------ Marcus
Silk sheets slid over my skin as I rolled onto his side, the hotel room swimming into focus. That damned digital clock bled blue light across everything. My body groaned when I moved—yesterday's training session still sang in my muscles. Curtains stood cracked open, letting the city glow slash across dark furniture. Well into my thirties, almost forty. An old man is in this game now. It didn't matter that my body could make Zeus weep envy into his ambrosia. Military years had carved me into a weapon, tattoos chronicling battles like scars on ebony stone.
My phone vibrated against the glass—a jagged buzz that snapped me alert. My hand flew to where my gun should have been. Nothing but an empty water bottle and a half-empty pack of Marlboros. Fuck. I swung my legs onto the marble floor, a cold shock shooting up my spine as I padded over to the table.
I groaned, reaching out to silence the infernal device.
"What the hell?" I murmured, squinting at the screen. The call was from an unknown number, but I had a rule: never ignore. I swiped to answer, bringing the phone to my ear.
"Is it done?" Joe's voice rasped through the phone, desperate as a drowning rat. I recognized that tremor—not concern, just greed. These clowns and their stupid alias choices.
“Not quite.” I let the pause hang. “Needs more… finesse.”
"Fuck, Marcus!" Spit crackled against the receiver. "Gray expects his money next month! I only get paid if I unload my whole fucking pub—not half! THE WHOLE!"
My gaze drifted to the bed. To 'her.' Flame-red hair fanned across the pillow like spilled blood. Still out cold. Breathing deep. Undisturbed.
Joe kept screeching, oblivious: “Just get proof the assbitch is cheating! Force the divorce, get ‘MY’ bar back!”
I almost laughed. Irony hung thick in the air, mixed with the stink of sex and sweat. Wrong, Joe. Dead wrong. That bar? It had stood because of her sweat, her hustle. But right too… oh, spectacularly right. My eyes traced the line of the sheet clinging to her hip. I hooked a finger and tugged it lower.
There it was. Her ass, plump, perfect, and crimson, just the way I like it. A fucking masterpiece painted in handprints and bruises from where I’d pounded her raw hours before. Proof? Oh yeah. Pearly white still glistened at her puffy rim, leaking out slowly. My spending and the proof Joe knew his wife well after all. Assbitch. So true.
The mattress told its own story, too. Dark stains—sweat, spit, streaks of cum—soaked deep where I’d pinned her down, shoved her face into the pillow till her screams choked into whimpers, till her voice broke.
A bad taste in my mouth? Sympathy? Maybe. Something soft and useless, looking at the wreckage of her. Gone fast. My job wasn’t morality. It was deliverables. Joe had paid top dollar for dirt on his wife. And I had to deliver my homework. Even if it meant taking her in every way I knew. Bent her. Broke her. Made her beg.
Mercy? I’d never had any to give.
"It's not snap-your-fingers work," I murmured into the phone, fingers tracing a bruise on her thigh. Her faint whimper floated in the air—a soft counterpoint to Joe's panic.
"Two hundred fucking patrons saw you leave with her!" Joe shrieked.
Patience. The Delta Force mantra. "You'll have proof by week's end." I killed the call. Silence.
Back to her. That curve of hip. That used perfection. My cock stirred, hungry again, remembering how she took it. Her willingness to submit to my every whim had made the job more fun than I'd anticipated even... Wilder than expected. Enjoyable cash.
From the nightstand, I lifted the tiny camera. Scrolled through the footage. High-def depravity: her choking on my cock, tears streaking mascara. Squelch of fingers in her cunt. The slap-slap-slap when I drove her face-first into pillows, her ass high, taking him deep, begging for more. Every slap. Every grunt. Every degradation. Joe would cream himself over this footage.
My phone buzzed again, slicing through my thoughts like a knife. I glanced at the screen—another unknown number. Joe was getting desperate, I thought, smirking as I answered, "Joe, you can't stay away, can—"
Mister M's gravelly voice cut me off. "Don't care who Joe is. Mister Gray wants you in his office." The blood rushed from my face. That voice—like rocks grinding together—always made me feel like a kid caught stealing candy. My old mentor hadn’t lost his touch.
"When?" I asked, fighting to keep my tone steady. Playing alone, my ass. This was a summons to the principal's office, one I hadn't heard of for almost two years.
"Don't piss me off, son." 'Click.'
I stared one last time at the ruin of her. Regret? Maybe. She was a gorgeous fire that burned under me for hours. But the rules were iron: one night only. That ironclad promise had been forged after my heart got stomped like overripe fruit. Never again.
Moving silent as smoke, I slid the camera into my bag and hit the bathroom. The shower's hot needles slapped me awake, washing away sweat, sex, and... weakness. I scrubbed hard, mind racing. What the hell could Gray want?
I stepped out dripping, towel around my hips. One last look at her. She'd flipped onto her back, hand curled between her thighs, breasts rising slowly. She'd wake feeling used and filthy, but she'd crave for more too... like the others.
Leaning close, my breath grazing her ear. "You've been a good girl." No reaction. Smirking, I folded the crisp hotel bill and laid it beside her head like a grenade. My little goodbye.
When she woke up, I was certain her eyes would pop seeing the room service charges—three bottles of Dom, oysters, and the silk robe she drunkenly demanded. Thanks for the ride, sweetheart; now face the music.
My boots echoed across marble as I walked out.
