PROLOGUE
This feud didn't start with us.
It started long before either of us were ever born. Long before our parents were born. Long before our grandparents were born.
Eight generations before us, if family records are to be believed.
You must be wondering which side I'm on.
With a feud like ours, you don't choose a side.
You don't get a vote.
You don't get an opinion.
You are born into a side, raised on its stories, and expected to defend it for the rest of your life.
I always knew which side I belonged to.
The Daveed side.
We had a saying.
No, not a saying. A motto.
A rule.
A warning.
"Never trust a Davenport."
I heard it so often growing up that it became as natural as breathing.
"A Davenport cannot be trusted."
The words followed me through childhood dinners, family gatherings, birthdays, weddings, and funerals.
I grew up hearing stories about Papa Thomas.
Stories about how he tried to make peace.
Stories about how he trusted a Davenport.
Stories about how he spent the rest of his life calling himself a fool for doing so.
It's funny because I barely remember him.
Maybe I met him.
Maybe I didn't.
The man was ancient.
I was six when he died and was buried, so most of my memories of him belong to other people.
You must be wondering who Papa Thomas is.
He was my great-grandfather.
The grandfather of my father.
The father of Grandma Kathy.
Trust me, my family tree is complicated enough to give anyone a headache.
But whenever the family gathered and someone accidentally mentioned the name Davenport, it never took long before one of my relatives repeated the same thing.
"Papa Thomas learned the hard way."
"A Davenport will always be a Davenport."
And so I grew up believing it.
Believing every word.
Believing that no good thing could ever come from a Davenport.
Believing that some people were born enemies.
Believing that some wars never end.
I believed all of it.
Until tonight.
"Sophia!"
The scream tears through my thoughts.
I blink.
For a second, I don't understand where I am.
Then I look down.
Blood.
There's blood everywhere.
My hands.
My shoes.
My clothes.
My skin.
So much blood.
My stomach twists violently.
This isn't my blood.
At least... I don't think it is.
I try to remember what happened.
Nothing.
The last forty-five minutes are a blur.
Broken pieces.
Fragments.
Voices.
Music.
A scream.
Then nothing.
My mind feels wrapped in thick fog.
"Sophia!"
Someone grabs my shoulders and shakes me hard.
The world suddenly snaps back into focus.
People are running.
Someone is crying.
And in the distance—
Police sirens.
Growing louder.
Getting closer.
My pulse begins to hammer against my ribs.
How did this happen?
What happened here?
What did I do?
"Sophia, we need to leave. Right now."
The voice sounds urgent.
Desperate.
Panicked.
"You can't be found here."
I barely register the words.
I only feel hands pushing me forward.
Pulling me away.
Away from the blood.
Away from the crowd.
Away from the sirens.
My legs move without permission.
The next thing I know, I'm being shoved into a car.
The door slams.
The engine roars.
And we speed away into the night.
I stare at my blood-covered hands.
My heart pounds.
My thoughts refuse to connect.
One question keeps repeating itself over and over.
How could this have happened?
No.
A better question would be—
What exactly happened?
I know.
You're wondering the same thing.
Believe me.
So am I.
Let's go back to the beginning.
