Chapter 1
Blake
The footsteps don’t belong to security or some drunk hedge funder who got lost looking for a bathroom.
They belong to Domenic Riva.
I can tell by the cadence—unhurried, practiced, a man who’s learned the world will make space for him or pay for the mistake of not doing it fast enough.
He steps out onto the terrace in a coat that costs more than most cars in this town. The fabric doesn’t hide what he is—Silas’s smiling executioner. The guy who sends condolences with the same hands that were responsible for the funeral.
“Blake.” He says my name like it tastes good. It doesn’t. “Enjoying the view?”
I don’t shift. I don’t give him my full body. I angle just enough to keep Peyton in my peripheral and my hand a thought away from the Glock under my jacket.
“Private conversation, Dom.”
“Is it?” His mouth shapes a pleasant curve that never reaches his eyes. He’s worn that expression so often it’s set like concrete—harmless, empty, lethal underneath. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re monopolizing the senator’s daughter. People talk.”
“Let them.”
His gaze slides to Peyton. Calculating. Appraising. It’s the same look he gave a restaurant before it mysteriously lost its liquor license. The same look he gave a rival’s warehouse before it miraculously caught fire. This fucker has always been trouble.
“Ms. Quinn,” he says to her with a polite warmth that could cut a throat. “Your father’s looking for you. Something about a photo with the mayor.”
“My father can wait.” Peyton’s voice is even, but there’s steel under the silky tone.
Smart girl. She sees him for who he is.
“I’m sure he can.” His smile ticks wider. “But you know how these nights are. Timing is everything. Miss the moment, miss the opportunity.”
There it is—the threat folded into the invitation.
I step a fraction closer to her and become a wall. “She’ll be inside when she’s ready.”
Domenic looks at me. Something cold passes through his eyes—acknowledgment, arithmetic, warning. “Silas wants a word. Soon.”
“I bet he does.”
“He’s not patient, Blake. You remember that about him, don’t you?”
I remember a lot. The warehouse. The smoke. Girls with eyes that had forgotten how to be alive. And Merrick Vale’s body coming out on a stretcher while Silas rewrote the story for the press.
“Tell him I’m working,” I say.
“He’s aware.” Domenic adjusts cufflinks engraved with someone else’s initials. Not his. A gift. A collar masquerading as jewelry. “Consider this a friendly reminder. The clock is running on a few…projects. Including this one.”
The air tightens from the hidden timeline I’ve been issued.
More like a hidden threat.
The French doors open behind us and bleed music into the cold. Three men step out in matching suits and fan in formation. Not staff. Not venue security.
Hollow Club muscle.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I clock two I know—Bruno Castellano and James-something who fetches and carries when Domenic wants distance. The third guy is new. Young. Hungry. Dangerous in the way guys are when they want to make a mark more than they want to live.
“Gentlemen.” Domenic gestures toward Peyton like she’s a centerpiece. “Please escort Ms. Quinn to her father. He’s worried.”
“I don’t need an escort,” Peyton says.
“I insist.” He keeps smiling. “Wintervale gets rough after dark. Even at a gala.”
Especially at a gala full of these dangerous fuckers.
The trio drifts closer. Not aggressive yet, just math. Bodies that box us in with an intent that tries to do the rest.
I run the numbers. There’s four of them and one of me. Peyton is behind my right shoulder. And there’s thirty yards to a clean exit. I’ve got fifteen rounds in the Glock, twelve if I’m stingy. The sound would bring a swarm. It would be messy. Public. Exactly the show Silas doesn’t want.
Which means Domenic is bluffing.
Or just dumber than I remember.
“Here’s how this goes,” I tell him, voice flat. “You call off your barbershop trio. You walk back inside. You tell Silas I’ll check in when I’m ready. And Ms. Quinn finishes her conversation without an audience she didn’t invite.”
Domenic’s face barely shifts, but his eyes tighten. “You’re making this difficult.”
“I’m making this clear.”
Bruno’s hand drifts toward his coat. I track the angle, the distance, the draw speed. I’m not in the mood to be careful. These fuckers are annoying me.
“Don’t,” I say, and let him hear the part of me I keep leashed. “You know my record, Bruno. You know what happens when someone makes me choose between messy and effective.”
He hesitates. Good. My reputation is my most valuable currency here. The kid doesn’t, though. He lunges for Peyton like this is his first day on the job. Hell, maybe it is.
I pivot, catch his wrist mid-reach, and turn. I use clean mechanics. Ligament finds bone and stops. He gasps. I lean until the joint bends to my will, and the kid drops to his knees. His face goes pale.
“Apologize,” I tell him.
“What—”
I turn his wrist another degree. The joint protests. He lets out a strangled scream he’ll remember every time it rains.
“Apologize to Ms. Quinn for touching her without permission.”
“I’m—sorry—Jesus—”
I let him go. He cradles the wrist and tries to breathe through the lesson.
No one else moves. Domenic is stoic in his overpriced coat. The other two are recalculating the situation. Remembering why Silas wanted me gone and why he dragged me back.