----- Mia
The words sliced through the air: "You're late." Jonathan Gray sat behind that steel desk, his voice colder than its surface. I glanced up from my phone, letting my lips form that practiced pout. Those whiskey-colored eyes of mine locked onto his, a challenge I wasn't sure I could back up, but damn if I wouldn't try. I let him see the lilac hair tumbling down my back and the tattoos peeking from under my tank top. Every ink line screamed defiance in this game of power. Crossed legs, short skirt, the whole package—I'd known exactly what this outfit did to men like him.
"And?" I purred, savoring how the room temperature had spiked when I stood. My stilettos clicked like a gun’s hammer cocking—a promise. This dance… God, this dance. We'd danced this tango too many times—power and submission, the razor’s edge between fury and desire. I'd love to push his buttons, to watch that control fracture. His eyes locked on mine, and I dared him.
Move. Show me that you think you own me.
'Smack.' Photos scattered across the desk. My heart jackhammered against my ribs—there lay my Mustang, a twisted metal grave.
My gaze dropped back to the damning photos scattered across his desk. Cold certainty settled in my gut. He knew. That was why I was here at dawn.
"Just a car," I shrugged, fighting the tremor. But beneath the bravado, ice slithered through my veins. I'd crossed the line. I'd known it when I set fire to that damn car without saying a word, but I hadn't thought he would find it so quickly.
"I thought I taught you not to make me angry." His growl filled the room, his hot breath stinging my face. My eyes scanned his face, searching for pity. I found only hunger. The caged beast had been unleashed.
It flickered through my mind. Just like that first time.
That first collision. Him. Me. Sparks in the dark.
The memory hit me like a ton of bricks—my first humiliating failure.
Me, the best thief on the East Coast, staring at the bolted-shut bathroom window like some amateur. I'd actually believed my own hype and thought I could outrun the city’s elite. That bathroom window at the ‘Pegasus Dream’ was supposed to be my freedom hatch. Instead, I'd found myself trapped, the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl the only witness to my despair. A 'rookie mistake.' The kind that breaks you before anyone else gets the chance.
After that mess, I'd tried the oldest con in the book: playing the dumb blonde in the wrong penthouse. Flat as yesterday's soda. I'd never had the knack for it—otherwise, why would that bastard have shoved a canvas sack over my head before dragging me?
Later, I emerged from the darkness, greeted by the nauseating stench of rotting mackerel and the white-hot kiss of a bare bulb swinging overhead. An abandoned fish warehouse, judging by the chorus of gulls screaming like widows outside. The ropes had chewed into my wrists, raw reminders that ‘Pegasus’ wasn't the dream—it was the bait. And I'd swallowed the hook, line, and goddamn sinker. There I'd sat, breathing like a spooked racehorse, waiting for my doom.
Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Every thud sent shivers down my spine. The floorboards creaked like a funeral march. Be cool, Mia. Play along, I'd thought. But my treacherous limbs had trembled constantly. Then he stepped out of the shadows. Mr. Gray. His name had been whispered like a curse, the boogeyman who ruled this rotten city. His eyes, like shards of ice, pierced the darkness, piercing my soul. Yeah. I'd been screwed.
He smirked. "Woke up especially for you," he rasped, voice like gravel in a tin can. "To meet the famous ‘Diamond’ they kept yapping about."
He invaded my space, his dark, expensive cologne suffocating me—a stark reminder of the chasm between us. Too close.
"All that fuss," he sneered. "For a gutter rat." His hand grabbed a strand from my lilac hair before pushing it away in disgust. "More like a mouse with a terrible taste in fur color."
Humiliation burned my cheeks.
My lips peeled back. Teeth bared. Two words hurled like venom: "Fuck you, Gray!"
A dark chuckle. "Oh, I planned to," he purred, tightening his grip so I couldn’t look away. "You’d get plenty soon, too. But first, let’s be crystal." Amusement laced the command. "You know my name; you did your homework. Smart. But knowing 'who' I am." He leaned closer, breath hot on my face. "That was the easy part. The hard part is understanding what that 'meant' for you." His eyes locked onto mine. "You are mine now. Not just a little. Not mostly. ‘Mine’ in every way that matters. Capiche?"
The word wasn’t a question. It was a tombstone.
Rage detonated in my chest. His property? Never. I spat right in that perfect face.
Big mistake.
Jonathan’s smirk twisted into something feral. Most men would have pissed their pants at that look, but I'd survived far worse. I was the predator here. Or so I thought. My mistake? Looking him straight in his eyes. I was plunging into a black pit with no bottom, confirming that I couldn't escape him. A brutal reminder: even tigers get hunted.
He rose slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on mine like a snake assessing its prey. The mountain of muscle beside him, a gorilla with a neck thicker than my thigh, pulled out a handkerchief. Immaculate white linen. Jonathan took it, methodical as a surgeon, wiping my saliva from his skin. The soft rustle of the fabric was like a threat. Everything fell silent, except for my own laughter and seagulls outside, mimicking me as if to mock me.
Then I froze. Jonathan was on the phone now, his voice slicing through the quiet. "I didn’t care if she was in a nightie or naked! You get her out of the house now—I paid for everything anyway, capiche?"
He turned that snake smile on me, adding into the receiver, "It’s for her own good. Given my new girlfriend’s character..." He paused, letting the words hang. "I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t kill her outright if my ex was still home when we came back."
'New girlfriend.' The word curdled in my gut. No. I was his pet now. His trophy. His thing. And the worst part? I knew he meant every damn word.
