A Tether Of Souls

Ophelia The gunshot didn’t echo. It was swallowed by the city, absorbed into the night like it belonged there. Like violence was just another part of the soundtrack of New York—sirens, arguments, subways screeching in tunnels, and somewhere in between…death. I knew the sound instantly. I wasn’t new to this city. I wasn’t naïve enough to pretend it was a car backfiring. My steps faltered, heel scraping against wet pavement as the rain finally started—slow droplets first, like the sky couldn’t decide if it should mourn or watch. I shouldn’t have been in this alley. The campaign gala was still happening inside the hotel. I’d needed air—a moment where cameras, handshakes, and fake laughter weren’t pressing against my ribs. I just wanted to breathe. But now there was a man on his knees, hands tied behind him with a zip tie, shoulders shaking from fear or exhaustion. And another man stood in front of him—calm, composed, like this was a business transaction. “P—please,” the man on the ground choked, voice breaking. His accent sounded local. Not mafia. Not power. Just human. “I didn’t say anything. I swear—” The shooter didn’t speak. He lifted the gun, moved like water—fluid, controlled. And fired. The body jerked, then crumpled sideways onto the pavement. A high, thin gasp tore out of me before I could stop it. The shooter’s head snapped toward me. Our eyes locked. And the world…stopped. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t even look annoyed. He looked like he was studying me. Dark eyes, stillness like a held blade, suit tailored in a way that spoke of old wealth and older power. He looked Italian—not the polished, charming kind, but the kind that came from something ancient and dangerous. Something inherited. My breath trembled. I should run. I should scream. I should do something. But his eyes pinned me in place. The rain came harder now, tapping on metal dumpsters, slicking the pavement until his reflection blurred into a shadow, then sharpened again. He didn’t raise the gun. Didn’t move toward me. Didn’t try to hide. He just looked. And I felt seen in a way that made my heart press painfully against my ribs. A voice echoed from behind me, distant at first, then closer— “Miss Hale! Ophelia!” My father’s security team. I tore my gaze away, stumbling back just as two guards grabbed my arms, pulling me behind them, forming a human shield. But I twisted, eyes searching— He was still there. Still watching me. And then someone spoke his name. Not a guard. Not a whisper. A realization. “Massimo De Luca.” The blood in my body moved all at once—heat, cold, panic, recognition. De Luca. As in: Old Italian bloodlines. Marriages that were alliances. Loyalty that was currency. Power that didn’t require headlines—only silence. I didn’t know him. But everyone knew the name. My father’s entire political career had been built on avoiding men like Massimo De Luca. And now I had just witnessed one of them kill someone. “Get her in the car!” a guard barked. Hands pushed me forward, through the alley exit, back toward the hotel’s gold-lit service corridor. The city’s neon glow flickered across wet pavement, making everything look unreal. I didn’t realize I was shaking until the car door slammed shut around me and the world muted. The guard driving didn’t speak. The engine roared. We pulled into traffic. I pressed my fingers to my lips. Not fear. Shock. Something else. I had seen a man die before my eyes. But what stayed with me wasn’t the death. It was the stillness of the man who caused it. The kind of stillness that only comes from certainty. Not arrogance. Not cruelty. Certainty. Like he believed that everything he did was justified. Like he believed I already belonged to the consequences of seeing him. The city blurred past—the Empire State glowing in the distance, taxis splashing through rain, strangers living lives untouched by mine. I didn’t look away from the window. Because I knew— even though I was now miles from that alley— he was still with me. Not physically. Just—present. In the part of my mind where instinct lived. Where fate lived. Where things you can’t explain sit quietly and wait. The car pulled onto the Hale estate’s driveway—long, sweeping, expensive in a way meant to intimidate, not welcome. The guards escorted me inside, through the marble hall, past portraits of men who all had the same politician’s smile. My father was waiting in his study. He looked up when I entered. Not surprised. Not alarmed. Just calculating. “You saw something,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “No,” I whispered automatically. “I—” “Don’t.” His voice sharpened. “Do not lie to me.” I swallowed. He studied my face, and for a moment his expression softened—just enough to reveal something human underneath. Then it was gone. “Men like the De Lucas handle their own problems,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And they do not appreciate witnesses.” My stomach knotted. “Ophelia,” he continued slowly, “you are going to pretend this never happened. For your sake. For mine. For the campaign. Do you understand?” My throat tightened. “But—” His voice cut like a blade: “That is not a question.” Silence. The rain hammered against the windows now, furious and full. I didn’t know if I agreed because I wanted to or because I didn’t have a choice. I left his study, footsteps echoing through the hallway, the house too big and too quiet. I reached my bedroom, closed the door, pressed my back to it, and finally exd. My hands were still shaking. So I sat on the floor. Just sat. Breathing. Trying to steady the world. Until— A light flickered through my window. Not headlights. Not lightning. A car. Black. Still running. Parked at the edge of our private drive. Someone stepped out. Even from this distance, I knew the way he moved. Controlled. Precise. Silent. Massimo De Luca. He wasn’t supposed to know where I lived. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He lifted his head. And even though the rain blurred the night around us— his eyes found mine through the glass. Not a threat. Not a warning. Something else. Something I could feel. I stepped closer to the window— not because I was brave. But because I couldn’t not. He didn’t move. He just watched me. Studied me. Acknowledged me. Like we were already tied together in something neither of us chose. And then— A second figure stepped out of the car. And aimed a gun at him.