SAINTS OF THE DEAD DISTRICT

SAINTS' ROW

Saints' Row in Uptown was nothing like the Saints' Row in the Dead District.

Here, the streets were clean. The buildings were old money, brick and limestone with brass fixtures and doormen who wore uniforms that cost more than Jake made in a year. The streetlights were actual lights, not the flickering, dying things that barely illuminated the district's alleys. And the people—the people walked like they owned the world, their steps confident, their eyes never flickering to the shadows.

Jake felt like a ghost in their midst.

Isabella walked beside him, her hand on his arm, guiding him through the streets. They'd crossed the Dead Line an hour ago, taken a circuitous route through the Slum Kingdoms, and emerged in the west end of Uptown. She'd changed her coat, given him a jacket to replace his blood-stained one. They looked like a couple out for a late-night walk. They looked like nothing.

"We're almost there," Isabella murmured. "She lives in the old Vance mansion. Three blocks north. Stay close to me. Don't look at anyone."

"Who's going to recognize me here?"

"More people than you think. Kane has eyes everywhere." She squeezed his arm, a gesture that was either reassurance or warning. "Seraphina's been under surveillance for months. She's been waiting for someone to contact her. But she doesn't trust anyone."

"Then why would she trust us?"

"Because I know something she needs. And you're the one person in this city who can give it to her." Isabella glanced at him. "You're the only living witness to her father's death. You were there. You saw the killer. And he wasn't you."

Jake's stomach twisted. "I didn't see anyone. I was knocked out. I woke up with the knife in my hand and the body beside me."

"You saw something. You might not remember it consciously, but it's in there. Seraphina has a way of pulling things out of people. She's patient. She's methodical. She'll get the truth out of you if it takes years."

The Vance mansion loomed ahead, a four-story brownstone that had seen better days. The windows were dark, the iron gates rusted. It looked abandoned—the kind of place that had once been grand and now was just a shell, waiting for someone to either restore it or tear it down.

Isabella pressed a buzzer beside the gate. A long moment of silence. Then a voice crackled through the speaker.

"Who is it?"

"An old friend," Isabella said. "I'm here about her father."

A longer silence. Then the gate clicked open.

Isabella pushed through, and Jake followed. The courtyard was overgrown, weeds pushing through the cracks in the cobblestones. The mansion's façade was covered in ivy, thick and dark, climbing toward the roof like grasping hands.

The front door opened before they reached it. A woman stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by a single lamp inside.

Seraphina Vance.

She was younger than Jake had expected. Twenty-four, maybe, with the kind of sharp beauty that came from money and tragedy. Dark hair cut short, a thin face with high cheekbones, eyes that had seen too much too young. She was dressed in dark trousers and a simple blouse, but there was nothing simple about the way she held herself—like a blade, like something that had been sharpened by grief.

"You're the one who framed him," Seraphina said. Her eyes were on Jake, cold and appraising. "The one who killed my father."

"I didn't kill him." Jake forced the words out. "I was set up."

"Everyone says that."

"It doesn't make it less true."

Seraphina held his gaze for a long moment. Then she stepped aside. "Come in. We don't have much time."

The mansion's interior was just as decayed as its exterior. Dust sheets covered the furniture, paintings had been taken down from the walls, and the floors were scuffed and stained. But there was a room at the back of the house that was still lived in—a study with a fire crackling in the grate, bookshelves overflowing with papers and files, a desk covered in photographs and notes.

Seraphina led them there and closed the door behind them.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to two chairs. "And start talking."

Isabella sat. Jake stayed standing.

"I know you didn't kill my father," Seraphina said. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I've known from the beginning. You were too convenient a suspect. Too easy to frame. Someone was trying to distract from the real killer."

"Who was the real killer?"

"Alexander Kane." Seraphina's eyes were hard. "He's been my father's enemy for years. They were rivals. They hated each other. And my father was getting too close to the truth about Kane's operation. So Kane had him killed, and he framed you to make sure no one looked any deeper."