The first week blurred past me in shades of fear and bitter frustration. 'We' moved into Gray’s obscenely luxurious penthouse—a gilded cage I never asked for. All that polished marble and cold chrome suffocated me, a constant, mocking reminder of where I was. Every night, I’d lie sprawled in that ridiculously oversized bed, listening to the distant pulse of the city below, wondering if its rhythm would ever be mine again.
So, I built a routine. Survival. I mapped the penthouse obsessively during the day, tracing walls, testing windows—searching for a flaw, a crack, a forgotten fire escape. Nothing. Every door led to another dead end; every window was a thick, unyielding slab designed to keep things in. Or out. The only territory I truly commanded was my own skin, the one thing I still owned, and the hunger in Gray’s eyes told me he was counting the minutes until I handed it over. Fine. But not without a fight.
And I fought. Every damn night. I’d turn the charm on the guards, whispering filthy promises that made their ears flush and their grips on their guns falter. I’d hurl priceless china against the kitchen tiles and shriek until my throat was raw—anything to crack that icy facade of his. But Jonathan Gray? He’d just lean against a doorway, that damnable 'twinkle' in his eyes. Not anger. Amusement. Like I was his favorite live theater, the best entertainment he’d had in years.
That’s why his announcement hit like a physical blow. One ordinary morning, over coffee he didn’t drink, he casually said I could go shopping. Alone. With a car. 'That' car, a predatory black sports car that had arrived yesterday, was absurdly topped with a giant red bow. I stared at him, suspicion coiling cold in my gut. "You expect me to believe you're going to let me go out like this, alone?" The words tasted like tar.
He just smirked, tossing the keys with a lazy flick of his wrist. They felt unnervingly warm from his touch. "You're free to go where you please. Go do girly things, like shopping," he said, smooth as silk. "Just remember, you're still mine, Mia." The warning in his eyes was clear, but so was the challenge. A test. My fingers closed around the keys, metal biting into my palm as I shoved them deep into my shorts pocket. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The day clung to me like a second skin—hot, sticky, and unbearable. I wanted to tear off everything and plunge into the ocean right then, and preferably completely naked. When the car growled to life beneath me, that familiar vibration shot up my spine. Beautiful monster, I thought. Gray’s power, his control, all wrapped in polished steel. But as I hit the city streets, wind tangling my hair, something else sparked in my chest. Freedom. Real, raw freedom for the first time in a week. I cranked the radio until the bass thumped against my ribs, a heartbeat screaming. 'Run, run, run.'
The burger joint hit me like a revelation—grease, salt, sweat. Real life. A glorious dive after Gray’s sterile chrome cage. I slid out of the car, eyes scraping the crowd. A week out, but the habit was bone-deep. I felt the weight of the handgun digging into my lower back, cold and insistent. Gray’s 'gift', left in the glove box. A comfort? A chain? Both. The weight of it pressed as I waited for my order, a constant whisper: This world owns you now.
Then they came. Three shadows detached from the alley, faces twisted, metal glinting in their fists. Guns. My body moved before my brain clicked. I lunged back into the car, slammed the door, and stomped the gas. Tires screamed. The first bullets punched the metal—thwack-thwack-thwack—and my heart jammed itself in my throat. A sound like bones breaking. Pure, icy fear and a shot of adrenaline straight to the veins. Ducking low, hands trembling, I wrestled the gear stick. Get out. Get out NOW.
The engine howled in protest as I pushed it, weaving through traffic. My eyes flicked to the mirror. Still there. Relentless. Gunfire cracked, sharp and close. The air stank of burnt rubber; squealing tires drowned everything else. Outside, the world smeared into streaks of color. I felt the next bullets hit—heavy thuds against the door, vibrating through the seat. Closer. Each one a drumbeat counting down, like some monstrous drumbeat matching the terror pounding in my chest. I'd faced tight spots before. But this? This was no game.
Lost in my thoughts, I hadn't noticed the silence that had fallen over the room. As if nothing had happened, to mask the fear Jonathan had just awakened in me, I slowly sat back down in an armchair.
That's when I heard them: footsteps approaching the door.
----- Marcus
The city lights streaked past my window like smeared neon paint, horns blaring in a discordant symphony that barely registered. My pulse hammered not from fear but raw anticipation as I parked my car in front of the Grays' building. I didn't even bother to turn off the engine, knowing full well that no one would dare steal a car here.
Mister Gray hadn’t summoned me after hours for pleasantries. And Mister M? Christ, seeing that old ghost again after all those years? Respect had warred with caution, tangled up in a bittersweet thread of nostalgia.
I pushed open the luxurious door, and the office swallowed me whole—cool, dim, and reeking of expensive leather and stale cigars. Power lived there. The kind of place where futures were gambled away over whiskey.
Then I saw her.
Lounging in that chair like she owned the air around her. A fucking explosion of color against Gray’s monochrome tomb. Lilac hair like spilled ink, framing a face carved from pure defiance. That tank top clung to curves designed to break commandments, and the miniskirt… fuck. The ink on her skin whispered secrets I ached to decode. My body reacted before my brain could catch up, a thick ache tightening in my pants. She wasn’t just trouble. She was a live wire, a puzzle screaming to be taken apart. And for the first time in years, I felt truly awake.
She met my stare head-on. That smirk was pure fucking venom, her whiskey-colored eyes alight with chaos. She knew. Knew exactly what she was doing. The kind of trouble that ended men. And goddamn it, that cranked the heat higher. I wanted it. Wanted her. Wanted the danger.
