Chapter 1 - Shards of Glass and SilenceThe glass shattered into a thousand glittering diamonds across the mahogany floor, sending a spray of sharp shards into the shadows of the darkened bedroom.
Not for himself. For the photograph resting in his palm.
"Get down!"
Adrien’s voice was a low, lethal whip-crack. Before the echo of the gunshot could fully fade, his body had already shifted, covering mine on the heavy mattress. The scent of cedar, warm skin, and expensive bourbon washed over me, a stark contrast to the terror vibrating through the room.
"Marco!" Adrien bellowed toward the hallway, his tone dropping into a terrifying register of command. "Seal the west wing. Perimeter lockdown. Anyone moving outside without a red-band token is a target."
"Boss!" Marco burst through the door, a submachine gun already raised, his eyes darting frantically from the shattered window to the bed. "Sniper from the rooftop across the alley. We spotted muzzle flash. The hit squad is professional—ex-military, high-grade optics."
"I don't care if they're ghosts," Adrien snarled, carefully rolling off me while keeping his frame positioned between the window and my body. "Find them. Bring me at least one breathing. I want to know who authorized a hit inside my own estate."
My ribs ached, a sharp reminder of the beating Marcus had subjected me to before I managed to flee into The Velvet Crown. Every breath felt like inhaling crushed glass, yet the adrenaline coursing through my veins kept the darkness at bay. My gaze drifted down to the photograph still clutched in Adrien’s fingers.
The twelve-year-old girl standing on the porch of a house I barely remembered. The woman standing behind her with her face violently scratched out, as if someone had tried to erase her very existence with a knife. And the chilling handwriting on the back: Find the girl before Viscari learns she survived.
"Adrien..." My voice came out as a raspy whisper, dry and torn. "What is this? Who are they talking about? My mother—she died in a hospital fire when I was seven. That's what my aunt told me. That's what every document said."
Adrien turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. The cold, untouchable mafia boss exterior had returned, but underneath it churned a deep, churning whirlpool of emotion I couldn't decipher. Grief? Anger? Recognition?
"Your aunt lied, Lena," Adrien said softly, his thumb gently brushing a speck of dust off the edge of the vintage photograph. "Your mother didn't die in a fire. She went into hiding the night the Viscari family was betrayed twenty years ago. And if whoever took this photograph realizes you've been sitting right under my nose..." He didn't finish the sentence, but the unspoken threat hung in the heavy air like smoke.
A heavy knock rattled the door frame. Dr. Bell, a pale, graying man with a weathered medical bag, hurried inside, flanked by two armed guards.
"Boss, the perimeter is locked," Dr. Bell reported, breathing heavily. "Is she—good God, look at those bruises."
"Patch her up," Adrien ordered, standing up with a fluid, dangerous grace. He tucked the photograph inside his inner jacket pocket, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. "And do it quickly. We are moving to the bunker. The city isn't safe for her tonight, and neither is this house."
As Dr. Bell unpacked his supplies, cleaning the dried blood from my wrists and wrapping my ribs with a tight elastic binder, my mind raced. Marcus had known something. He had sneered about my mother right before Adrien stepped in. He hadn't just been an abusive, manipulative boyfriend; he had been a conduit, a pawn in a much larger, darker game that spanned decades.
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Adrien walked to the shattered window, staring out into the rain-drenched New York skyline where distant sirens were beginning to wail. The storm outside mirrored the storm brewing inside my chest. I had walked into The Velvet Crown looking for a place to die, running from a monster who claimed to love me. But looking at the man who had just taken on an invisible war on my behalf, I realized the truth was far more terrifying:
My nightmare had only just begun, and Adrien Viscari was the only thing standing between me and the grave.
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