The iron gates of the Fitzgerald estate groaned as they swung open. The house loomed in the darkness, windows blazing with light.

Delia walked into the foyer. The air was thick enough to choke on. The maids were gone. The silence was heavy.

Her father, Hubert Fitzgerald, sat in the center of the living room. He looked like a man waiting for a firing squad. His face was gray.

Sterling was pacing by the fireplace, running his paint-stained hands through his hair.

"You have the nerve to come back?" Hubert shouted the moment he saw her. He stood up, his hands shaking. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Delia tossed her purse onto the sofa. "Dad, Ansel broke it off. He said I make him vomit. Literally."

"I don't care about his stomach!" Hubert slammed his hand on the table. "You insulted the Gibson family! You walked away from the contract!"

"Contract?" she asked. "It's a marriage, Dad. Not a business merger. And I'm not marrying a man who can't perform."

Sterling snorted. Hubert shot him a glare that could peel paint.

"You don't understand," Hubert whispered. He collapsed back into the chair. "It's not just business. It's... it's a debt. An old debt."

"What kind of debt?" Delia pressed.

Hubert looked at the floor. "A blood debt. The parchment... the marriage contract... it wasn't signed with ink."

Her heart stuttered. Parchment. Blood debt. This wasn't corporate jargon; this was Old World underworld law. Her father was terrified, not of bankruptcy, but of execution.

"Where is it?" she asked.

"You don't ask questions!" Hubert snapped, fear spiking in his voice. "Tomorrow, you are going to the Gibson estate. You will apologize to Ansel. You will beg him to take you back."

"No," she said.

Hubert stood up, raising his hand.

Sterling stepped between them, catching Father's wrist. His artist's hands were surprisingly strong. "Dad! Don't. You're not hitting her because that freak Ansel has a weak stomach."

Hubert's hand hovered in the air. He looked at it, then dropped it to his side. He looked old. Defeated.

"If you don't marry him," Hubert said, his voice cracking, "they will destroy us. Not financially, Delia. They will wipe us out."

He turned and walked out of the room.

Delia stood there, her blood running cold. Her father was a powerful man. He didn't scare easily. But the mention of that contract had terrified him.

She went to her room and locked the door.

She sat at her vanity, staring at herself in the mirror.

Parchment. Blood debt.

She opened her laptop. She pulled up a secure browser. She typed: Gibson Family History + Origins.

Results: Philanthropy. Real Estate. Shipping.

She typed: Gibson + Pama.

Access Denied.

The screen went black for a second, then reset. Her own firewall had kicked in to stop a trace.

She sat back.

They were scrubbing the internet.

She remembered the look in Killian's eyes in the garden. The absolute authority. The violence.

If she wanted to know what her father was hiding, she couldn't rely on Google. She needed access. She needed to get inside the beast's belly.

She opened the top drawer of her desk. Buried under a pile of lipstick and old receipts was a business card. She had swiped it from a charity gala months ago.

Killian Gibson. CEO, Gibson Corp.

It was a generic card. But it was a way in.

She picked it up. The card stock was heavy. Expensive.

"You want an apology?" she whispered to the empty room. "Fine. I'll give you one."

But not to Ansel. Ansel was the puppet.

She was going for the puppet master.

The clock struck 2:00 AM.

The estate was asleep.

Delia changed. The silk dress was replaced by black tactical cargo pants and a fitted long-sleeve thermal. She pulled her hair into a tight braid and shoved it under a black cap.

She bypassed the hallway sensors-she had installed the update herself last summer, leaving a backdoor in the code. She slipped out the second-story window, dropping onto the terrace, then vaulting over the railing to the grass.

She didn't take her car.

She went to the back of the garage, under a tarp. Her Ducati.

She rolled it down the driveway in neutral until she was a mile away. Then she kicked the starter. The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through her chest.

She tore down the highway. Speed was the only thing that cleared her head.

She headed downtown. To the gritty district where the streetlights were broken and the shadows had teeth.

She stopped in front of a dusty bookstore called Ink & Paper.

She knocked on the metal shutter. Three times fast. Two slow.

A slat slid open. Eyes peered out.

"We're closed," a voice rasped.

"I'm looking for a first edition of 'Southern Rain'," she said.

The shutter rattled up.

She walked in. The smell of old paper and stale coffee hit her. She walked straight to the back, pushing aside a heavy velvet curtain.

The Archive.

It was a room filled with servers and terminals. The information hub of the underworld.

She sat at a terminal. She needed leverage on Killian.

She typed his name.

Warning: Level 10 Encryption.