I took a step closer. My heart slammed against my ribs. Blood roared in my ears. Desire, sharp as a knife, twisted with something darker, something violent. You, sweetheart, the thought snarled in my head, you’re lucky this isn’t that kind of story, a hardcore porn one. Because right then, I’d have had you choking on my cock. The air crackled, thick with the unspoken promise of something brutal and raw.
And she didn't flinch. Just turned those defiant eyes on me fully. That knowing smile widened. She was playing with fire. My fire. And I knew, with absolute certainty, how that game would end: with her pinned beneath me, screaming my name.
Mister M’s dry cough cut through the silence. His face, a roadmap of bad decisions, turned towards me. "This is Mia," he rasped, his eyes darting to Gray. "Mr. Gray's girlfriend." The unspoken warning hung thick.
But Mia? Slowly, deliberately, she stuck out her tongue. A fucking schoolyard taunt dripping with pure, provocative power. A silent ‘fuck you’ to every man breathing in that room. My jaw locked.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
----- Mia
I watched the newcomer and saw his expression change when he saw me.
The thought of him—a man who'd probably killed more men than he could count—thinking he could waltz in and claim me like some prize had been almost laughable. I bit my lip to hold back a smile.
But I wasn't a trophy. I was a storm of fire and ice, a siren who brought the mightiest to their knees. I had seen the hunger in Marcus’s eyes the moment he stepped through that door. The way his gaze crawled over my body, how that bulge in his pants swelled when I leaned forward, my breasts pressing against my thin tank top. Predictable. Tiresome.
Gray’s voice cut the silence. "Playtime’s over. Marcus, we’ve got a job."
Marcus sat, eyes still locked on mine. I felt them—like rough hands trying to peel away my layers, strip me bare. He had been trying to read me, gauge my interest. But I had danced this dance more times than he’d drawn breath. Men like him came and went, all swaggering like they owned the room. And I had used every single one. I'd left them panting and begging while I remained untouched, unbroken.
The temptation had been sharp that time, I’d admit—if what was hidden under that zipper matched the promise of that bulge. But I wouldn’t be the one throwing myself onto the rocks.
Gray droned on, unfazed. "Mister M says you’re still the best, even after… what happened two years ago." Marcus nodded, and Jonathan continued. "A rival family's moving in. Sent a message by attacking Mia."
I hadn’t bothered listening. Instead, I watched Marcus’s hand drift toward his crotch. Subtle. Anyone else would have missed it. But I missed nothing. I took a slow sip of whiskey, the sweet burn on my tongue, my lips curling around the glass.
You think you are the hero, don’t you? My gaze stayed fixed below his belt. That I would spread my legs because you showed up? Think again, soldier boy. That’s not some cheap dark fantasy for virgins. This is real. And I’m not some princess waiting to be saved.
Gray’s voice had droned on about rival families and territory lines. Marcus shifted in his chair, leaning forward like he was actually listening. As if. His hands tightened around his whiskey glass. Predictable tension. Predictable posture. Predictable ‘everything.’ The air thickened with stale testosterone and cigar smoke. I traced the rim of my glass, counting the seconds until that charade ended. One. Two. Three. Gray mentioned Mister M again. Four. Five. Six. Marcus grunted something about “handling it.” Seven. Eight. Nine. My foot tapped silently against the Persian rug. God, kill me now.
Boredom clawed up my spine like cold fingers. And if there was one thing I hated—‘truly’ hated—it was being bored. Especially when men postured in circles, mistaking their grunts for strategy. Marcus’s eyes flicked toward me again. Dark. Hungry. ‘Still’ trying to peel me open. Fine. I’ll give you your money's worth. I set my glass down with a sharp clink. The sound sliced through Gray’s monologue. Both men froze mid-sentence.
"Okay," I sighed, stretching lazily. My tank top rode up just enough to show the curve of my hip. "We get it." I waved a dismissive hand toward Jonathan. "I broke my mechanical vibrator, and you thought I needed a new sex toy, Gray. We all get it." Silence crashed down. Marcus choked on his whiskey. Gray’s knuckles went bone-white. And, as usual, Mr. M remained unperturbed.
Without waiting for their gaping mouths to form words, I pointed a sharp finger at Marcus. "I hope ‘this’ one has rechargeable batteries," I purred, letting my gaze linger deliberately below his belt. "Remember that bodybuilder ‘puppy’ you gave me?" I shook my head slowly, clicking my tongue. "Didn’t last an hour." Marcus’s jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind. Gray stared at me like I’d grown horns. Mr. M just lifted his cigar to his lips, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.
Gray’s response was swift. A guttural roar ripped from his throat. "OUT!" He slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk so hard the whiskey glasses jumped. Marcus flinched. I didn’t. I pushed off the armchair, stretching slowly, deliberately, letting the hem of my tank top ride higher. Marcus’s eyes tracked the movement like a starving wolf. Predictable. Pathetic.
As I glided toward the door, Mr. M’s low, gravelly voice cut through Gray’s ragged breathing. "Marcus. You protect her while we take care of the ‘problem’ here." A pause. Smoke curled lazily. "Should only take two or three weeks."
Marcus shifted. "Do I have carte blanche?" His voice was tight, strained. I didn’t wait for the answer. The brass handle was cold under my palm. I wrenched the door open and slammed it shut behind me with a satisfying, echoing ‘thud’ that rattled the hallway portraits. Silence swallowed me, thick and sudden. Good. Let them stew in their testosterone soup.