Jake felt the world tilt. "You know this for certain?"

"I have proof. Evidence." Seraphina turned to her desk, picking up a folder. "For three years, I've been gathering everything I can find on Alexander Kane. His operations, his connections, his crimes. And I've been trying to figure out how to bring him down."

She handed the folder to Jake.

He opened it. It was thick—papers, photographs, financial records. He saw names he recognized, faces he'd seen in the Dead District. He saw Sloan's name, Vincent Moretti's name, Marcus Deacon's name. And he saw the face of Alexander Kane, smiling from a photograph taken at some Uptown gala.

"This is everything," Jake said.

"This is a fraction of it. I have more. Much more." Seraphina moved to the fire, warming her hands. "But it's not enough. I don't have proof of his direct involvement in my father's death. I don't have proof of the conspiracy. And without proof, I can't bring him down."

Isabella stepped forward. "But with Jake's testimony, we have a witness. He was there. He saw the killer."

"I didn't see anything," Jake said. "I was unconscious."

"Then we need to find a way to make you remember." Seraphina turned to face him. "There are ways. Hypnosis. Regression therapy. A forensic psychologist who works with trauma victims. I've already found someone. He's reputable. He's done this before."

Jake felt his throat tighten. "You want to dig around in my head."

"I want to find the truth. Whatever it takes." Seraphina's eyes were unwavering. "You were there, Jake. Your unconscious mind knows what happened. We just need to unlock it."

The fire crackled. The room was warm, but Jake felt cold.

"What's in it for you?" he asked. "Why do you care so much about bringing Kane down?"

Seraphina's face tightened. "My father was a good man. He was trying to do the right thing. He was trying to expose Kane's operation. And Kane killed him for it. I want justice. I want the truth to come out."

"That's not everything." Jake studied her face. "There's something else. Something you're not telling me."

A long silence. Then Seraphina spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

"He killed my mother too. Five years ago. Made it look like an overdose. She was a recovering addict—he knew no one would question it." Her eyes were wet. "He took both of my parents. And he's still walking around, still running his empire, still ruining lives. I want him dead. I want to see the light go out of his eyes, and I want to be the one who does it."

Jake understood. More than he wanted to, he understood.

He'd been eleven years old when his father died. Sixteen when his mother followed. He'd spent his whole life trying to pretend it didn't matter, trying to convince himself that he was just a survivor in a district full of survivors.

But it did matter. It had always mattered.

"I'll do it," he said. "Whatever it takes. I'll help you bring him down."

Seraphina studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded.

"Good," she said. "We have a lot of work to do."

---

The next few hours were a blur of information, of photographs and documents and names. Seraphina had been building this case for three years, and she had more evidence than Jake had ever imagined. Financial records, witness statements, photographs of meetings and deals. She knew more about Alexander Kane than anyone in the city.

But she was missing one thing: direct proof.

Kane was smart. He never left a trail that led directly to him. Everything was done through intermediaries, through shell companies, through men who were willing to die rather than betray him. And every piece of evidence Seraphina had gathered pointed to someone else—a lower-level operative, a patsy, a sacrifice.

"This is why he framed me for your father's murder," Jake said. "He needed someone who could take the fall. Someone who didn't matter."

"You matter more than you think." Seraphina looked at him, her eyes unreadable. "You're his nephew. His own blood. He could have killed you years ago, but he didn't. He's been watching you, using you, waiting for the right moment."

"Why didn't he kill me?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's sentimental. Maybe he wants to use you." Seraphina leaned back in her chair. "Either way, you're a threat to him. He knows that now. He knows you're working with me. And that's why he's coming for us."

As if on cue, the lights in the house flickered. Then they died.

Jake was on his feet in an instant, the knife in his hand. Isabella moved to the window, peering through the curtains.

"We've got company," she said. "Three cars. At least a dozen men."

