The west wing of the Ashford Museum of Modern Art smelled like money and lies.Dominic Hale stood before the gallery’s centerpiece, his reflection ghosting across the protective glass. Where his mother’s masterpiece should have hung, a massive gold-framed portrait of Vivienne Ashford dominated the wall instead. The woman in the painting wore a satisfied smile, her hands folded over a pristine white dress, as if she’d never destroyed anything in her life.A brass plaque gleamed beneath the frame:In memory of Eleanor Hale, amateur painter (1975-2015). This gallery honors Vivienne Ashford, who elevated our city’s art beyond mediocrity.Dominic’s jaw tightened. His fingers moved to the battered leather case at his side, worn smooth from ten years of carrying. He opened it with practiced care and removed a six-inch fragment of torn canvas. The paint had cracked with age, but the brushstrokes were still visible—a child’s eye, impossibly blue, and the curve of a small hand reaching upward.

The SUV dropped Dominic two blocks from Ashford Tower. He walked the rest of the way with the leather case in hand, weaving through evening crowds that parted without knowing why. Something about the way he moved made people step aside.The tower rose sixty stories above the financial district, all glass and steel catching the sunset. Dominic had seen the architectural renders in a magazine years ago, back when they were still clearing the lot. The article praised Vivienne Ashford's vision, her commitment to urban renewal. It never mentioned what had been there before.His mother's studio. The place where she'd died.Dominic stepped into the lobby. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, a security desk amanned by two guards in tailored suits. Beyond them, a bank of elevators served the upper floors. Tonight, only one was running—reserved for guests attending the Visionary Artists Gala on the penthouse level.He walked past the guards without slowing. One of them called out, but Dominic w

The guards rushed at him from three directions, batons lifted high. Their boots slammed against the marble floor as they moved in unison. This wasn’t new to them. They were trained to control crowds, handle troublesome guests, and deal with protesters who slipped inside. Dominic stood.He didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't raise his hands to defend himself. He simply lifted his right foot and brought his heel down hard against the marble floor.The impact shouldn't have done anything. A shoe hitting stone. But the sound that came wasn't a tap, it was a crack like thunder breaking overhead. The floor beneath Dominic's foot spiderwebbed with hairline fractures that spread outward in a perfect circle.Then the shockwave hit.It was invisible, a pulse of force that radiated from the point of impact like a bomb going off underwater. The guards closest to Dominic were lifted off their feet and thrown backward. Bodies slammed into marble pillars with bone-breaking force. Three men crashed th

Magnus Cross moved like a man half his age.The charge was explosive, decades of training compressed into a single moment. His right fist came up in a tight arc, aimed at Dominic's jaw. Magnus had shattered cinderblock walls with this punch. Had dropped men twice his size. It was the strike that had made his reputation, the one that ended fights before they truly began.Dominic caught it with one hand.His fingers closed around Magnus's fist and stopped it cold. The impact should have driven Dominic backward, should have at least made him flinch. Instead, he stood perfectly still, his arm not even trembling from the force. His expression didn't change.The ballroom gasped as one.Magnus's eyes went wide. He tried to pull back, tried to wrench his fist free, but Dominic's grip was iron. For the first time in perhaps thirty years, genuine shock registered on Magnus Cross's face.Dominic twisted.The movement was surgical, precise. He rotated Magnus's arm at the elbow, forcing the joint

Two years ago.The highway was empty at midnight, nothing but darkness and the occasional streetlight casting pools of yellow on the asphalt. Celeste sat in the passenger seat of her father's Mercedes, half-asleep, her head resting against the window. They were driving back from a dinner meeting in the neighboring city—another potential investor, another pitch for funding that Thomas Monroe desperately needed.The first impact jolted her awake.Metal screamed as something slammed into the rear bumper. The Mercedes fishtailed, tires shrieking. Thomas fought the wheel, his knuckles white, and managed to straighten the car. In the rearview mirror, headlights bore down on them—a black van, accelerating."Dad—"The van hit them again, harder this time. The Mercedes spun, crossed two lanes, and slammed into the guardrail. The airbags deployed with a bang that left Celeste's ears ringing. White powder filled the cabin, chemical-bitter in her throat.She heard her father shouting her name, bu