This was going to be super fun.
------ Marcus
Behind the oak door, silence hung thick and charged. Gray's furious breathing had filled the space—ragged, hot. I stared at the closed wood, the slam still vibrating in my bones. That insult burned hotter than cheap whiskey. Sex toy? Rechargeable batteries? My fingers ached where I'd clenched them white around the glass. I forced air into my lungs, shoving down the raw, stupid urge to chase after her and prove her wrong. Prove I was more than the bulge in my pants she’d mocked.
Then Mister M’s low rasp cut through the tension like a blade through smoke. "Marcus." The old Italian’s voice was deceptively calm, a stark contrast to Gray’s storm. I turned, meeting his hooded gaze. His cigar glowed faintly in the dim light. "Wait," he murmured, nodding almost imperceptibly toward the hallway door. A silent command. Listen. I strained my ears, filtering out Gray’s muttered curses. Faintly, the sharp click of Mia’s heels faded down the marble corridor—softer, softer, then gone. Only then did Mister M lean forward, his leather chair creaking softly.
"Watch out, son." His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unreadable as polished obsidian. "She's not the 'brainless bimbo' she pretends to be." He took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl around the words like a shroud. "Mister Gray isn’t keeping her just for fun." A pause, heavy as a tombstone. I felt Mia’s insult twist inside me—colder now, sharper. Suspicion crept into my mind. Mister M exhaled, smoke drifting toward the ceiling. "We think she’s Diamond’s fiancée."
The name hit like a gut punch. Diamond. My knuckles cracked against the armrest. Two years. Two years since that rainy night in the docks, the stink of brine and spilled diesel thick in the air. Gray’s orders: "Bring him in alive. We need answers." Diamond—real name unknown—a ghost slipping through intelligence nets. A mastermind behind Gray’s worst losses.
I'd thought I'd cornered him under the flickering neon of Pier 7, rain plastering his silhouette. He’d smiled—a flash of white teeth in the gloom—just before the explosion ripped through the warehouse behind us. Shrapnel tore through my thigh. When the smoke cleared, he was gone. Just blood on wet concrete and my failure echoing in the sirens.
Mister M hadn’t shouted. His silence was worse. A cold dismissal. No more prestige, no more high-stakes contracts. Just chasing cheating spouses and repo jobs in neighborhoods where the streetlights flickered like dying stars. Last night? I'd been paid to fuck some hardworking woman so her husband could bleed her dry in court. ‘This’ had been my life. Because Diamond vanished. Because I failed.
And Mia? Her lilac hair, those mocking eyes. She’d been laughing at me from the start.
I looked up at Gray. He stood silhouetted against the tall window overlooking the rain-slicked city, his back rigid. The fury had drained from him, replaced by a stillness that felt heavier than his rage. His fingers tapped a silent, erratic rhythm against his thigh—the telltale sign of a mind churning through gears only Gray understood. I knew that calculating gaze, sharp as broken glass, assessing angles and leverage. But tonight, something else flickered beneath the surface. A shadow clung to him, a weariness etched around his eyes that wasn’t just fatigue. Haunted. Like a man seeing ghosts reflected in the polished marble floor. He stared out at the city lights, but I doubted he saw them.
I knew it was best not to ask him what he was thinking. Asking Gray about ghosts was like poking a sleeping bear with a live wire. Instead, I rasped the only question that mattered: "Why me?"
Mister M answered before Gray could turn. His voice was gravel scraped over stone. "We couldn't appear weak. Especially not now." He tapped ash from his cigar, the ember flaring briefly. "Everyone knew you were no longer part of the family." He paused, letting the silence coil tight around his next word.
"You are... expendable." It landed like a hammer blow, cold and precise. But it didn't shock me. That’s how he’d raised me—to be a tool, sharp and ready, knowing its place.
He leaned forward, the leather sighing beneath him. "But we needed the best," he added, his dark eyes pinning me. "And that was still you." A ghost of something almost like pride flickered in his gaze. "Keep her safe until you are called. That would pay off your debt."
Without turning from the rain-streaked window, Gray gave a single, curt nod. The city lights painted cold streaks across his rigid shoulders. "We had a deal," he murmured, the words barely audible over the drumming rain.
I pushed myself out of the chair. The movement was stiff, joints protesting the tension coiled tight in my muscles. My boots sank silently into the thick Persian rug as I headed for the door. Behind me, Gray finally turned. His face was carved marble in the gloom, but his eyes held a flicker I didn’t recognize—something raw and unsettling beneath the ice.
Then it happened. The corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smirk, not a threat. A genuine, weary smile that softened the hard lines around his eyes. Love? The thought was jarring, alien. "Marcus," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "She could be... difficult."
"Remember your Delta Force training. Keep your cool," he added, the smile fading as quickly as it appeared. "You were going to need it."
Mr. M shifted in his chair, the leather whispering. His cigar tip glowed brighter as he drew deeply. Smoke curled from his nostrils like twin serpents. "He’s right. Don't trust that cute little face," he rasped, his gaze fixed on the glowing ember. "She'd almost slipped through our fingers several times already."
Coming from him, a man whose paranoia was honed sharper than any blade, it almost sounded like a compliment. A grudging acknowledgment of skill. My own laugh was short, harsh, and devoid of any warmth. It scraped against the silence. "Okay," I said, my hand closing on the cold brass doorknob. "But then I couldn't promise to bring her back happy."
