The son thought he was clever. Whispering in corners, sending discreet messages, slipping into late-night meetings with men who smelled of smoke and blood. But cleverness had never been his strong suit—arrogance had. And arrogance made people sloppy.
She noticed the shift immediately. The sudden silence when she entered a room, the way some of his friends avoided her gaze, the hushed tones, and cut-off conversations. He thought he was pulling strings, but every string he tugged only tightened the net she was weaving around him.
One evening, when he left in a rush, claiming some fabricated errand, she followed—silent, sharp, her heels barely whispering against the ground. He never once turned around; so sure of himself, so consumed by his hunger for vengeance, he didn’t realize the predat
