Chapter 12
Manhattan, New York
Outside, the city is cloaked in autumn. Trees dripping in amber and rust, crunchy leaves skittering under boots like tiny paper secrets.
Inside, the penthouse glows. Not because it needed the help. Zeke lives in luxury, just the the stripped-down, bulletproof kind. No clutter. No softness. He’d still rather chew glass than buy a throw pillow.
But thanks to Ellie, it’s been upgraded beautifully for my birthday. She’s got vanilla-and-rain scented candles scattered all around the penthouse. She put ivory pumpkins ribboned in black velvet along the mantel and a slim black banner in golden script that simply reads Sixteen!
Over the table, she has a sculptural arch of matte-black and champagne balloons climbing like evening wear. It’s threaded with silk ribbon and a few smoked-glass bats so delicate they look hand-blown.
There’s even a tower of Fifth Avenue cupcakes on an onyx stand, dark chocolate and blackberry under a whisper of gold leaf.
It’s extra.
It’s beautiful.
It’s Ellie.
“Um, El… I think Vogue’s fall issue would like its lighting back.”
Ellie’s perched on my couch like she owns the deed. Her blonde curls are loose and glossy. Her sweater dress is Gucci, of course. Her knee-high boots scream Daddy paid for this.
She’s rich, spoiled, dramatic, and my best friend in the entire world.
“You like it?” she asks, practically vibrating. “I was going for Upper East Side Halloween goddess, but with just a hint of emotional damage. You know, to honor your brand.”
I raise a brow. “You commissioned a balloon sculpture.”
“I commissioned three,” she squeals. “One just wasn’t enough.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you’re sixteen!” she declares, pitching a velvet pillow at my head. “Which means you’re legally required to start sneaking out for dangerous makeouts and questionable decisions.”
“Define dangerous.”
She winks. “Anything involving tongue and/or a motorcycle.”
Zeke hated the idea of me going to school. He wanted me locked away in Gotham Tower, safe behind firewalls and bulletproof glass, learning how to dismantle pedo rings in between spelling tests. He gritted his teeth so hard I thought he’d crack a molar.
But eventually, I wore him down. He gave in. Made me swear that I’d keep training if he sent me to school.
I agreed and he enrolled me at St. Lyra’s Prep. A school so elite it probably has its own Black Amex. Legacy last names roamed the marble halls like royalty. Every girl had a signature blowout, a curated trauma, and an Instagram following bigger than most European nations.
That’s where I met Ellie Whitmore. Back row of our freshman philosophy elective, quietly trying to exist. New notebook. Fresh pens. Chipped pink nail polish I’d redone three times the night before, like if I could just get the edges perfect maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was about to unravel.
Then she appeared. Blonde curls. Gucci sweater dress. An energy so unapologetically bright it made the air around her feel warmer. She slid into the seat beside like we’d been doing this forever.
“Sooo,” she said, eyeing me like I was a limited-edition bag she already decided to buy, “you’ve got that whole mysterious loner thing going. Deadpan stare, silence, excellent boots. I’m intrigued.”
“I bite. Occasionally.”
Her eyes lit up. “Ugh, finally someone with bite and cheekbones.”
I glanced at her, more amused than I wanted to be. “You always sit next to girls who look like they might fake a seizure to get out of a group discussion?”
“Only the ones with potential,” she said with a wink.
Then she held out her hand like she was offering me a Chanel contract. “Ellie Whitmore. Soon to be the next Vixens dance team captain. Trust fund certified. Your new bestie, unless you’ve got two left feet, in which case, this won’t work.”
“I used to dance,” I said. “Haven’t in a while.”
She arched a perfectly groomed brow. “Tragic. We’re fixing that. Tryouts are next week. Show up, shake your ass, and blow them away.”
I didn’t say yes, but I showed up. We both made the team. Danced our asses off. Became co-captains and somewhere along the way became best friends.
She doesn’t know what I really do when I skip sleepovers or sneak out after parties. She thinks I’m dancing, or dating, or just being chaotic. And that’s okay. Because she sees the version of me that I sometimes forget is real. The one who’s just… Bella.
Tex is at the stove, flipping pancakes and humming under his breath. Mr. Acronym’s by the window, reading something on his tablet with the same expression he’d probably use to dismantle a government.
I’m halfway through my second pancake when Zeke tosses a black velvet box through the air. I catch it without flinching.
“Happy sixteen, Bells. Let’s keep the body count low till at least noon.”
Inside is a blade. Matte black. Slim. Balanced. My initials carved into the hilt. Not a gift. A beginning.
“You said when I turned sixteen—”
“You shadow tonight,” Zeke cuts in, voice dropping low so Ellie can’t hear. “That’s it. No contact. No freelancing. You stay close and you follow my word like it’s the fucking gospel, you hear me?”
“I won’t screw it up.”
“You’d better not,” Tex calls over. “I just polished your gear.”
Ellie walks over and claps like it’s a movie ending. “Hate to break up whatever intense brooding vibe this is, but we need to get ready for your party.”
“El, the party doesn’t start for like… twelve hours.”
She gasps. “Exactly. Hair. Nails. Outfit changes. Emotional prep. Do you think perfection happens on accident?”
???
The last of the laughter fades around eleven. There’s cupcake crumbs on the counter, a trail of black glitter on the floor, and two girls from St. Lyra’s still giggling by the elevator and taking selfies like it’s some exclusive club. One of them waves. I fake a smile.
Ellie is doing her rounds like a proper hostess—hugging, air-kissing, whispering secrets no one will remember in the morning. Her heels clicking on the marble.
Zeke’s in the corner looking like he’s regretting every decision that led to this moment, including letting Ellie convince him to host the party here.