The hallway outside Gray's study felt colder, the air thinner. The scent of lemon polish and old money hung heavy. Mia leaned against the far wall beneath, bathed in the weak light of a crystal sconce. Her lilac hair was a violent splash of color against the somber wallpaper. She pushed off the wall as I approached, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her eyes, sharp as shards of amethyst, raked over me from boots to brow. No trace of the mocking amusement now. Just a cold assessment. "Took you long enough, new toy," she said, her voice low, smooth as poisoned honey. "Ready to babysit?"
I didn't answer. Just jerked my head toward the elevator. She fell into step beside me, heels clicking a sharp, defiant rhythm on the marble. The silence between us was brittle, charged with the insults flung earlier and the weight of Mister M's revelation. Diamond's fiancée. The name echoed in my skull. In the elevator's mirrored walls, I caught her reflection studying my profile, a flicker of something unreadable—curiosity? Calculation?—before her gaze snapped away. The descent was swift and silent.
Outside, rain slicked the asphalt, reflecting the garish neon of the city. My black SUV waited at the curb, engine idling. She slid into the passenger seat without a word, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the window. I climbed in, the familiar scent of leather and gun oil a small comfort. The engine growled as I pulled away from the curb, Gray's fortress shrinking in the rearview mirror. The city swallowed us whole.
Steam rose from two mugs of black coffee at Nicky's, two hours later. The place was mythic—chrome trim, cracked red vinyl booths, the smell of grease and strong coffee battling the lingering damp from our clothes. Rain streaked the plate-glass window beside us, distorting the neon sign across the street. A plate piled high with fluffy pancakes sat between us, drenched in syrup Mia had insisted on ordering extra of.
I’d braced myself for icy silence, for her to sulk behind that lilac curtain of hair. Couldn’t have been more wrong. The second her car door slammed shut back at Gray’s, the dam burst. She hadn't stopped talking since. Not once.
It was a dizzying whirlwind. One second she dissected the ethics of designer pet cloning: "Imagine a teacup hippo! Adorable, but morally bankrupt!" Next she lamented the lack of decent Thai food in this neighborhood, then pivoted sharply to critique the stitching on my worn leather jacket: "Functional, sure, but, 'New toy,' the craftsmanship was 'criminal.'" I knew now that she changed subjects like flipping channels on a busted remote, utterly random, utterly relentless. It felt deliberate, like she was trying to drown out any space for thought, for questions. Especially 'my' questions.
She attacked the pancakes with the same fierce energy she applied to her monologue. Forkfuls vanished with alarming speed, syrup glistening on her lips. Lilac hair tumbled forward as she leaned over the plate, momentarily silencing the torrent of words. Blissful quiet.
I sipped my coffee, black and bitter, letting the heat anchor me. My gaze drifted past her face to the rain-blurred street outside. The words of Mister M’s warning hung heavy in the quiet corner of my mind. Was this frantic performance part of the act? A distraction tactic honed to perfection?
The bell above Nicky’s door jingled, sharp and intrusive. My head snapped towards the sound, instincts kicking in before conscious thought. The door swung open, letting in a gust of damp air and the scent of expensive cologne. He filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and radiating a lazy confidence. Dark, wavy hair swept back, a tailored suit jacket draped over a crisp white shirt unbuttoned enough to hint at a gold chain. Italian, definitely.
He moved with the rolling gait of a predator used to owning the space he occupied, a large, sleek animal entering a watering hole. His eyes swept the room, lingering appreciatively on a passing waitress before landing squarely on our booth. A slow, practiced smile spread across his face as the waitress approached him, bright and welcoming. He murmured something that made her blush before turning fully, his gaze locking onto Mia with unnerving intensity. That smile didn’t waver, but something sharpened behind it.
Mia followed my gaze, her fork halfway to her mouth. A flicker of something—surprise? Recognition crossed her features before she masked it, her expression smoothing into polite indifference. She lowered her fork slowly, deliberately. The frantic energy she’d maintained since leaving Gray’s evaporated instantly, replaced by a watchful stillness. Her knuckles tightened slightly on the edge of the Formica table. The lilac hair seemed almost too vivid against the sudden pallor of her face. She didn’t look at me, her focus entirely on the newcomer.
The man didn't approach. Not yet. He slid into a booth near the door, the one offering a clear line of sight to both the exit and our table. He stretched an arm along the backrest, the picture of casual ease. But his eyes… they never truly left Mia. They held that blank, shark-like stare I knew too well. It was the look of a predator assessing prey, utterly devoid of warmth or hesitation. Professional. Efficient. Killer. The thought clicked into place with cold certainty. My muscles coiled, the old instincts flooding back. Every nerve ending screamed awareness. The slight shift of his weight, the way his hand rested casually near his jacket’s inner pocket, the utter stillness beneath the facade of relaxation. He was good. Very good. But I was Delta. I’d seen that look in mirrors reflecting desert sand and mountain passes. We were definitely being followed.
I kept my expression neutral, a mask of weary boredom. My coffee mug was solid ceramic. A decent weapon if things went sideways fast. Beneath the table, my hand drifted slowly, deliberately, towards the cold steel of the Glock holstered at my ankle. My eyes met Mia’s. No words. Just a look. The look I’d drilled into her during the tense, silent drive here. The signal. My head dipped a fraction of an inch. The slightest, most imperceptible nod towards the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms and the kitchen beyond.
