2

Harrison's furious roar bounced off the high ceilings of the living room. He demanded Jordan drop the weapon immediately.

Grandfather Sterling stood right behind Harrison. He leaned heavily on his silver-headed cane, his face pale with rage as he watched the chaotic scene.

Jordan turned her head slowly. There was no panic in her eyes at being caught. There was only a thick, heavy layer of mockery.

Seeing her protectors arrive, Serafina let out a pathetic, wailing cry, trying to milk the situation for maximum sympathy.

Jordan frowned in disgust. She turned her wrist and slapped the flat side of the tactical blade against Serafina's cheek twice. It was a clear command to shut up.

Harrison lunged toward the marble table. He reached out, trying to use his fatherly authority to snatch the weapon from Jordan's hand.

Jordan moved as if she had eyes in the back of her head. She smoothly shifted her weight, dodging Harrison's grabbing hands with effortless precision.

She flipped her wrist. The tactical knife spun over her knuckles in a flawless, deadly blur. With a sharp click, the blade retracted into the handle.

Jordan shoved the ruby necklace deep into the pocket of her leather jacket. She watched coldly as her father pulled a trembling Serafina into his arms.

Sterling slammed his cane hard against the floorboards. He pointed a shaking finger at Jordan, accusing her of bringing ultimate shame to the family name.

Miles away, the camera lens pulled back. Just two blocks away from the estate, behind the reinforced, bulletproof windows of a highly classified AEGIS safe house disguised as a high-rise apartment, the room was completely dark.

Only the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline bled through the glass.

Blake Berry sat in a single leather armchair by the window. He wore a pure black silk shirt, the top two buttons undone.

He held a heavily encrypted military tablet in his hands. The glowing screen displayed the hacked, high-definition feed of the Whitley Manor's internal security cameras. His deep eyes were locked dead onto the live footage of the living room.

A dark, amused smile pulled at the corner of Blake's mouth. His deep eyes gleamed with the sharp, predatory focus of a hunter spotting a very dangerous prey.

Through the high-resolution digital feed, he had perfectly captured the way Jordan retracted that knife. It was a highly professional, lethal tactical maneuver.

As the Commander of AEGIS, his brain processed the data instantly. That kind of muscle memory did not come from basic self-defense classes. It came from killing.

The smart lock on the penthouse door clicked open. His deputy, Drew Foster, walked in quickly, holding a heavily encrypted file.

Drew reported that their investigation into the Brooklyn black-market medical network had hit a dead end.

Blake didn't lower the tablet. He just gave a low hum of acknowledgment, his eyes still glued to Jordan's figure on the screen.

Drew followed Blake's line of sight. He only saw the blurry figures moving inside the digital layout of the manor across the park. He frowned in confusion.

Back in the manor, Jordan sneered at Sterling's accusations. She fired back, mocking their hypocrisy and their betrayal of her mother's memory.

Harrison pointed a finger right in Jordan's face. His chest heaved as he warned her that if she ever touched Serafina again, he would cut off all her funding.

Hearing the threat about money, Jordan actually laughed out loud. The sound was dry and filled with absolute contempt for the Whitley family's wealth.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a limitless black card. She threw it directly at Harrison's feet.

The heavy metal card slid across the Persian rug and stopped right next to Serafina's expensive high heels.

Jordan looked at them with dead eyes. She announced that she never needed their charity, and warned them to stay far away from her bottom line.

In the dark safe house across the city, Blake finally lowered the tablet. He picked up a glass of whiskey from the side table and took a slow sip.

The amber liquid burned down his throat. He turned his head and ordered Drew to run a full background check on the Whitley family's newly returned eldest daughter.

Drew stared at his commander in shock. Blake Berry never cared about spoiled heiresses. But Drew nodded immediately and left the room to execute the order.

---

3

To keep the family scandal from leaking to the staff, Sterling ordered Harrison and Jordan to follow him upstairs to the soundproof study.

The heavy oak door slammed shut, completely cutting off the sound of Serafina's fake, dramatic sobbing from the floor below.

Sterling walked behind the massive mahogany desk and sat down. He rested both hands on the head of his cane, his sharp eyes scanning his granddaughter.

Harrison paced back and forth across the room. He angrily accused Jordan of picking up street-thug habits during her years abroad.

Jordan dropped carelessly onto the leather sofa. She crossed her long legs and let out a cold, dismissive scoff at her father's rant.

Sterling cleared his throat loudly. He dropped a massive bomb into the room, announcing that Serafina was ten weeks pregnant.

Harrison stopped pacing. A flash of awkwardness crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a smug pride at the thought of a new heir.

Jordan raised an eyebrow. A mocking glint flashed in her eyes as she silently judged her father's ability to still reproduce.

Sterling's tone turned deadly serious. He stated that the family trust fund would have to be completely restructured to accommodate the unborn child.

Harrison seized the opportunity to press his advantage. He demanded Jordan apologize to Serafina immediately, or he would drastically cut her share of the inheritance.

Dead silence filled the study. Jordan looked down at her boots, seemingly digesting this massive financial threat.

Just as Harrison thought his daughter was finally breaking, Jordan threw her head back and let out a loud, oppressive laugh.

She stood up. Her combat boots hit the floor hard as she walked slowly toward Harrison's desk. Every step radiated a freezing, suffocating pressure.

Jordan planted both hands flat on the polished wood. She leaned over, looking down at her father, and told him she didn't give a damn about his blood-soaked money.

She delivered her final ultimatum, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She warned them that no one in this family was allowed to touch her mother's belongings ever again.

Real, unfiltered killing intent bled into Jordan's eyes. She stated clearly that if Serafina touched her mother's things again, she wouldn't mind making that unborn fetus disappear early.