He said no guests. Ellie heard let’s make it chic.
She doesn’t get it. Not fully. She knows the broad strokes. We came from a bad foster home, we got out, and that Zeke does something in tech with Nate and makes a shit ton of money. She’s convinced Tex is in finance, like her dad.
“I mean, he’s got the whole mysterious ex-military hedge fund thing going,” she whispered once like it was a conspiracy theory. “Silent. Intense. Probably manages billion-dollar portfolios and doesn’t believe in therapy.”
I didn’t correct her.
She thinks this place is just a moody penthouse filled with high-functioning introverts and one guarded girl who refuses to talk about the time before freshman year. Sometimes she jokes that it’s like some dark, minimalist Upper East Side reboot of New Girl.
“Three broody hot guys, one dancing baddie, and a killer view? Honestly, Netflix should call,” she said once, curling up on the couch.
But she doesn’t understand why Zeke always positions himself facing the door. Why Tex scans the room like he’s cataloging threats. Why Nate doesn’t blink for long stretches of time. Or why none of them ever talk about what they do.
She’s never seen the weapons. Never stumbled onto a mission file or caught sight of anything suspicious. They’re careful around her. Always have been.
She just wanted tonight to be beautiful. For me. And it was.
“Okay,” Ellie says, swaying toward me with a soft smile and slightly smudged lipstick. “Everyone’s out, I managed to clean up without breaking a nail. No one cried or got arrested, so I’m feeling pretty good about myself.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“You good?” she says squeezing my arms gently.
“I’m good.”
“You sure? You get quiet like this when something’s eating at you.”
“Just tired,” I say, not even a lie.
“Text me tomorrow,” she replies. “Or tonight. If you go out. I want updates. Full detail. And outfit pics.”
“Promise.”
She pulls me into a long hug, warm and tight. “I love you, Bella,” she whispers.
“I love you too.”
Zeke waits until the elevator doors close behind her before moving. “Finally,” he mutters, sweeping through the room and unlocking the wine cabinet armory. “What part of no civilians was unclear?”
Tex shrugs, “Could’ve been worse. No one tripped an alarm, nobody died, and Ellie didn’t find the gun safe.”
“Yet.”
Mr. Acronym doesn’t say a word. He just stands, buttons his suit jacket, and nods once like we just flipped a switch from family to mission.
Zeke turns to me, voice low and even. “Go change, it’s time to go.”
???
12:30 AM
Undisclosed Warehouse
Brooklyn, New York
The chill punches the breath from my lungs the second I step out of the SUV. Gone is the warmth, the glitter, the soft pulse of birthday music. Now it’s concrete. Steel. Shadows.
Tex leads us through the side door of the warehouse, silent as a ghost. Fluorescent lights buzz above, casting long, sharp shadows on the floor. We turn a corner and walk down a long corridor. At the end of it, Tex opens a metal door into what looks like an old office.
Inside there’s a man tied to a chair under a single overhead light. He is bleeding. Streaks of blood turning his blonde hair a little strawberry. Hands zip-tied behind his back. One of his eyes is already swollen shut.
He doesn’t look scared, he looks pissed.
Zeke walks in slowly, pulling off his gloves with deliberate calm. Mr. Acronym’s near the back wall, tapping something into his tablet like he’s logging inventory. Tex stands in the corner, arms folded, one foot pressed against the wall like he’s waiting for a green light.
I hang back in the shadows.
The man in the chair lifts his head, spits blood at Zeke’s feet. Zeke stops. Looks down. Then slow, almost lazy, he draws his gun from his waistband. The guy opens his mouth to speak. Something in German comes out.
BANG.
Zeke shoots him in the knee. The sound is thunder in the silence. The man screams, his whole body jerking against the chair.
Zeke tilts his head. “Wrong language.”
The man curses, screaming in German. I catch M?dchen. Girl, I think? Probably need to brush up on my German.
BANG.
Zeke fires again. The second knee. Gross. The scream turns into something raw, something feral.
He crouches in front of him. “You moved them through Newark. I already know that.”
He leans in just slightly, eyes like knives. “What I don’t know is where they’re going next, and where they’re being held. And you’re gonna tell me, because this time?”
His voice drops to a razor’s edge. “I’m not fucking playing.”
The man is sobbing now, choking on his own spit. Zeke grabs his chin, forcing eye contact.
“Where are the girls?”
Silence.
Blood is pooling beneath the chair, slick and fast. His legs are ruined, useless slabs of meat, and the pain’s finally carved through whatever bravado he’s got left.
Zeke points his gun at the man’s crotch. “One more time. Where are the girls?”
The man’s entire body shakes. “Q-Queens,” he stammers. “Warehouse 27-B off Hunters Point. Please, oh God. I-I swear please, I told you everything.”
“How many?”
“E-e-eight I think.”
“Ages?”
“I don’t know man, it was a mixed bag,” he says like these girls are just a bag of potato chips.
“Think harder.” Zeke says shoving the gun closer to the man.
“Ok, ok, ok, please. The oldest is probably seventeen, youngest maybe seven.”
“When’s the sale?”
“Two days from now. Nine o’clock.”
Zeke straightens. Dusts imaginary lint off his jeans.
“Now see?” he says lightly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
The man whimpers. Zeke looks at Tex and gives him a small nod. Tex moves, silent as death. The man starts praying in German.
Zeke turns to me, unbothered, voice flat. “You get all that?”
I nod.
“Good.” He holsters his gun, already moving. “We’re not done yet. Now you get to learn how to plan an op.”
We turn. Behind me, light. Just a clean, controlled flash. I barely hear the shot, but I feel the silence that follows.