Now, it was the moment of truth. Either Mia played her part flawlessly, or this cozy little breakfast turned into a bloodbath before the syrup soaked through the pancakes.
Would she play her part? Or would she try to bolt?
If she ran straight to him. Well, the trunk of the SUV was spacious. A swift takedown, a zip tie, and a rag soaked in chloroform tucked in my pocket for just such an occasion. And then, back to square one.
The alternative? Three weeks babysitting this unbearable and mocking hen while Gray played his shadow games.
Please, let it be the former.
----- Mia
In the din of my own chewing, I heard the bell ring, announcing a new arrival. Paying little attention to it, too happy to be able to gorge myself on fat and sugar, I glanced at Marcus. Marcus's gaze was intense and determined, forcing me to swivel in my seat.
And there it was: that asshole’s grin, slick and knowing, aimed straight at me. I felt Marcus stiffen beside me, a coiled spring ready to snap. That was when I realized I still had my fork in my hand... great for discretion. If Marcus hadn’t pieced together that I recognized this guy, he was even dumber than I’d assumed. And trust me, I hadn’t assumed much.
But Marcus? Impassive. Stone-faced. Damn. I’d prided myself on reading people, on playing this game better than anyone. Yet there I was, scrambling. This ‘New Toy’ wasn’t going to fold easily, not like I’d fantasized when I’d first watched him stride into Jonathan’s office, all confidence and swagger. Wrapping him around my finger? Forget it now. This turned messy fast.
Okay, focus. I cycled through options: confrontation, evasion, or diversion. What was the smartest move here?
Before I settled on a plan, Marcus gave a single nod. No words, just expectation radiating off him. Obey obediently? Me? Please. Everyone probably sensed the answer by now, right?
I rose slowly, deliberately, smoothing my skirt like I had all the time in the world. Then I walked toward the newcomer, hips swaying just enough to catch the light.
Girls, listen up: The real secret to sending a man a silent message? Use your ASS. Shake it. It worked every damn time, without fail. It didn’t matter who he was—CEO, thug, or some wannabe kingpin. The magic? It was universal. Own it. Be proud. Nature handed us these weapons; why not deploy them? They thought muscles made them stronger? Fine. Ours were just… strategically placed. And brains? We had those too. Might as well use both.
The message I beamed at Marcus now? Crystal clear: "Fuck. You. Asshole."
No need to glance back. I felt the pressure building behind me, thicker than Vesuvius before it buried Pompeii. Tension crackled in the air, so palpable I half-expected the espresso machine to short-circuit.
Just as ‘New Toy’ looked ready to detonate—jaw clenched, fists tightening—I spun toward the waitress. Sweetness dripped from my voice, honey-smooth and utterly innocent. "Excuse me, darling? Could you point me to the restrooms? My makeup's crying for a touch-up." The abrupt shift hung there, suspended—a grenade with the pin quietly slipped back into place. For now.
The poor girl, her wide eyes darting nervously toward the imposing Italian figure dominating the booth near the door, seemed utterly mesmerized by his presence. Too absorbed by his polished veneer to register the predatory stillness beneath it. She tore her gaze away with visible effort, whispering back, "Of course, miss. Please, let me show you." Her voice was thin and faint. I barely registered the words, already falling into step behind her brisk retreat toward the back hallway, my own thoughts a frantic whirlwind centered entirely on Marcus and his latest spectacularly bad idea.
Marcus scrambled my brains worse than cheap tequila, because I completely missed the subtle shift in her posture, the tension coiling tight in her shoulders as we left the main dining area’s clatter behind. The transition from flustered server to something else entirely happened in the shadowed corridor, and I was utterly blindsided while she let me pass.
One moment I was trailing her; the next, a surprisingly strong hand shoved me firmly between the shoulder blades, propelling me through a door marked 'STAFF ONLY.' The abruptness stole my breath. She followed me in, the door clicking shut behind her, sealing us in the cramped, fluorescent-lit room smelling faintly of bleach and stale coffee grounds. Her earlier whisper was gone, replaced by a clipped, businesslike tone. "Alright, sweetie, strip. Quick as you can. We need to verify you're clean—no unwanted passengers tagging along."
Then she was gone, the door shutting again before I could even form a protest. I stood frozen, rooted to the worn floor tiles, the absurdity of the demand echoing in the sudden silence. Passengers? What fresh hell was this?
The reprieve lasted mere seconds. The door burst open again, and she strode back in, wielding a bulky, wand-shaped metal detector identical to the ones they waved at airport security. Her eyes swept over me, still fully clothed. "Seriously? Still dressed?" Her sigh was heavy with exasperation. "You look ridiculous standing there like a mannequin. Get moving! It's just us girls in here; no need for modesty. Christ, where did Marcus even find you?" She advanced, the detector humming ominously. "Didn't he brief you on anything?"
Of course he hadn’t, you absolute moron, I screamed internally. Why else would I be standing there, stunned and furious, feeling like the world's biggest fool? Marcus was going to pay for this. Dearly. With a surge of frustrated rage fueling me, I started to undress. The cool air hit my skin as I scrambled out of my blouse and skirt. All the while, she swept the detector in methodical arcs over my torso, legs, and arms. It glided smoothly until it neared my ears.
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
The sharp, insistent electronic chirp made me flinch. She paused the wand near my left earlobe. "Ah. Jewelry." Her tone was flat, unsurprised. She gestured impatiently. "Off. All of it."
