Her blood, your end.

Chapter One.. Gladys "Just three more blocks," I muttered to myself, clutching my bag tighter against my ribs. The streetlights flickered overhead like dying fireflies. My heels clicked against the pavement, too loud, too sharp in the unnatural silence. Where was everyone? This neighborhood was never this empty, even at midnight. My phone buzzed. Dad's name lit up the screen. "Hey, I'm almost.." "Where are you?" His voice was sharp, urgent. Not like him. "Rosewood Avenue. I told you the meeting ran late. What's wrong?" "Listen to me very carefully, Gladys. Get somewhere public. Now. Don't go home. Don't.." The line went dead. My stomach dropped. I stopped walking, every muscle tensing. Dad didn't panic. Ever. He'd been a soldier before politics, and had taught me to trust my gut when something felt wrong. And right now, everything feels wrong. The street stretched empty ahead of me. Behind me, nothing but shadows and that awful quiet. No traffic. No voices from apartment windows. Even the usual stray cats were gone. Then I saw it. A black car. Sleek, expensive, parked under a broken streetlight about twenty feet ahead. Engine off. Windows tinted so dark they looked like holes cut into reality. My heart hammered. I knew that car didn't belong here. This was a working-class neighborhood, beat-up Hondas and rusted trucks, not luxury vehicles worth more than most people's houses. I'd seen that car before. Last week, parked outside Dad's campaign office. Three days ago, idling near my university. Dad's voice echoed in my head from a hundred training sessions: *When you know you're being hunted, you don't freeze. You act.* I turned on my heel and started walking the other way. Not running, not yet. Running triggers the chase. The car doors opened. Four of them. All in black suits that probably cost more than my semester tuition. Big men, the kind who broke bones professionally. They moved with purpose, spreading out to cut off my escape routes. "Gladys Moretti." The one in front spoke my name like he owned it. "Come with us. Make it easy." "Go to hell." I bolted. My heels hit the pavement hard, but I didn't dare stop to kick them off. I knew these streets, there was an all-night bodega two blocks east, a police station six blocks north if I could just— Footsteps thundered behind me. Fast. Too fast. A hand grabbed my jacket. I spun, remembering Dad's words: Eyes, throat, groin, hit what hurts. My nails raked across the man's face. He howled, stumbling back. Blood welled from four deep scratches. "You little.." I didn't wait. I kicked hard, my heel connecting with his shin. He went down cursing.But the others were already on me. I swung my bag like a weapon, felt it connect with someone's jaw. Someone grabbed my hair. I twisted, biting down on the nearest arm until I tasted copper. The man screamed. "Christ, she's feral!" "Just grab her!" My back slammed against a wall. Air rushed from my lungs. A broken bottle glinted near the gutter, some drunk's garbage, now my salvation. I lunged for it, fingers closing around the neck. "Come on then!" I brandished it like a knife, chest heaving. "I'll paint this street with you!" For a moment, they hesitated. I saw it in their eyes, they'd expected a scared girl, not a fighter. Then the biggest one pulled out a cloth. "Enough." The chemical smell hit me before he did. I thrashed, tried to hold my breath, but his arm locked around my throat. The bottle fell from my fingers. My vision swam. No. No, not like this. Dad needed me to be strong, to be— Darkness swallowed me whole. +++++++ Cold concrete. Rough rope cutting into my wrists. I woke up with my head pounding and my mouth tasting like poison. Slowly, the world came into focus. Warehouse. Empty. Cavernous. The kind of place where screams got lost in the rafters. My hands were tied behind my back, ankles bound to a metal chair. Blood had dried on my knuckles, theirs or mine, I couldn't tell. A door creaked open across the room. The man who walked in didn't need an introduction. I'd seen his face in Dad's research files, in newspaper articles, in police bulletins that went nowhere because he owned half the city. Vincenzo Bellante.. He looked almost ordinary, middle-aged, well-dressed, the kind of man you'd see at an expensive restaurant and think nothing of. But his eyes were wrong. Flat. Empty of anything human. Two men flanked him. One was the guy I'd scratched. Bandages covered half his face. "Miss Moretti." Vincenzo's voice was smooth, cultured. "I apologize for the rough treatment. My men were told to be gentle." "I'm not gentle." I met his eyes, refusing to look away. "Neither was my dad when he taught me to fight." Something flickered across his face. Amusement, maybe. Or respect. "Yes. Antonio Moretti. War hero. Professor. And now, unfortunately for both of you, a man with political ambitions." He pulled up a chair, sat down across from me like we were having coffee. "Do you know what happens to people who threaten my interests, Gladys?" "I know what happens to cowards who kidnap girls instead of fighting men." The scarred man moved forward, but Vincenzo raised a hand. "Spirit. I like that." He leaned forward. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to call your father. You're going to tell him to withdraw from the mayoral race. Tonight. Or tomorrow, pieces of you will arrive at his office in very small boxes." My throat went dry. "And if I refuse?" "Then we start with your fingers. Then toes. Then we get creative." His smile never reached his eyes. "I have men who consider dismemberment an art form." Terror clawed at my chest. Real, primal fear. But underneath it, something else burned, the same fire that made Dad stand up against corruption, that made him risk everything to clean up this city. I thought about giving in. About begging. About crying. Instead, I spat in his face. The room went silent. Vincenzo wiped his cheek slowly. The smile vanished. "I see." He stood, buttoning his jacket with precise movements. "You have your father's stubbornness. How unfortunate." He nodded to his men. They moved toward me. One produced a knife. The blade caught the dim light, gleaming. "Last chance, Gladys." I lifted my chin. "My dad taught me that some things are worth dying for. Looks like I inherited that too." Vincenzo's expression hardened into something terrible. "Then let's begin." He raised his hand. The man with the knife stepped closer. Then— BANG. A gunshot exploded through the warehouse, deafening in the enclosed space. The sound echoed off metal and concrete, drowning everything else. I couldn't see who fired. Couldn't see who fell. Smoke drifted through the darkness, and chaos erupted around me.