Prologue
Caine One week later
The text buzzed against my ribs, right next to the cold weight of my Sig Sauer. It was from Maya.
Maya: Hey. I need a huge favor. And I need you to not ask questions.
I stared at the screen. Raziel’s problem. His woman, his circus. But the old man’s decree echoed in my head: She’s blood now. You look out for blood. It wasn’t a request. It was a standing order.
Me: What and where.
The address was buried deep in Tampa’s belly, where the streets smelled like fried food, piss, and desperation. I leaned against her new car, the chrome finish catching dim streetlight. She pulled up with jittery energy, like an exposed wire.
“Stay here,” she said. A command dressed up like a plea.
“Not a chance,” I said, pushing off the car. My jacket opened just enough to flash the leather holster beneath. Gunplay was the only language street-corner sharks understood. I fell into step beside her.
The backyard was a trash-filled slab of cracked concrete. Rico. All flash, no foundation. Two of his corner boys flanked him, puffed-up and posturing.
Maya tossed an envelope of cash. It landed at his overpriced sneakers.
“There. Now where’s Bria?”
He scooped it up like it was gold. His eyes lit with greed.
“Price went up,” he said. “Interest, you know?”
A disgusted sound rumbled low in my chest.
“Take the money and walk away, son. While you still can.”
His eyes slid to me. “Who’s this? Your bodyguard? This ain’t his business.”
“It’s my business,” I said, voice flat and calm. The kind of calm that comes before a storm.
“She paid you. The transaction’s complete. Now, you’re just stealing. And I don’t like thieves.”
One of his little boys yanked a 9mm from his waistband. Didn’t even aim. Just fired one wild shot into the sky.
“Who the fuck you talkin’ to?!”
Then he aimed at Maya.
No thought. Just reflex. I went for my Sig, but the geometry was all wrong. Close quarters. Bad angle. It’d end messy.
I shoved Maya behind a rusted-out grill, throwing my body into the line of fire.
Pop.
A hot, searing punch exploded high on my thigh. It took my leg right out from under me. Fire bloomed. I grunted, keeping my grip on the Sig, but they were already scattering—rats fleeing the light.
“Maya!” I heard her voice. Pure panic.
“I’m good,” I gritted out. Pain flared white-hot, but I kept the gun up, counting steady breaths as the space emptied.
“Get the keys. Let’s go. Now.”
“But what about Bria,”
“Fuck her, get my Key’s, Worry about her later.
She fumbled in my jacket and came back with the keys.
We moved. The car reeked of copper and panic. She was muttering something about Raziel and Miyori killing her.
“Drive,” I barked. Pain laced every word. I yanked off my belt, looped it above the wound, and cinched it into a makeshift tourniquet.
She drove like hell was behind us. “I know where to go. Zia Matthews. She’s a nurse. Discreet.”
We pulled up to a neat little house—too clean, too soft for the bloody world we’d just crawled out of. Maya pounded on the door like a cop on a raid.
The woman who opened it took my breath. Small, curvy. Dark skin. Sharp eyes. Tired, but locked-in. Hair in a messy bun. She saw it all—the blood, the gun, Maya’s terror—in a single blink. No screaming. No panic.
“Jesus Christ, Maya. Get him inside.”
Her kitchen table became my operating table. She moved with brutal efficiency, slicing my ruined pants away. Antiseptic stung like fire. I stared at a crack in the ceiling and gritted my teeth.
My Sig sat beside her sewing kit. She didn’t even glance at it.
“You’re lucky it passed through clean,” she muttered.
I watched her hands. Capable. Hands that could build or break.
“What’s your name?”
“Zia.”
I tested it. “Zia,” I repeated. It fit her. Short. No-nonsense. “I’m Caine.”
“I don’t need your name,” she said, stitching like a machine. “I need you to hold still.”
“You’re good at this.”
“It’s my job.”
“Steady hands.”
She paused mid-stitch, her cool grey eyes locking onto mine.
“Are you flirting with me while leaking on my linoleum?” A flash of irritation. A flush high on her cheek.
Before I could answer, a knock sounded. Maya answered the door.
Zia finished, wrapped the wound, bandaged it clean.
Maya reappeared.
“Don’t let this happen again, Maya,” Zia said, shooting her a glare. “Lucky for you, my son’s at his grandfather’s this weekend.” She turned to me. “Keep it clean. If it gets infected, go to the hospital. I never saw you.”
I sat up slowly. My eyes stayed on her.
“How much do I owe you?”
“She already handled it.”
“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my sister.” I held her gaze. “Still. I’d like to see you again. Thank you properly.”
Zia laughed—short and cold. She turned her back, scrubbing her hands in the sink.
“I don’t need thank-yous from men like you. Now get out of my house.”
She dismissed me like a stray dog she’d stitched up.
Anger flared. Irrational. Immediate.
Men like me?
I grabbed her arm.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I growled.
She went still. Her free hand dipped into the sink and came back with a scalpel. The tip pressed into the pulse at my neck.
“You know exactly what it means,” she said calmly. “I’ve been around men like you my whole life. I know when to stay the fuck away. Now. Take. Your. Hand. Off. Me.”
“Maya! Zia! Stop it!” Maya shoved between us, a hand on my chest. “He didn’t mean it! He’s in pain! Please.”
I let go.
Zia didn’t lower the blade. Just watched me. Breathing even. Eyes unreadable.
Maya was right. I was in pain. But more than that… I was intrigued.
Nobody had ever held a blade to my throat and lived.
Maya helped me to the car, my weight dragging on her small frame. As we reached the sidewalk, I looked back at that closed door.
A slow smile crept across my face.
The throb in my leg was nothing.
Zia Matthews had no idea who she was dealing with.