38. Kanyan
KANYAN
I don’t fear the dark. I come from it. And I was raised to bite before the shadows even draw breath.
My mother taught me that—though not with words.
It was the parade of men she brought home: slick-smiled hustlers whose affection turned to fists the moment the liquor dried up.
By the time I was fourteen, I could read danger in half a heartbeat.
By sixteen I had broken a man’s jaw with a cast-iron skillet for calling her worthless.
By thirty two years, I was the Gatti Brothers’ favorite guard dog, a kid with shoulders too broad for second chances and a temper that never asked permission.
Family , they said, and my ribs vibrated with the word. Not blood. Something thicker. Something chosen.
So now—six years, too many scars, and one bullet-shattered knee later—I sit behind a dark mahogany desk at the Moreno estate, the weight of the empire humming through the floorboards. Night drapes itself over the city’s skyline outside like a funeral veil.
Inside, the room hums with silence—the kind that settles heavy on the skin, thick with secrets.
The only light comes from the sterile white glow of encrypted monitors, casting fractured lines across my face like digital scars.
A single desk lamp flickers amber, pulsing like a slow heartbeat over scattered files and the ghost of violence not yet cleaned up.
I’m tying off the day’s mess—blood, lies, numbers. Whatever needs to be done. This isn’t nine-to-five. This is the work that gets buried beneath headlines, the kind no one talks about unless it goes wrong.
But I don’t make mistakes. Ever.
I was born in shadow, forged in silence. And while others fumble when the light dies, I come alive. My best work? It’s always been done in the dark. Where no one sees. Where no one remembers.
I should feel settled. The work’s done, the files locked, the loose ends tucked into digital coffins.
But I don’t. My jaw’s tight, molars grinding like they’re hunting for bone.
It’s not restlessness. It’s something darker—something wired into me.
A craving for chaos. For the kind of mess that ends with someone on their knees and me walking away without a scratch.
That’s when the secure line blinks to life. No ringtone—just a silent red pulse in the corner of the screen, steady as a countdown.
Only twelve people in the world have this number.
And if one of them’s calling, it means something’s broken. Or someone needs to be.
I don’t hesitate. Thumb to biometric pad, the scanner warms beneath my skin before it clicks green. The overhead speakers crackle to life, sterile and sharp, waiting for the voice on the other end to announce itself. The calm before the war. And my molars stop aching—because the fight is here.
“Good evening, my friend.” Emilio Cavalho’s voice rolls in smooth as aged Scotch—warm, composed, and unmistakably calculated. “Tell me you’re not still buried in work.”
“Emilio.” I lean back in my chair, the leather groaning under the shift. “You tracked me down just to criticize my productivity?”
A low chuckle filters through the speaker—light, practiced, and entirely sincere. “That, and perhaps… to request a small courtesy. A sit-down, if you’ve got an hour to spare. Something of a delicate nature.”
I twirl the gold pen between my fingers, letting the silence stretch as I study the live security feed—nothing but still shadows and steel at the compound gate. “How delicate are we talking?”
“It concerns a name you know well. A gentleman by the name of Jayson Caluna.”
My hand pauses mid-spin.
Fuck.
A faint hum escapes me, low and thoughtful. Just enough to buy a beat, to line my tone with neutrality even as something cold scratches at the back of my skull.
“What about him?”
Emilio exhales like he’s weighing the shape of his words. Like this part of the conversation was scripted, revised, and rehearsed with care.
“There’s been… interest,” he says slowly. “Questions, murmurs. A party from out of town has taken notice of your rookie’s recent extracurriculars. Particularly the incident involving a young woman who, from what I gather, was no longer supposed to exist.”
My grip tightens on the pen.
“You’ll need to be more specific,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “I assume you’re not calling to read me headlines.”
“I’m not,” Emilio agrees. “I’m calling because this party—well, let’s say he’s not the sort of man who likes being… robbed.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to draw blood .
I lean forward, elbows on the desk, jaw working. “Who exactly thinks my man took something that belongs to him?”
