Chapter 1

The whiskey burned his throat as it slid down in a harsh gulp, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste that clung to his tongue. Caius set the glass back onto the polished oak desk with a dull thud, his dark eyes fixed on the glittering sprawl of the city beyond the towering glass windows of his office. Neon lights bled across the night, vibrant and alive, mocking him with their beauty. Yet his gaze remained cold, detached—filled with a simmering rage at the failed business deal earlier that night.

But even that fury paled in comparison to the sharp, suffocating worry that gripped him when his phone vibrated with a message.

PEARL’S NANNY: The Young Miss refused her meal again.

Caius’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the screen. His grip around the device tightened, veins standing out against his skin.

Another message appeared.

PEARL’S NANNY: Miss Pearl refuses to let anyone near her.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. For a man like him—whose name alone was enough to make seasoned criminals tremble—his empire could collapse and he would rebuild it without hesitation. But when it came to his daughter… that was a wound no amount of power, blood, or money could heal.

It had been two years. Two agonizing years since that night. Since the blood, the screams, the fire that had stolen away his beloved wife and shattered the fragile world of his little girl.

Pearl—his princess, once a bundle of laughter and sunshine—had withered into silence. She barely ate, barely looked at anyone, her tiny frame shrinking into shadows. She refused the warmth of touch, recoiled from others as though the world itself had betrayed her.

And she had stopped speaking altogether.

A knife twisted inside him as the memories surged. He remembered her voice, high and sweet, giggling as she called him Papa. That voice had been silenced the night tragedy claimed their home. Now, the only sound he heard from her was her muffled cries echoing through the mansion walls each night.

During the day, she locked herself away in her room with her sketchbook clutched tightly in her hands, as though it were her only lifeline. Caius had made the mistake of flipping through those pages once. He wished he hadn’t.

Dark, jagged strokes of black and red filled the paper—twisted, chaotic depictions of that night two years ago. Flames. Blood. A woman’s broken silhouette. A child screaming in the corner.

His hands had trembled as he closed the book. Trembled—not from fear, but from a pain so raw it clawed at him from the inside. No child should carry such torment. Not his Pearl. Not at five years old.

He had tried. God, he had tried. He had poured every ounce of his power into fixing her, healing her. He had hired therapist after therapist, specialists with gilded reputations. None could reach her. None could even come close. Pearl lashed out at them all—screaming, clawing, hurting anyone who dared step too near.

And each time, Caius’s heart shattered a little more.

What kind of father was he if he couldn’t even protect his daughter from her own nightmares? From the ghosts of the past that still haunted her?

He shut his eyes for a moment, drawing in a sharp breath, trying to bury the storm of emotions under layers of steel. But the weight of failure pressed down on him, heavier than any enemy’s blade.

The sudden knock at his office door snapped him back.

“Enter,” he commanded, his voice sharp, void of the weakness that gnawed at him moments ago.

The door opened, and Luciano stepped inside. Calm, composed, as always. Caius’s most trusted right hand. He stopped a few feet away from the desk, a sleek tablet in hand.

“Speak,” Caius ordered.

Luciano inclined his head slightly before delivering the update. “The failed business deal has been… resolved. Leif handled the matter personally after identifying the spy. Let’s just say the issue has been taken care of—discreetly.”

The faint hesitation in Luciano’s tone at the word discreetly did not go unnoticed.

Caius arched a brow, his interest piqued. “Leif, hm?”

Even the mere mention of the man’s name carried weight.

Leif—the infamous Psycho Executor. Among Caius’s men, his reputation was both legend and nightmare. While most would simply execute a traitor quickly and dispose of the body, Leif… savored the process. His victims were his canvas, their suffering his art.

Some were strung from chandeliers, others left dismembered and boxed neatly like grotesque gifts. Blood was his ink, screams his symphony. His cruelty was unmatched, his results undeniable. Enemies feared him. Allies dared not question him.

And yet, Caius tolerated him. More than that—he valued him. To Caius, Leif was not a madman but a necessary blade, honed and loyal. Efficient in his own way. Terrifying, yes, but effective.

“What of the delayed shipment?” Caius asked, his tone smooth, measured.

Luciano was prepared. “I personally oversaw the arrangements. An elite team ensured its safe delivery. The goods arrived on time. The client is satisfied.”

Caius leaned back in his chair, nodding once. “Good. Well done.”

But even as he said it, his mind drifted—unbidden—toward another matter. A softer memory. A certain woman he had noticed three weeks ago at one of his clubs. The Crimson Luxe, his most prestigious legitimate front.

She had been a waitress, nothing more, yet something about her had caught his attention. A spark, a defiance, or perhaps simply the light she carried in her smile.

He had ordered Luciano to dig into her life, to strip her down to her secrets.

“What about the woman?” Caius asked, his tone lowering.

Luciano’s expression remained unreadable, though he clearly knew who his boss meant. “She will arrive in fifteen minutes. The necessary contract is prepared.”

He stepped forward, placing a file on the desk. “Her background, her details. Everything you asked for.”

“Leave it,” Caius dismissed, already reaching for the file.

Luciano bowed slightly, then left the office in silence.

When the door shut, Caius opened the folder. A photograph stared back at him. A woman, smiling brightly, her eyes alight with warmth that seemed foreign in his cold, desolate world.

His lips moved, barely above a whisper.

“Noelle Marshall.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like a promise. Or perhaps… a warning.

And for the first time that night, something stirred within him. Something dangerous.

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