She started the bypass sequence. Her fingers were a blur. Her mind raced. Accessing this terminal was risky. If Killian had traced her earlier hack at the club, he might have flagged her digital signature. She was counting on the anonymity of The Archive, but a man who scrubs the internet might own the library too.

Suddenly, the lights cut out. Red emergency strobes began to flash.

Intruder Alert.

Not her.

The front door of the bookstore exploded inward.

Men in tactical gear poured in. Automatic gunfire shredded the bookshelves.

"Clear the room!" someone shouted.

Delia dove behind a heavy oak desk. Wood splinters rained down on her. This wasn't a police raid. This was a hit. And the timing was too perfect. Either she had led them here, or this place was already compromised.

A mercenary rounded the desk. He saw her. He raised his rifle.

She didn't think. She moved.

She swept his leg, grabbing the barrel of the rifle and driving the stock into his throat. He gagged and dropped. She pulled a knife from her boot-a ceramic blade, invisible to detectors-and spun.

Another man rushed her. She ducked his swing, slashing the tendon behind his knee. He went down screaming.

She needed an exit. The back door.

She sprinted through the chaos, dodging gunfire. She burst into the alleyway.

Rain was falling again.

She ran toward her bike, but a black SUV swerved into the alley, blocking her path.

She raised her knife, ready to fight.

The rear window rolled down.

Killian Gibson sat there. He was illuminated by the streetlamp. He looked calm. Bored, even.

He looked at the knife in her hand. Then at the blood on her shirt-not hers.

"Get in," he said.

Bullets chipped the brick wall next to her head.

She didn't hesitate. She ripped the door open and dove into the backseat.

"Go," Killian ordered.

The driver floored it. The Maybach surged forward, leaving the alley and the gunfire behind.

Delia sat up, breathing hard. The adrenaline was crashing. Her hand was still gripping the knife so hard her knuckles were white. He was here. He knew. He had either ordered the raid or was watching the place waiting for a rat to scurry out. And she had run straight into his car.

Killian turned to her. He held out a pristine white handkerchief.

"Wipe your hand," he said softly. "You're getting blood on my Italian leather."

She looked at him. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't asking why the "spoiled heiress" just neutralized two mercenaries.

She took the handkerchief. "Thanks."

The car didn't go to her house. It pulled up to the curb of Velvet, the most exclusive nightclub in the city.

"You can't go home looking like G.I. Jane," Killian said. "Go inside. Clean up. Blend in."

He didn't get out. He just waited.

Delia slipped out of the car and into the club's side entrance.

In the bathroom, she scrubbed the blood off her hands. She ditched the cap. She shook out her hair. She took off the tactical jacket, leaving her in the tight thermal top. It looked intentional. Edgy.

She walked out onto the floor. The bass thumped in her chest, masking her heartbeat.

She found Elsie Kidd in a booth near the bar.

"Delia!" Elsie screamed over the music. "Oh my god! I thought your dad locked you in the dungeon!"

Delia slid into the booth. "He tried."

She signaled the waitress. "Tequila. Double."

Elsie grabbed her arm. "Is it true? About Ansel?"

"Yes."

"Everyone is saying he dumped you because of his... condition."

"He's just ugly, Elsie," she said, downing the shot the waitress brought. "Inside and out."

Elsie grinned mischievously. “Oh? And what kind do you like, then? The deadly type? Like Killian Gibson?”

Delia choked on the lime.

Elsie's eyes widened in alarm. "No way! You're actually into that devil? He'll eat you alive!"

The image of Killian handing her a handkerchief in the car just moments earlier flashed across Delia's mind.

Delia quirked up the corner of her mouth. "Maybe I want a taste of being devoured too."

"Well, well." A slur of a voice interrupted them.

Delia looked up. Luke Higgins. Ansel's best friend. He was swaying, holding a drink that was mostly spilled.

"The reject," Luke sneered. "Ansel told me you begged him. On your knees."

Her hand tightened on her glass.

"Go away, Luke," she said.

"Or what?" He leaned in, his breath smelling of sour whiskey. "You gonna cry to your daddy?"

He reached out, his hand grasping for her shoulder.

Her muscle memory triggered. She grabbed his wrist. She twisted.

"Ow! Fuck!" Luke yelled.

"Let go of her!" Elsie shouted, standing up.

Luke shoved Elsie. She stumbled back, hitting her hip against the table. She cried out.

That was it.

The red haze dropped over her vision. She stood up. She was about to break his arm. She was about to snap it like a dry twig. She didn't care about the cover anymore. She was going to hurt him.

Suddenly, the music cut out.

The silence was instant. Violent.