The Escalade bolted through the city streets, the tinted windows shielding Kace and Autumn from the bustling world outside. Snow flurries had given way to a steady drizzle, turning the asphalt slick and reflective under the streetlights. Kace stared out at the passing buildings, his mind racing from the call with Anderson. It had been years since St. Maria, since the betrayal that shattered his military career, and now this—out of nowhere. Autumn sat beside him, the briefcase from the Valdez meeting resting on her lap, her short spiky hair still slightly disheveled from the wind. She glanced at him, her narrow green eyes curious, breaking the silence.“Why did you show Reno mercy?” she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the engine. “Considering what he did—the trafficking, the assaults. You had him dead to rights. Why let him keep even two percent?”Kace turned to her, his green eyes steady, a faint smile playing on his lips that didn’t reach them. “I never showed him m

The kitchen in the Rogers’ modest Brooklyn brownstone hummed with the mundane rhythm of evening chores, the kind that Anderson clung to like lifelines on stormy seas. Fluorescent light from the single bulb overhead cast harsh shadows across the chipped Formica counters, illuminating stacks of mismatched plates and the faint steam rising from the sink. Outside, the December drizzle pattered against the window like impatient fingers, blurring the streetlights into hazy orbs. He stood at the sink, sleeves of his faded army-green Henley rolled to his elbows, scrubbing a casserole dish with more force than necessary. The hot water scalded his hands, but he welcomed the burn—it grounded him, kept the ghosts at bay. Emilia’s silence from the dining table was louder than any argument, a wall of teenage resentment that had thickened over the past weeks. Dinner had been a battlefield of unspoken barbs: her fork scraping against her plate like nails on a chalkboard, his attempts at conversation

The boardroom at Hendrix Industries headquarters was a temple of corporate power, all gleaming chrome accents and polished walnut panels that screamed old money and unyielding authority. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Manhattan’s steel canyons, the December sun glinting off skyscrapers like diamonds scattered across a gray velvet sky. The air hummed with the subtle tension of a company on the brink, shares fluctuating, whispers of takeovers circulating like smoke in the vents. Austen Hendrix presided at the head of the long conference table, his ocean-blue eyes steely under furrowed brows, graying blonde hair impeccably combed despite the invisible storm raging within. Flanking him were the shareholders: Bernice Tantanam with her sharp bob and sharper gaze, a few silver-haired veterans nursing coffees, and others scribbling notes on tablets. At the opposite end stood Axel Tantanam, mid-presentation, his dark brown hair gelled to perfection, hazel eyes alight wi

The executive office at Hendrix Industries was a fortress of polished ambition, its walls lined with framed accolades and panoramic views of Manhattan’s relentless skyline. But on this crisp December afternoon, the space felt more like a pressure cooker, the air thick with the residue of defeat. Austen Hendrix paced behind his massive oak desk, his ocean-blue eyes blazing with unchecked fury, his graying blonde hair slightly disheveled from fingers raked through it one too many times. The boardroom debacle replayed in his mind like a bad film loop, Kace Cameron, that smug interloper, dismantling Axel’s pitch with surgical precision, turning the shareholders against them in minutes. Austen’s fists clenched at his sides, the vein in his temple pulsing like a war drum. “That bastard,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly snarl that echoed off the glass.Axel Tantanam stood by the window, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his dark brown hair still perfectly combed, but his hazel eyes down

Kace Cameron’s Porsche growled to a halt in the underground garage of his Manhattan penthouse, the engine’s rumble echoing off the concrete walls like a fading thunderclap. He killed the ignition, but sat there for a long moment, hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles whitened. The drive back from Brooklyn had been a blur, rain-slicked streets, honking taxis, the city’s indifferent pulse mocking his turmoil. The image of Anderson’s house, that charred carcass of a home, clung to him like smoke: twisted beams clawing at the sky, the chalk outline where his friend had fallen, the acrid stench that seeped into his clothes. Downcast and exhausted, his green eyes hollowed by grief, Kace finally stepped out, his overcoat hanging limp from his shoulders. Each step toward the private elevator felt weighted, as if the ghosts of St. Maria trailed him, whispering accusations.The elevator doors parted with a soft chime, depositing him into the expansive foyer of the penthouse. Marble floors