Chapter 1
1
MICHAEL
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.” I narrow my eyes on the house filled with bright, almost blinding lights sitting back from the road. “Are they really in there?”
No one could possibly be that stupid, right?
Everyone in this city knows the rules: you steal from me—or my brothers—and you might as well dig your own grave. If you’re dumb enough to try, and you’re caught, you run like Satan himself is on your heels. What you don’t do is hole up in a house that might as well have a neon sign saying, Here we are .
And yet, these brain-dead morons haven’t just been stealing our pharmaceutical products, they’ve been diluting them with addictive drugs and regurgitating them back onto the streets. The arrogance is unreal.
Lorenzo chuckles beside me. “Oh, they’re in there alright. Jake has a hard-on for his fancy security system. Thinks it makes him untouchable.”
I don’t miss his jab at me. I’ve been refusing his advice to bring guards into my home instead of relying solely on my security software. But there’s a crucial difference between this Jake character and me—I don’t just put blind faith in my security.
I built that software with my own hands. Line by line, code by code, dismantled and rebuilt it countless times until it became unbreachable by anyone except the creator. Me .
And the delicious irony? Jake’s fortress runs on my architecture.
“Stay here until I call you in,” I order while unlocking my car.
“Oh, trust me. I’m perfectly content watching the ‘Mad Hatter’ in all his glory from the comfort of this seat.” He smirks, propping his feet up on the dash.
I would roll my eyes if I were the type, but I’m not. So instead, I flip him the middle finger on my way out. The nickname doesn’t bother me—in fact, it serves its purpose perfectly, instilling just the right amount of fear in the cockroaches I have to share this planet with. Hell, I even tracked down the man who coined it four years ago and gave him a million dollars for his ingenuity. After ripping out his tongue for his audacity, of course. The name stuck, and I’ve grown rather fond of it. It’s catchy and popular.
I adjust the lapel of my suit as I cross the lawn, a ripple of satisfaction rolling through me with every step that triggers the motion sensor lights. It’s theatrical, almost poetic—like the universe itself is spotlighting my arrival. I hope Jake and his partner are enjoying the show as much as I am. These are their final moments breathing my air, after all.
At last, I reach the front steps and climb to the porch where a thick, reinforced glass door separates me from my prey. Beside it, a sleek panel awaits a code or biometric scan.
“What genius designed this?” I smirk, admiring my handiwork. Then, suddenly, light floods the anteroom, and I glance up to see two men watching me through the glass. One of them cowers back the moment our eyes meet, but the other one… arrogance practically drips off him.
“What is the Mad Hatter looking for on my doorstep?” he sneers, crossing his arms over his chest with disdain.
My smirk vanishes as I study him. While I don’t mind the nickname, only a very select few can call me that to my face and keep their head attached to their body. If I had any notion of showing these two mercy—which I hadn’t—his comment just buried it.
“You’ve been stealing from me, Jake. I’ve come to collect my due.” My gaze slides to his spineless sidekick, who gulps and takes another stumbling step back.
“No, don’t be scared, Damien.” Jack waves at the terrified man, motioning for him to stay put before returning his focus to me with a smug grin. “Mr. Hart here has no proof we’re the one he’s looking for. And besides, we’re safe here. This house is perhaps the safest place on earth for us.”
I chuckle slowly. “Is that so?”
“I paid millions of dollars for the security this fortress provides. It’s unhackable,” he brags, then faces Damien. “He can’t override the system no matter how big a brain he has.”
Damien doesn’t look convinced, but Jake just grins wider, making a show of flicking the mic off inside so I can’t hear the rest of the bullshit he’s spouting.
I tilt my head, amused by his idiocy. He honestly believes anywhere is safe from me. Me . Michael Hart. It's like he doesn’t know me, even though my reputation obviously precedes me. His naivety is only accelerating his death sentence.
Time for a reality check.
“What’s this system? Core Power?” I ask, almost conversationally, as I pull my work tablet from my suit jacket and start tapping a few keys. “Funny thing about that system. Know what company makes it?”
Jake’s smug smile falters. He mouths something to Damien, but the dumbass just shrugs.
“No? It’s Innovicore. And Innovicore, well, they’re a subsidiary of HartSphere.” I let that little nugget of info sink in before I twist the knife. “And you know who owns HartSphere, right?” I smirk, pointing to myself.