There’s the pause I expected. Barely a breath. Then he gives me a name.
“A man by the name of Richard Maddox.”
The name lands—soft on impact, but unmistakably lethal. I don’t respond right away.
Richard Maddox.
“He claims Jayson interfered with a contractual arrangement,” Emilio continues. “And that the woman in question was under his guardianship. He’s not pleased.”
Guardianship. That’s one way to dress up a cage.
“Has he made a formal complaint?” I ask.
Emilio chuckles, soft and dark. “No, my friend. Men like Maddox don’t bother with formalities. That’s why I’m calling. He asked for a meeting. He was… quite insistent.”
I say nothing, letting the name echo through my mind like a slow-counting bomb.
Who the fuck is Richard Maddox? And what the fuck does he want?
On the other end of the line, Emilio pauses just long enough to feel intentional. Like he’s watching me from somewhere I can’t see. Like he knows I’m already reaching for answers I don’t have.
“I believe Mr. Maddox is hoping for… clarity,” he says finally, the words as smooth as silk pulled too tight. “There’s been some confusion, perhaps a misunderstanding involving Caluna.”
My spine stiffens, but I don’t move.
“And what the hell does this have to do with you?” I bark.
“I’m only relaying what was conveyed to me,” Emilio replies, diplomatic as always. “But I thought it prudent to bring it to your attention before the situation… escalates. ”
There it is. The shimmer of threat beneath the soft tone.
Not from Emilio—he’s not the type to get his hands dirty. But Maddox? I don’t know the man, but if he’s gone to the Cavalho brothers, I already know he’s the type to smile while lighting the match.
I reach forward, turn the volume on the speaker down a notch. My thoughts are louder than the call now.
Richard Maddox wants a sit-down. And Emilio’s smoothing the path like it’s a favor. Like it’s a courtesy.
But nothing in this world comes free. Especially not favors. And I owe him nothing.
“Tell him he doesn’t get his sit down,” I snap into the speaker. “But you and I will meet.”
“Tomorrow,” Emilio relays. “Ten a.m. Private suite at The Selene. I’ve already made arrangements.”
Of course he has.
“I’ll be there,” I say. But my molars are aching again.
Cedar smoke lingers in the air, thick and cloying like the ghosts of men who never left this room. The Mariner’s Cigar Lounge is paneled in walnut the color of old blood, its brass sconces glowing low—more ember than flame. Privacy is promised here, but so is danger.
Only four chairs circle the low marble table. Two are already taken.
The Cavalho brothers rise as we enter—Emilio first, crisp in a charcoal suit tailored within an inch of its threads. Cufflinks shaped like saints, grin shaped like sin. Ferris flanks him, leaner, meaner, eyes flicking to Lucky, then to the door behind us, calculating angles, exits, dangers.
Lucky Gatti doesn’t offer a handshake. He just drops into the chair opposite them like he owns the foundations it’s built on—heir to the Coast’s ports by marriage, feared in five languages by name alone.
I stay standing, eyes moving over the corners of the room, cataloging shadows before I sit beside him.
A server glides in like a whisper, places a bottle of rare Scotch, four tumblers, and a bowl of cut-glass ice that no one here would dream of touching. Then she vanishes. The door clicks shut behind her.
“Gentlemen,” Emilio greets, raising his glass in a toast warm enough to baptize betrayal. “To old ties.”
Lucky clinks crystal without looking. Drinks. Sets the glass down like a warning. “Cut the ribbons, Emilio. What’s this about?”
Ferris leans forward, elbows on his knees. He speaks like a man who knows blood leaves the mouth faster than the lungs. “Richard Maddox came to us with a request. A favor. Concerning a woman who, from what he tells us, is being detained by your man, Jayson Caluna.”
“Detained,” I repeat, voice flat. “That the word he used?”
Ferris nods, pointed. “It is.”
“She’s not a prisoner. She’s under our protection.”