Seraphina was already moving, pulling a gun from her desk drawer. She checked the magazine, then chambered a round.

"They're here for me," she said. "They've been waiting for me to make a move. I've been too careful, too patient. They knew I'd eventually reach out to someone."

"We can't fight them all," Isabella said. "We need to get out of here."

"There's a way." Seraphina moved to the fireplace. She reached behind the mantel and pressed something—a latch, a hidden switch. A section of the wall slid open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down. "My father had this built. He was always prepared for something like this."

Jake looked at the staircase. It was dark, the steps narrow and steep.

"They'll search the house," he said. "They'll find the passage."

"Not if we make them think we're somewhere else." Seraphina was already moving toward the front of the house, her gun raised. "I'll draw them off. Give you time to get out."

"No." Jake grabbed her arm. "You can't sacrifice yourself."

"I'm not sacrificing myself. I'm buying us time." Seraphina's eyes were hard. "I've been waiting for this moment. I've been dreaming about it. I'm not going to miss my chance."

She pulled away from him and disappeared into the darkness of the main hall.

Jake heard the front door crash open. Shouts. The sound of boots on marble floors. Then gunfire, sharp and sudden.

He hesitated. Then Isabella grabbed his arm.

"Now," she said. "We need to go now."

They dove into the passage, and the wall slid closed behind them, plunging them into darkness.

---

The tunnel was narrow, just wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Jake felt his way along the damp stone walls, following Isabella's lead. Behind them, the muffled sounds of gunfire echoed through the walls.

"She'll be fine," Isabella said. "She's been planning this for months. She knows every inch of that house, every hiding place, every way out."

"She's going to get herself killed."

"Maybe. But she's doing it for the cause." Isabella's voice was steady. "She knows what she's fighting for. She knows the cost."

The tunnel led to a metal ladder, which led to a drain, which led to a narrow alley behind the mansion. Jake climbed out, blinking in the sudden brightness of the streetlights. The alley was empty.

They ran.

Through the streets of Uptown, past the gleaming storefronts and the closed restaurants, through the parks and the squares. Jake didn't know where they were going. He just followed Isabella, his lungs burning, his legs screaming.

Finally, she led him into a building, a nondescript office block in the financial district. They took the stairs to the fourth floor, and Isabella unlocked a door with a key she pulled from her pocket.

The apartment inside was small, spartan. A single room with a bed, a desk, and a window that overlooked the street. A safe in the corner, a gun on the desk, stacks of files on the floor.

"This is my place," Isabella said. "Safe. For now."

Jake collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving. His mind was racing, trying to process everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

Deacon's revelations. Sloan's death. The photograph. The tunnel. The gunfire.

Seraphina.

"Is she going to be okay?" he asked.

"She's alive. I have a tracker on her phone." Isabella was at her desk, pulling up a screen on her laptop. "She's out of the house. She's moving. They're chasing her, but she's fast. She knows the city better than they do."

"Then why did she let us go? She could have come with us."

"She didn't want to draw attention to you. She knows they're watching for you. If she's with you, they'll find you." Isabella turned to face him. "She's buying you time. So you can find the proof you need."

Jake sat up. "What proof?"

"The proof that Alexander Kane killed your father. The proof that he framed you. The proof that will bring him down." Isabella's voice was intense. "Your parents hid something. Something that could destroy Kane. We need to find it before he does."

Jake thought about his mother's final words. *Don't trust anyone.* He thought about his father's secrets, the photographs, the hidden knowledge.

He didn't know where to start.

"Where do we look?" he asked.

Isabella's eyes met his. "The Foundry. Your father worked there. Your uncle worked there. If they hid something, it's there."

The Foundry. Abandoned for years, the pits still hot from the underground fires. The place where men went to disappear.

Jake nodded. "Tomorrow. We go at first light."

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn't stop.

Sloan was dead. Seraphina was on the run. His whole life was a lie.

And somewhere, in the Foundry's depths, the truth was waiting.