“No. No way.” The frown that creases his forehead is delicious—confusion giving way to the first tendrils of fear. “HartSphere specializes in phones and gadgets and some video games and a little security that—” His mouth goes slack as understanding finally dawns.
“Ah, there it is,” I say, grinning as my tablet pings. “Here’s a fun fact. You see, unless you specifically request a customized security system from Innovicore, all our software shares a similar base code—and my signature. Makes it quite easy for me to recognize the systems I design when I come across them. And guess what?” I pause, tapping the screen lazily, letting the silence drag just long enough to make him squirm. “That means I can override them. Anytime I want.”
His eyes widen comically, darting to the door lock. He licks his lips nervously before meeting my gaze again. “You–you’re bluffing. You can’t do that. It’s ethically and legally wrong and—” He stops short when he realizes who he’s talking to.
I chuckle, immensely pleased to see his face lose color. “Oh, Jakey boy. I absolutely can..” Without breaking eye contact, I press a single button on my tablet, corrupting the smart security. There’s a quiet buzz as the system disarms and the thick glass doors separating us slide open. “And I absolutely will.”
He lets out a cowardly squeak and scrambles backward as I step inside. “I keep things out, Jake. I’m not kept out.”
His nerve snaps. And off he goes, spinning on his heel and bolting, leaving me alone with the terrified Damien, who’s frozen like a cornered rabbit—wide eyed, pale, trembling. His gaze pleads for mercy, but I’ve got none to offer.
I heave an exaggerated sigh, pulling my gun from the small of my back. “I so hate it when they run. I don’t even chase women, and these rats expect me to chase them ?”
Seeing the weapon seems to jolt Damien to his senses, and he flees in the same direction as his friend. My tongue clicks in irritation. Now I have to hunt down two targets. And I doubt they’ll make it easy for me by sticking together.
Goddamn waste of time when I’ve got shit to do.
Grumbling, I text Lorenzo to get his lazy ass inside so we can wrap this up quickly. There’s a prototype waiting for me at home that I need to perfect, and I still need to check our medication inventory at the warehouse and monitor the next shipment.
I log into the cameras Jake so helpfully installed in every corner of his home, and just as I locate the vermin, Lorenzo walks in. “Damien is in the pantry and has found himself a knife,” I inform him, already heading deeper into the house. “He’s all yours. Jake is mine.”
Less than thirty minutes later, we step out of the house as our cleanup crew walks in to do their part of the job. Damn, I love it when shit runs smoothly. We’re a well-oiled machine, my team and I—everyone in sync, no questions asked, no hesitation. I roll my neck, the tension melting away as I sink into the backseat of my Phantom.
Lorenzo gets into the passenger seat with his usual ease, and the driver promptly fires up the engine. Just as I’m settling in, my phone buzzes. I raise a brow at the ID. “Rafael, to what do I owe this displeasure?” Lorenzo shakes his head up front, drawing a smile from me.
“I sent a brief to your email. There’s a missing girl I need you to look into,” Rafael answers, getting straight to the point—exactly how I like it.
“A missing girl,” I repeat slowly. Oh, he fucking didn’t.
“I know you don’t like these kinds of jobs, which is why I’ve kept this off your radar until now. But it’s important. She’s important. She’s Aldo Cabello’s niece, and she’s been gone for two months.”
Ah. Now it makes sense. Aldo Cabello is one of the very first men to swear fealty to Rafael, and by extension, to all of us. So whenever he has a request, Rafael bends over backward to accommodate it. After all, if there’s no reward for loyalty, what will keep these dangerous men as our allies?
I let out an irritated sigh. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do about it.”
Truthfully, I could track down the girl before sunrise if I cared enough to try. But I don’t. Aldo’s loyalty—and the rest of the capos’—doesn’t mean shit to me, not the way it does to Rafael. She’s already been missing for two months; if Aldo’s men are too incompetent to find her, he can wait another goddamn week.
“I appreciate it, fratello, ” Rafael says, though he sounds a little distracted. He must be quite busy on his end as well.
“Yeah, whatever.” I hang up and glance out the window, watching my city blur past.
“Who are we looking for?” Lorenzo asks, twisting in his seat to get a read on me.
I don’t answer him. My gaze stays glued to the moving buildings outside, but my curiosity burns about the mystery girl. She ran away from Aldo—one of the most feared capos after my brothers and me—and hasn't been caught after two months? How?
