CHAPTER 3: The Trap
Victor drove us home in silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his jaw set so tight it looked carved from stone. I stared out the window at the passing lights—buildings my father had built, streets his men patrolled, signs bearing the names of companies he’d founded. I’d grown up knowing his power, seeing the way people stepped aside when he walked past, but I’d never felt it like this: heavy, sharp, and dangerous, like a blade held just above the neck of the whole city.
“Who sent them?” I asked when we pulled into the long driveway of our estate, the tall iron gates sliding shut behind us with a heavy, final thud.
“Someone who wants to send me a message,” he said, turning off the engine but not moving to get out. The interior light caught the lines around his eyes, lines I’d never really noticed before. “Someone who knows hurting you is the fastest way to break me. Someone who knows I’d burn the whole city down before I let anything happen to you.”
“Then let them try,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded, even to my own ears. “I’m not fragile. I’ve known who I am my whole life. I’m not scared of them.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me—at the set of my jaw, the fire still burning in my eyes despite the fear still coiled in my chest, the way I stood straight even after everything they’d done. “You’re not fragile. You’re stronger than I ever was at your age. But you’re all I have. And they know that better than anyone.”
Inside the house, his second-in-command, Marcus, was already waiting in the wood-paneled study with files spread across the mahogany desk. Marcus had been with my father since before I was born—quiet, loyal, deadly when he needed to be, the only man Victor had ever fully trusted. He’d taught me to ride a bike, to shoot a gun, to spot a lie before it left someone’s mouth.
“Kael’s father,” Marcus said without preamble, pushing a thick folder across the desk, “met with Julian Vance three days ago. Closed door. No witnesses. No phone records, no texts, nothing. They met in an old warehouse down by the docks, no cameras, no staff.”
Victor’s jaw tightened so hard the muscle jumped visibly in his cheek. “Julian. I should have known he’d crawl back out eventually.”
Julian Voss—no relation, though people often confused the names. He’d been my father’s partner for nearly fifteen years, until Victor found out he’d been skimming from every deal, selling out allies to rivals, and ordering hits on anyone who stood in his way. Victor had cut him out completely, stripped him of every share, every contract, every asset he’d ever held, and told him if he ever stepped foot in the city again, he wouldn’t leave alive. Everyone thought Julian had left the country in shame.
He hadn’t left. He’d just been waiting.
“He’s been building his own network for two years,” Marcus went on, tapping a list of names. “Taking over the old docks, moving in on the clubs you handed over to your managers, buying off police contacts, gathering every enemy you ever made. He’s been lying low, waiting for the right moment to strike.”
“Tonight was the opening move,” Victor said, staring out the tall window at the lights of the city spread below us like a kingdom waiting to be fought over. “Humiliate my daughter in public. Show everyone I can’t even protect my own blood. Make them doubt who really runs this place.”
He stood up slowly, buttoning his jacket like he was preparing for war. “Call everyone. Every captain, every manager, every ally we still have. We’re done waiting. If he wants a fight, I’ll give him one he’ll never forget.”
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