Harrison saw the raw bloodlust in his daughter's eyes. His stomach dropped. He stumbled backward in fear, knocking over a heavy floor lamp behind him.

Sterling stared at Jordan in absolute shock. He finally realized that this granddaughter had completely broken free from the family's control.

Jordan stood up straight. She casually adjusted the collar of her leather jacket and turned toward the study door.

She grabbed the brass handle and looked over her shoulder. She left them with one last mocking wish, hoping their little family of three would rot happily in this hypocritical grave.

Jordan pulled the door open and strode down the hallway. She completely ignored Serafina, who was hiding and eavesdropping at the corner of the stairs.

Serafina felt the freezing aura rolling off Jordan. She shivered violently and wrapped both arms protectively around her stomach.

Jordan walked out the front doors of the manor. She grabbed her helmet from the handlebars and slid it over her head.

She threw her long leg over the heavy motorcycle and kicked the stand up in one fluid, practiced motion.

Jordan twisted the throttle. The engine let out a deafening roar, tearing through the quiet, wealthy atmosphere of the Upper East Side.

The tires burned white smoke against the cobblestones as the bike shot out into the street like a bullet. Before she completely peeled out of the neighborhood, her razor-sharp survival instincts suddenly flared. She instinctively glanced up through her visor at the dark windows of a pre-war high-rise down the block. A tall, imposing silhouette stood perfectly still behind the glass, looking down at her. The sheer, suffocating weight of that unseen gaze burned itself into her memory in a fraction of a second.

Harrison stood on the second-floor balcony. He watched his daughter's taillights disappear, his hands shaking with rage and absolute helplessness.

As Jordan sped through the cold night wind, the encrypted communicator built into her helmet suddenly beeped.

She pressed the button on the side of her helmet. Her hacker friend, Miles, yelled frantically into her earpiece.

Miles told her that her beloved younger brother, Julian, had gotten involved in a gang fight in Brooklyn and was currently sitting in an NYPD holding cell.

---

4

Jordan's black motorcycle tore through the dark streets, blowing past two red lights. The tires shrieked as she took a sharp corner.

She aggressively parked the heavy bike sideways, right in the middle of the red no-parking zone outside the NYPD's 75th Precinct in Brooklyn.

Jordan yanked the keys out of the ignition. She pulled off her helmet and spoke into the built-in mic, demanding Miles give her the exact details.

Through the encrypted channel, Miles spoke fast. Julian had been arrested because he tried to cover for a local street punk named Cody during a brawl.

Hearing that her brother stuck his neck out for a gangbanger, Jordan cursed him for being an absolute idiot under her breath.

She locked her helmet to the bike and pushed open the heavy glass doors of the precinct. The stale smell of cheap coffee and harsh bleach hit her nose immediately.

The lobby was pure chaos. Prostitutes, drug dealers, and angry victims packed the waiting area, screaming over each other.

Jordan ignored the noise. She walked straight past the crowd and stopped in front of the bulletproof glass of the duty desk.

A fat, exhausted white cop was staring down at a stack of paperwork. He didn't even bother to look up.

Jordan curled her knuckles and knocked hard on the marble counter. Three sharp, echoing cracks.

The fat cop snapped his head up, his face red with annoyance. He opened his mouth to yell, but the dead, freezing look in Jordan's eyes forced the words back down his throat.

Her voice was like ice. She gave him Julian Whitley's name and demanded the bail paperwork immediately.

The cop typed lazily on his keyboard. A mocking smirk spread across his face as he told her this was an aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.

He turned the monitor around. He pointed a thick finger at the bright red "BAIL DENIED" stamp on the screen, stating the case had already been transferred to Major Crimes.

Jordan's eyes narrowed dangerously. Her tactical brain spun. A basic street fight didn't get kicked up to Major Crimes this fast.

She instantly realized someone was using this case to set a trap, or Julian had stumbled into something much darker.

Without changing her expression, Jordan slipped her hand into her jacket pocket. She blind-typed an SOS command to Miles, ordering him to hack the precinct's intranet.

On the surface, she played the part of the arrogant rich girl. She leaned closer to the glass and coldly asked the cop if he was just looking for a bribe.

The fat cop slammed his hands on the desk and stood up. He pointed at her, warning her that this was a police precinct, not her daddy's country club.

Their argument drew the attention of the room. Several officers stopped what they were doing and started walking toward the duty desk.

Jordan's mind went to work. She calculated exactly how many seconds it would take to physically drop these cops and break her brother out of the holding cells.

Just as her muscles tensed for violence, the heavy electronic lock on the precinct's inner security door buzzed loudly.

A tall man wearing a dark grey trench coat walked out. He was flanked by two senior detectives who looked terrified of him.

The man's footsteps were slow, steady, and heavy. His leather shoes clicked against the terrazzo floor with a rhythm that commanded absolute submission.

Jordan's survival instincts screamed at her. She instantly abandoned her plan to attack the cops and turned her head toward the new arrival.

She recognized the imposing build and the overwhelming, predatory aura immediately. It was the exact same mysterious silhouette she had spotted watching her from the high-rise window near the manor earlier that night.

Blake Berry's deep, dark eyes cut through the crowded room. His gaze landed perfectly on Jordan's aggressive, tense face.

A brief flash of surprise crossed his eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by a bottomless, unreadable calm.

The fat cop saw Blake and instantly paled. His arrogant face morphed into pure submission as he stood at attention and nervously greeted, "Commander Berry."

Blake walked up to the duty desk. He didn't look at the cop. His eyes stayed locked on Jordan as his deep, low voice cut through the noise. "Are you having some trouble here?"

---