints. No signs of forced entry. Just a broken glass of bourbon beside his body and a single white playing card on the floor.
The Queen of Spades.
A message. One that no one in her family wanted to interpret out loud.
She hadn’t cried. Not at the funeral. Not when they lowered his casket into the ground. Not when the board members looked at her like a decorative heirloom, something to hang on the wall while the men whispered about what came next.
They all thought she’d break.
But the thing about a cage made of gold? It teaches you how to perform. And the Blackwell daughter? She had learned how to smile with a blade beneath her tongue.
A soft knock echoed behind her.
Elena didn’t turn.
“Come in.”
The door creaked, slow and deliberate. He always moved like that—silent, calculated. Like a predator that knew there was no need to rush.
“Still wearing his robe?” Rafael’s voice was deeper at night, like whiskey and unspoken things.
“It smells like loyalty,” she said. “Before it started rotting.”
She turned, finally, and there he was. All black—tailored suit, shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the edge of a tattoo on his collarbone. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his dark hair was slightly damp from the rain. Rafael De Luca didn’t look like a prince of crime tonight.
He looked like a man about to deliver bad news.
“You were right,” he said. “Your brother’s been making deals. With the Marcellos. Offshore accounts. Leaks in your security net. He’s already left the country.”
Elena didn’t blink. “So he ran.”
“No,” Rafael said. “He’s baiting you.”
Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak.
He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers.
“And he left something behind. Something that’ll burn this entire dynasty to the ground if the wrong hands get to it first.”
She tilted her head. “Do you have it?”
His silence was the answer.
“What do you want in return?” she asked quietly, though she already knew.
“You,” he said. One word. Absolute.
Not just her body. Not just her trust.
All of it.
And for the first time in a long time, Elena felt the edge of fear. Not because she didn’t want to give it.
Because she might.
- Writer