“We done?” I ask.
“For now,” Domenic says, smoothing his lapel like this is a minor wardrobe inconvenience. “But Blake…generosity has an expiration date. Second chances aren’t Silas’s style.”
“Good thing I don’t need one.”
He starts to leave, pausing long enough to aim a courteous look at Peyton. “Your father is looking for you, Ms. Quinn. Wouldn’t want him to worry.”
He disappears with his dogs. The kid hugs his wrist and throws me a hard promise with his eyes that he can’t keep.
Silence returns to the terrace, stitched with music from inside and the whisper of snowfall. One thing about Wintervale that hasn’t changed is that it’s always been a beautiful place. The best-kept secret of New York State. People have no fucking idea.
I turn to Peyton.
She hasn’t flinched. Hasn’t screamed. Hasn’t become some sort of damsel in distress who needs smelling salts because I made a man damn near cry on the terrace.
Interesting.
She studies me—curious, measuring, something like approval tucked inside the caution. It’s a dangerous mix.
“You broke his wrist,” she says.
“Eh, I sprained it or maybe a hairline fracture,” I say casually.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
“I’m asking now.” She closes the distance I left for her protection. “Who are you really, Blake Delano? And why did those men look at you like you’re either their salvation or their executioner?”
I could lie. I was raised by liars who call it diplomacy. But she watches me like she’s heard lies all her life, and she’s tired of being insulted with them.
So I give her something true.
“Six years ago, I walked away from my family because they were running girls through a south side warehouse. I burned that shit down, and a man died. Silas Delano, my uncle, sent those men tonight. He’s also the one who ordered me to protect you.”
Her face barely shifts. “Why me?”
“Because someone wants to use you as leverage. Dead or alive. Signed or silenced. My job is to make sure neither happens until Silas decides what you’re worth.”
“Silas decides?” She shifts her weight carefully on her stiletto heels. “And what do you think I’m worth?”
I try not to stare at her perfectly fuckable mouth covered in red lipstick as she asks the question.
“More than they’re offering to pay me,” I say.
Something changes in her eyes. Not trust, but recognition that my motives are different from the power brokers at this event.
“My father’s not actually looking for me,” she says quietly. “Is he?”
“Probably not.”
“So that was a kidnapping attempt.”
“Yes.”
“Sanctioned by your family?”
“By part of it.”
She absorbs that with a calm that tells me tonight’s stunt didn’t surprise her. For her, it may be confirmation and not discovery. “And you stopped it because…?”
“Because I don’t traffic people. Not anymore. Not ever.”
“But you’ll protect me for them.”
“I’ll protect you from them.” I keep my voice steady. The distinction matters. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She tilts her head, studying me like she’s deciding whether to keep me or cut me loose. “You’re still here on their orders. Still playing their game.”
“For now.”
“And when the rules change?”
“Then I change with them.”
She laughs once. It’s sharp, humorless. “You know what’s ridiculous? I believe you.” She faces the railing, fingers wrapping the iron like an anchor. “My father’s job has always been a pain in the ass, but this is on another level.”
“Yeah, it is.”
She pauses for a moment, her hands resting on the railing. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they? Or ruin me so thoroughly I wish they had.”
“Not while I’m breathing.”
“That’s not as comforting as you think. Men die in Wintervale every day.”
“I’m difficult to bury.”
“So was my mother.” Her voice flattens. “She died three years ago. Clear day. Clear road. Forty-eight hours later, it was classified as a ‘mechanical failure.’”
She doesn’t need to finish. I know the story.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I mean it.
“Don’t be. Be useful.” She turns back, and now the steel in her is blazing. “If you’re not one of them—if you’re actually keeping me alive—then I need the truth. Who wants me? Why. And what they think I’m worth dying for.”
Good question. Dangerous answer.
Through the windows, the gala keeps doing what galas do. A night of smiles, handshakes, and quiet extortion with champagne flutes. Somewhere in there, Silas is counting pieces like a chessboard, moving them, betting I’ll deliver Peyton to her father and pretend I’m back on the leash.
He’s wrong.
“Not here,” I say. “Too many ears. Do you trust me enough to leave with me?”
“No.”
“Smart answer, but do it anyway.”
She holds my gaze for a long beat, weighing outcomes that all taste like loss. Then she nods once.
“Where?”
“Somewhere Silas doesn’t own.” I text the only person in this town I can almost trust. “My sister will meet us. She has answers I don’t.”
“Your sister works for them?”
“She works for my grandfather. That’s different.”
“You Delanos love your technicalities.”
“We have to. It’s how some of us stay human.”
I offer my arm in an old-fashioned way on purpose. It gives her control. After a heartbeat, she takes it. Her hand is cool, steady.
We leave the terrace for a side exit that the Hollow Club doesn’t favor, moving through corridors drowned in money. The party hums on behind us, oblivious.
Frostbourne looks like a promise in photographs.
Out here, it’s just a house that knows too much.
The real work starts the second we clear its shadow.