It was night and the rain fell in silver threads over the rusted bones of Blackridge, washing grime from rooftops that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Neon signs flickered above shuttered pawnshops and brothels, their dying light reflecting in oil-slick puddles that painted the streets in fractured color.Ethan Cross stood beneath a dented awning, his hood pulled low, cigarette burning to a tired ember. The smoke curled upward, lost to the wet night. He had always liked the rain—it silenced the world. Hid the gunshots. Blurred the past.This street had been his once. The Iron Syndicate’s old quarter. Back when he’d been someone men whispered about. Back when “Wolf General” wasn’t just a name—it was a warning.He hadn’t come here to remember. But some ghosts are louder than reason.Now he was just Ethan Cross—the unemployed son-in-law of Alessandro Valente, a man whose dinner table was a battlefield of politics, whose words could end empires. Ava’s husband. The quiet one. The disappoint

The storm broke at dawn. Rain carved cold veins down the glass walls of the penthouse, streaking the city in gray and silver. Ethan stood before the window, shirtless, his knuckles bruised from a fight he hadn’t meant to start. His reflection stared back—hard, hollow, and tired. He had survived humiliation. He had built empires from ashes. But what tore at him now wasn’t the ghosts of his past. It was Ava Langston. Her name pulsed through his mind like a curse and a prayer. He’d told himself he could handle her—her defiance, her pity, her bleeding loyalty to the family that had spat on him. But the image of her standing in that hallway the night before, rain-soaked and shaking, wouldn’t leave him. “You think you’re the only one who’s broken?” she had whispered, and the look in her eyes had undone something brutal in him. Now, as the rain fell harder, he poured whiskey into a glass and let the burn settle deep in his chest. The phone on the counter vibrated. Incoming call: Bri

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days.It came down in silver knives, cutting through the industrial skyline, washing away the filth that the city could never cleanse on its own. Inside the warehouse, the air was heavy with rust, oil, and unspoken words.Ethan sat on the edge of a steel crate, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on the floor. His shirt clung to his skin, dark with sweat and rain. Across from him, Ava paced, arms wrapped around herself as if she could hold the weight of her guilt together.They hadn’t spoken much since she arrived.He’d offered her dry clothes and silence — two things he knew she needed more than forgiveness.Now, as thunder cracked over the harbor, she finally broke the stillness.“Do you ever regret it?” she asked softly.Ethan’s eyes lifted. “What?”“Us.”He studied her, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Every day,” he said after a long pause. “And never once.”She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders trembling. “You make that sound like a punishment.”“

The moment hung between them — fragile, dangerous.Finally, he said, “Then you’re no longer my daughter.”He turned away, calling out, “Guards—”But Ava was faster. She shoved past him, sprinting through the hall. A shot cracked behind her — marble splintering where her shoulder had been seconds ago. She didn’t look back.Outside, rain began to fall againEthan was waiting in the alley, engine running, headlights dimmed. When he saw her running toward him — coat torn, eyes blazing — he threw the car door open.She jumped in, chest heaving. “Drive.”He did.As the tires screeched against the wet asphalt, Ethan glanced at her. “You got it?”She held up the flash drive, her hand trembling. “Everything.”He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just drove, silent, eyes on the road.Finally, he murmured, “You realize what this means.”“I do.”He nodded once. “Then there’s no turning back.”“I never wanted to,” she said.The city blurred past — rain, neon, darkness. For a moment, she felt we

Morning broke over Blackridge like an exhausted fighter.Smoke still rose from the Castillo compound, curling into the sky like incense for the dead.The news was already everywhere—MAFIA WAR ERUPTS IN INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT. UNKNOWN AGENT WIPES OUT CASTILLO CREW.In the Valente estate, silence was heavier than mourning.Servants whispered. Soldiers moved with the caution of men afraid to breathe too loud.Because they all knew: whatever had happened in that warehouse, their quiet son-in-law had done it. Ava stood at the balcony, watching the city shimmer in the pale light.Her phone buzzed. Reporters. Informants. Every call demanding answers she didn’t have.She turned off the phone and whispered to herself,“What are you, Ethan Cross?”Behind her, the door opened.Her father entered, coat over his shoulders, cigar already lit.Alessandro Valente never looked older.He’d built an empire of loyalty and fear, but today his hands trembled when he poured coffee.“You were there,” he said