Either she’s incredibly lucky, or there’s more to her that’s worth paying attention to.
My phone glows faintly in my hand, my thumb hovering over the mail icon. But instead, I lock the damn thing and push all thoughts of her out of my head. Not now. Business first. “Marcos, take me to the warehouse.”
He nods and turns towards East Harlem. When we reach the quiet 119th Street, the car slows and comes to a stop in front of our commercial building—just another warehouse to unsuspecting eyes. I pocket my phone as I get out, Lorenzo trailing close behind me. Marcos heads straight to the steel door, knocking in a practiced rhythm—once, twice, then three quick raps.
Rocco pulls the door open within seconds and steps aside to let us enter. I breeze through the front area, making my way towards the back, past the men at the counting machines tallying the money made so far.
At the supply door, I pause. This barrier of reinforced steel yields to only four men in the world—Rafael, Maximo, Romero, and me. I lean in for the retinal scan, the machine humming softly as it reads my eye. There’s a low click and the hundred-ton door opens with a snick, expelling a controlled burst of chilled air that raises the hairs on my neck.
The supply room is kept cold for a reason—some of the medications here need strict temperature control to stay effective. It feels like a damn icebox, but the drugs don’t care about comfort. Shaking off the chill, I get to work, inspecting the shelves stacked with precisely cataloged inventory, while Lorenzo scrolls through the list on his tablet.
“Everything is as it should be,” he confirms after our walkthrough.
“Good. You need to clamp down harder on the people we supply to.”
This isn’t just business—it’s personal. The whole reason my brothers and I started smuggling these meds was to cut through the bullshit big pharma throws at people. The corporations drive up prices, making life-saving treatments like gabapentin and opioids scarce and out of reach for anyone who isn’t filthy rich. So, we filled the gap. We bring in the stock, sell it cheaper, and still make a profit.
Not charity, but justice. Romero is more passionate about it than any of us. He still carries the grief of his mother’s death—two decades and counting—because she couldn’t get the medicine she needed in time.
That’s why I see red when I find scumbags buying from us, mixing the product with addictive garbage like benzodiazepine, Percocet, and cocaine, then selling it back to my community. That shit won’t fly in my city. Jake and his idiot friend learned that lesson.
Lorenzo nods. “Of course. I’ve already given the order to the men. We’re narrowing our seller list to those we’ve vetted. No exceptions.”
I give the shelves one more pass before I leave the warehouse.
Back in my car, I finally surrender to temptation. The email opens, and— fuck me .
My breath catches at my first glimpse of the missing girl. She’s gorgeous. Pin-straight black hair falls like liquid ink to her waist, lush pink lips curve in the faintest frown, and those eyes… Christ. They’re amber, hypnotic pools framed by long, dark lashes that could drive a man to madness. My cock stiffens embarrassingly fast, and I curse under my breath.
Being pretty isn’t all that special. This city is full of gorgeous women—hell, I’ve had my pick more times than I can count.
But her… there’s something else about her, something in the way she holds herself in the picture. A sad hopelessness in those whiskey-gold eyes that calls to a dormant instinct inside me.
I lick my lips as I scroll down.
Gianna Tulipa Cabello . Tulipa. A fucking tulip.
I stare at the name, lost in thought. My mind spirals. Then, with a sharp inhale, I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket. One more stop at the club to check the accounts before heading home. I can conduct my research on her then—there’s no rush, no need to?—
I shift restlessly in my seat, earning curious gazes from both Marcos and Lorenzo. It’s unusual behavior for me; I’m usually composed, unreadable. Cool as a fucking cucumber. But as the car rolls on, I still can’t settle.
Three minutes. That’s all I last before I tell Marcos, “Take the next turn for home.”
“The club?”
I narrow my gaze at Lorenzo. “We’ll drop you off up ahead. You can handle it.”
His jaw drops, and he stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. I never delegate work unless something really important comes up, and for all he knows, nothing of the sort has happened. But for me, my whole fucking world has just tilted on its axis.
I offer no explanation. I just wait for him to recover. Eventually, he nods.
The lights flicker on as I cross my threshold, and Maya, the voice-controlled AI, chimes in with her usual greeting, “Welcome home, Michael.”
