Fortunes Bite

Chapter Two

Lila Hart slammed her apartment door in Brooklyn, the city's hum fading to a dull roar. At 28, she

was clawing her way up as an investigative journalist—independent, relentless, the kind who

chased truths that bit back. Her latest piece had exploded online: under the pseudonym Layla

StrongHart, she'd blown open alleged U.S.-backed funding of terrorist cells in the Sahel and

Middle East, funneled through Israeli intelligence shadows. The scandal scorched headlines in

the New York Times and beyond. Viral fire.But fame's glow came with fangs. Lila had flat-out

refused witness protection. "The system's hand that feeds the beasts can't shield me from their

jaws," she'd told her editor. Trusting them meant selling her soul—her integrity—for a bulletproof

vest. So she hid in plain sight, her real name a ghost in the bylines. Layla StrongHart got the

glory; Lila Hart paid the bills.Like so many New Yorkers, she traced roots to immigrants—Scottish

Protestant merchants who'd docked generations back, chasing America's gilded promise.

Freedom. Opportunity. But Lila's digs had unearthed the fine print: that promise often came

chained to secrets. Her grandparents' letters, tucked in a drawer, spoke of "hidden costs" in the

New World. Now, staring down her own, she wondered if the ink had always run black.Anonymity

was her edge in the digital jungle—a superpower letting her strike unseen. But it kryptonite'd her

wallet. No podcasts. No TED Talks. No fat advances. The viral buzz meant squat when rent

loomed and loans snarled. Bills cascaded like autumn leaves: student debt from her J-school

days, utilities spiking in the old brownstone, and that nagging lease on her ground-floor studio.

Eight years left on a ten-year term, but she'd shuttered it six years ago. Art had been her first

love—vibrant abstracts born from rage and revelation—but

journalism's deadlines had devoured the time. Or so she told herself. She dropped her bag,

kicking off boots caked in subway grime. Her sister's voice echoed, sharp as ever: When are you

gonna ditch the conspiracy crap and get a real job? It stung, a hook in old wounds. But blame her

fixation on Dad. Fifteen years back, he'd turned up shredded—claw marks raking his torso, limbs

twisted like pretzels. The FBI slapped "suicide" on it, faster than a bad headline. Autopsy files?

Sealed. Police reports? Vanished into federal fog. They'd confiscated the body, leaving an empty

plot in Queens for memorials. Lila, thirteen and feral with grief, had sworn then: Uncover the lies.

No matter the teeth they bared.The apartment walls mocked her—a riot of her own paintings,

splashed in bold palettes of crimson fury and midnight blues. Self-portraits of fractured truths,

signed simply Lila Hart. No masks here. She'd poured inheritance scraps into that studio-gallery

once, dreaming of shows in SoHo. But bills didn't wait for inspiration. Now, the space sat dark

below, a tomb for canvases gathering dust.Tonight, exhaustion clawed deeper. She needed

escape, not excavation. Laptop humming to life, she pulled up her art website—bare-bones,

cheap to run. Digital scans of her work, priced like whispers: $500 here, $1,200 there. A lifeline if

buyers ever bit.Her breath caught. Every listing screamed Sold Out in glaring red. Impossible.

She hadn't touched a brush in months, let alone marketed. Heart thudding, she tabbed to

notifications. All purchases: one buyer. Anonymous. Twenty pieces. $250,000 wired

clean.Fingers trembling, she jotted the username— ShadowWolfNYC—then logged into her

bank. The balance blinked real: +$250,000. Overwhelming. Suspicious. Who shells out a

quarter-mil for an unknown's ghosts on canvas?A chill slithered down her spine, sharper than

subway drafts. The username tugged something primal—wolf? Like Dad's wounds. Like the

nightmares that still woke her, howling. She refreshed the site. A new message pinged: More,

Ms. Hart. Name your price. We have... business to discuss.Her pulse raced, a mix of thrill and

dread. This wasn't just money. It was a door cracking open—to fortune, or fangs.