My hands flew to the delicate silver hoops. With a pang of regret sharp enough to make my eyes sting, I yanked them free, dropping them onto the small table beside me, where they landed with a tiny, forlorn clink. Too bad. I’d really like those.
"You'll find your gear in the locker," she stated, nodding toward a dented metal cabinet in the corner. "And sorry about your phone—it was confiscated earlier from your purse. Safer for everyone." She didn’t sound remotely sorry.
Too numb with anger and disbelief to even dignify her with a response, I stalked over to the locker she indicated. My fingers fumbled with the cold metal latch before I finally jerked it open.
HOLY SHIT.
I spun around, my voice rising to a near-shriek that bounced off the sterile walls. "ABSOLUTELY NOT! NOT IN A MILLION BLOODY YEARS!"
But the protest echoed into empty air. The door was firmly shut again. I was utterly alone in the stark room. The locker gaped open, revealing the only alternative: that horrific, gleaming monstrosity. A wave of cold dread washed over me, followed by a fresh, white-hot fury directed solely at Marcus. Kill him? Oh, yes. Slowly.
------ Marcus
The Italian was still at the table near the exit, a marble statue radiating charm. Every waitress who brushed past his orbit had gotten the full treatment—crooked smile, lingering glance, murmured compliment. Fine, kid, he had moves. But not ‘my’ moves. Not yet. I counted each number deliberately, dragging out the ascent to one hundred like a condemned man climbing stairs. Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... 'one hundred.' Time had been up. Tension had settled over me like a familiar coat.
I shoved away from the table, the stool legs scraping harshly against the tile floor. Mia had vanished down the corridor minutes earlier, swallowed by the backstage. My boots thudded decisively as I strode after her. Before I could enter the restroom, Maud materialized from the shadows. Her expression was grim. She blocked my path, arms folded.
"That girl of yours, Marcus," she said, voice low. "She’s a live wire. Tried to kill me with her eyes a few seconds ago. Language like a dockworker on payday. Are you sure you wanna drag that powder keg along? 'Cause wherever you're headed, it sounds like pure hell with her mouth running."
"She is not mine," I corrected sharply, sidestepping her. "She is my cargo. My job is to keep her breathing."
Maud snorted. "Cargo? Looked more like—"
"Isn't your concern," I snapped, cutting her off. "Where is she?"
"Back there," Maud jerked her thumb towards the door with a 'STAFF ONLY' sign. "But listen, she is—"
I hadn't waited. The door handle turned easily under my grip.
I pushed it open… And stopped dead.
The harsh fluorescent light was spilling over Mia. Her outfit, both chic and sexy, had disappeared. In its place: a trashy micro-skirt riding high on her thighs, sheer fishnets beneath. A matching fishnet top strained and revealed two wonderful tits. Six-inch stilettos spiked her height, making her legs impossibly long. The transformation was jarring, almost theatrical. Whore-chic perfected. My body reacted instantly, violently; a tight ache bloomed in my groin, my erection pressing hard against my jeans. Painful. Uncomfortable. Damn it, Marcus, she's not yours.
The only discordant note? Her eyes. Pure, undiluted fury burned there, hotter than the cheap bulbs overhead. She wanted me dead. Fine. Might as well go all the way then.
"How much?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe, voice deliberately casual. "For a quick blowjob?"
Her lips curled into a sneer. "Too much for you, 'New Toy.'"
I pushed off the frame, taking a step closer. The air crackled. "Come on. I'm even willing to give you an extra tip if you swallow."
"Only desperate fools swallow," she spat. "'Suckers.' Like you, you cheap bastard."
A sharp bark of laughter erupted behind me. Maud. "Enough foreplay, lovebirds!" she cackled, pushing past me into the cramped space. "That pretty Italian killer out front? He’s been tapping his foot like he’d had ants in his pants. Move your asses!" She herded us past mops and buckets towards a dented metal door disguised as a supply shelf. With a grunt, she yanked it open, revealing a steep, dark staircase reeking of damp concrete and stale air. Subway access. Convenient indeed.
As Maud prepared to slam the hidden door shut, I grabbed her wrist. "Hey. That Italian kid? Don't underestimate him. Young, yeah. But he’s been Guild-trained. Professional."
She rolled her eyes, pulling free. "Relax, handsome. I’ve handled bigger fish than that guppy."
"Fine," I conceded. "Give Mom a kiss for me. Tell Mr. M we're taking a break in the country with Mia." I paused, locking eyes with her. "And he doesn’t have to reach me. I’ll signal when we're clear."
Maud nodded curtly. Her expression softened for a fleeting second before she slammed the door shut. Darkness swallowed us whole, thick and absolute. Silence pressed in.
Beside me, Mia’s voice sliced through the void, sharp with suspicion.
"Mom?"
I sighed, the sound loud in the confined space. Fumbling in my jacket pocket, I found the cold cylinder of my tactical flashlight. A click, and a beam sliced diagonally downward, illuminating the steep, narrow steps descending into the earth. Dust motes danced in the harsh light.
"Yeah," I muttered, starting down the first step. "It’s… complicated."
Her heels clacked on the concrete behind me. "Complicated sounds promising," she purred, the fury momentarily replaced by predatory curiosity. "And judging by this lovely descent into hell, 'New Toy,' we have plenty of time for the director’s cut." Her voice echoed slightly in the stairwell. "Start talking."