I nod absently, already shucking my tie and taking the stairs two at a time to my office. Once there, I shrug off my suit jacket, roll up my sleeves, and sink into my chair.
My fingers itch as I boot up my computers and grab my latest project—the tablet prototype I’ve been working on for the past few weeks.
The mail icon beckons. I click, and there she is. Gianna. Damn. I drink in her photo again, letting myself stare—too long, probably, but who the hell cares? Her face is a riddle begging to be solved, and I’m not the kind of man who walks away from a challenge. Finally, I hit download. Time to strip back the layers. Find out who you really are... and where you’re hiding.
Since the slim, cutting-edge tablet is still in its early stages, I can see through her pretty face to the dark wooden desk beneath. Setting it aside, I swivel to face my curved monitor, behind which three larger screens are running different codes in the background.
Thanks to the seamless sync between my devices, my missing girl’s photo transfers effortlessly. And a few keystrokes later, it’s uploaded into the sophisticated software I rely on to track people down.
Powered by intricate coding and connected to cameras I’ve hacked into all over New York City and forty-two of the fifty states in America, the program begins its meticulous scan of her face. Come on, come on. My fingers drum against the desk as the program churns through a labyrinth of data points, isolating potential matches and validating them against traffic cameras, security feeds, ATMs, cell towers—even real-time satellite imagery from classified channels.
If a pigeon takes a shit in Central Park, I’ll have a timestamped geotag before it even hits the ground.
While the software does its thing, I shake off the restless energy and skim Rafael’s email again.
Name: Gianna Tulipa Cabello.
Age: 23
Eyes: Brown.
Height: 5’5
Hair: Black. Long.
Whoever put this pile of pig shit together listed her eyes as brown. Did no one notice the flecks of gold swirling in those brandy-colored depths, glowing like smoldering embers just waiting to catch fire? How can they not see it? Am I the only one paying attention?
I’ve gone through these details a dozen times during the ride home, but her middle name still fucks with me. Tulipa. I glance down at my arm, studying the intricate flower tattoos covering my scar from that dark night so long ago, my eyes staying longer on my tulips.
Is it a coincidence her middle name means Tulip? I fucking think not. I’ve yet to meet the girl, but I’m not one to ignore a sign this blatant. Nothing in my world is random.
Gianna is made for me.
My computer beeps. The search is complete. Gotcha. I click through the footage until I reach the day she ran away—two months ago. Ballsy little thing, doing it in the fucking daylight.
Satisfaction curls my lips as I watch the first camera feed: a green Jaguar driving down a quiet street. I zoom in through the slightly tinted windshield. It’s definitely her behind the wheel. Is it her car? Somehow, I doubt it. Did you steal it, beautiful? My smile widens at the thought.
The jaguar swerves onto the highway, speeding up. Reckless. “Slow down,” I murmur, though she obviously can’t hear me. However, she does ease off the gas, slowing just enough to take the next turn. My software jumps to the next camera, and my heart nearly stops.
She’s driving straight towards a thick tree.
“What are you fucking doing?” I lean towards the screen, fingers gripping the edge of my desk. Is she trying to kill herself? Is she?—
I grimace when the Jaguar smashes into the tree, the impact sending smoke billowing from the crumpled hood.
For a gut-wrenching moment, there’s no movement. Then the driver’s door creaks open, and Gianna stumbles out, shoulders shaking—likely from coughing. She picks up a weird-looking bag from the wreckage, takes a few unsteady steps back, and just stands there… admiring her handiwork? What the hell? Not a hint of worry on her face.
What’s going on in that head of hers?
When she finally moves, it’s to circle around to the trunk, take out a red canister, and start pouring what can only be gasoline.
“Tell me you’re not that crazy…”
She is.
She makes sure the liquid is everywhere—on the inside, the tires, over the body. Once satisfied, she pulls something out of her coat pocket. A lighter.
Oh, fuck. She flicks it on and tosses it.
“You’re too close. Take a fucking step ba–”
But it’s too late.
The car explodes, the force of the blast hurling her back against a tree. I zoom in frantically on the camera to make sure she’s okay. She’s slumped on the ground, but she’s smiling —a wild, beautiful thing—as she watches the flames devour the luxury vehicle.
My cock stiffens, and I press my hand down on the throbbing length.
“She’s fucking crazy.” She’s fucking mine.