The Parker mansion was quiet the next morning, but it was not peace. It was the brittle kind of silence that came after a storm, when the air was too heavy to breathe, when every word felt dangerous.Harold stayed in his room, refusing to eat, refusing to speak of what happened. The boy who once strutted with arrogant confidence now flinched at shadows, his hands trembling whenever he remembered Trojan’s knife flashing beside his face.Lydia refused to leave his side. She held him like a child, brushing his hair back and whispering comforts that rang hollow. But beneath the tenderness, her anger simmered. Every time she thought of Cole Brady walking back through those doors with Harold at his side, a knot of fury twisted tighter in her chest.She wanted to believe Harold was exaggerating, that Trojan had only been playing some cruel game. But Harold’s wide, terrified eyes told another story, a story in which Cole had walked into the den of wolves and emerged untouched.And that story

The rain had not stopped. It fell in a steady rhythm against the Parker estate’s windows, as if the heavens themselves knew the storm that brewed within the city’s underbelly.Cole Brady sat at the long dining table, a cup of untouched tea before him. The chandeliers above spilled golden light, but the atmosphere was anything but warm.Across from him, Lydia stared daggers, her disapproval so palpable that even the servants avoided the room. Fiona sat between them, her posture stiff, her eyes darting occasionally to Cole as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t. Harold, pale but recovering, picked at his food in silence.No one said a word. The only sound was the clink of cutlery and the murmur of rain.Finally, Lydia broke the silence. “You still haven’t explained,” she said, her voice sharp. “How you managed to walk into Trojan’s den and return alive. With Harold. Either you made a deal with that butcher, or…” She trailed off, her suspicion heavy in the air.Cole lifted his gaze s

The arena’s old lights buzzed overhead, their glow flickering in patches like dying stars. Dust floated lazily in the air as Trojan tapped his knife against the ropes, his grin wide and wolfish.Cole Brady stood still, his posture unchanging, his silence unnerving. Ethan’s fist still throbbed from striking the wall. Trojan Jr. paced like a caged beast, humiliated by Cole’s unshakable calm.But Trojan wasn’t interested in brute intimidation anymore. No, he wanted something deeper. Something that would peel Cole open in front of his men.“Enough of words and glares,” Trojan finally said, his voice cutting through the silence. “We’ll play a different game tonight.”He gestured, and two men dragged a trembling figure into the ring. A young man, maybe in his early twenties, his hands bound, his mouth gagged. His eyes darted wildly, filled with terror.The crowd murmured. Cole’s gaze flicked briefly to the boy, then back to Trojan.“Do you know who this is, Brady?” Trojan asked.Cole didn’t

The Parker estate was alive with the hum of laughter and clinking glasses. Harold had insisted on hosting a charity dinner that evening, a chance, he claimed, to reaffirm the family’s prestige in the city. For the Parkers, appearances were currency, and Harold was desperate to spend.Guests filled the grand hall, their polished shoes echoing against marble floors, their gowns glittering under the chandelier’s light. It was a theater of wealth, and every smile was a mask.Cole stood near the corner of the room, his presence as subtle as a shadow against the wall. His suit was plain compared to the shimmering attire around him, but he carried it with a quiet authority that drew eyes regardless.Across the room, Fiona moved through the guests gracefully, though her smile faltered each time her gaze drifted toward him. Their conversation from the night before still lingered in her mind, If I told you, you’d never sleep again.And then, like a rehearsed cue, Blake Morgan arrived.He steppe

Cole Brady didn’t sleep.While the Parker estate sank into silence, he sat in the small, unlit study on the ground floor, a single candle burning low on the desk. The flicker of the flame caught the edges of his face, throwing shadows across the walls.On the desk lay a spread of papers, maps of the city, newspaper clippings, hand written notes in his precise script. Strings of information tied names to places, events to faces. Trojan. Ethan. Blake Morgan. Even Harold Parker himself.Cole’s hand moved slowly, drawing a line between two names. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned with thought.He already knew what Blake was doing. The man’s moves were loud, deliberate. The kind of maneuvers meant to dazzle those who wanted to believe in charm. Blake didn’t hide his blade, he polished it and waved it where everyone could see.Trojan, on the other hand, was a shadow player. He let others bleed first. And that made him far more dangerous.Cole leaned back, his chair creaking softl