And if they’re smart men—and they are—they’ll hear the weight behind that word. Protection in our world is sacred. Maddox would have to go through the Morenos to touch her. Through me.
Emilio steeples his fingers. “He alleges she’s unstable. Hallucinates. Might hurt herself if left unattended. He’s… concerned for her welfare.”
My laugh is quiet. “Concerned? Funny. She didn’t seem in the least bit suicidal when I met her.”
I swirl the Scotch but don’t drink. “What exactly is his relationship to her? ”
Emilio’s smile tightens. “He’s an old friend of her father’s - what you would call an ‘uncle’.”
Lucky huffs a dark laugh. “And let me guess—he wants us to wrap her up and send her back with a bow? Girl in one hand, death in the other? How charming.”
“It’s not a demand,” Emilio says, palms lifted. “More a courtesy visit. One family to another.”
Outwardly, I relax. Inwardly, I load the chamber. Family. That word gets thrown around by people who’ve never had to gut a man to keep their bloodline breathing.
Family is pulling your sister out of a locked bathroom because her mother’s latest boyfriend tried to drown her.
Family is watching your boss bleed out and choosing to stand between his wife and the bullet meant for her.
Family is what I burn for. What I kill for.
So if Maddox thinks he can whisper that word and walk away, he’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.
“And what’s your arrangement with him?” I ask, tone casual. Deadly.
Ferris lifts his glass but doesn’t drink. “The police commissioner. What would our relationship to him be? He’s managed a few of our cases over the years. Done us some favors. We owe him.”
Fuck.
Lucky shoves his tumbler aside, all trace of amusement gone. “Let’s be perfectly clear. Your commissioner may want Miss Bishop. He may even need her. But she has obligations to us. Ones that supersede anything Maddox has scribbled on a legal pad.”
“That’s not negotiable?” Ferris asks, already knowing the answer.“Maddox assures us she won’t be a problem,” he adds. “Once he has her.”
Meaning he plans to make sure she disappears .
Jayson couldn’t bring himself to end her. Fought tooth and nail to protect her. Bled for it. And there’s no way in hell I’m letting that effort go to waste.
I lift my glass, let the liquor touch my tongue like a warning.
“Negotiate with a corpse if you want, Ferris. But the girl stays where she is. Under our roof. Under our flag.”
A pause. Then Emilio sighs, tilts his head—not insulted, not angry. Just resigned. “Very well. We’ll inform Maddox the Gatti-Moreno alliance… declines.”
“Not declines,” Lucky says. “Refuses. You tell him this—” He leans forward, voice low and cold as the grave.“If he tries to take her, I’ll tear every tooth from his skull and string them like prayer beads.”
Something flickers in Ferris’s gaze. Not fear. But respect.
Emilio exhales, folds his hands. “Noted.”
I set my tumbler down, untouched. “Conversation’s over.”
But they don’t move. Emilio holds my stare. “Kanyan, I told him this might happen. I warned him. He insists he only wants her safe.”
“Then he shouldn’t have hired a cleaner to drag her out of her bed in the middle of the night.”
Emilio’s brows rise. “Cleaner?”
“Someone’s already tried to take her. Jayson handled it. Swiftly. But if there’s another attempt, I won’t just clean it up—I’ll return the favor.”
Ferris curses under his breath. Emilio’s silence is heavier than the wood-paneled walls.
“That… wasn’t disclosed to us,” Emilio says quietly.
“No,” I murmur. “Because Maddox is feeding you a lie. And you don’t need me to tell you what happens to a girl like her if she ends up in his hands. You know . You’ve seen it.”
The room falls to silence. Outside, the city pulses like a dying heart .
Emilio reaches for the decanter, nudges it toward me—a gesture of peace.
“If we find out he’s lied?—”
“You will . ” I rise, buttoning my jacket. “And when you do, you know where to find me. But don’t get in my way again.”
Lucky rises beside me, looks disdainfully at the bottle. “And next time? Bring better Scotch. War is expensive.”