3. Blood Inheritance
3
BLOOD INHERITANCE
~SERENITY~
A headphone-free evening and now this—Serenity had gone from quiet walk to ambush hell in five seconds flat.
She'd been picky, damn it, about choosing the path to her apartment—no shadowy alleys, well-lit streets, populated thoroughfares. She'd planned for everything on her route except, maybe, the most obvious.
The black SUVs came out of nowhere, screeching to synchronized halts that boxed her in from all sides like a trap sprung tight. Men in tactical gear spilled out as if from some nightmarish oil slick, faceless behind balaclavas and ski masks.
"What the fuck?" Her voice broke the silence. Serenity backed against a storefront, her golden eyes wild as they searched for any escape routes while her heart drummed a brutal solo in her chest. The street had emptied in seconds—funny how that happened right when trouble showed up for the party.
The first man stormed toward her with practiced confidence that had her blood boiling.
"Ms. Vale, you'll need to come with us."
Vale. Not the name on her driver's license. Not her public name. These weren't random thugs. These were pros.
In the time it took her attacker to close the gap, Serenity's MBA-honed mind had already mapped out a war plan.
With the fire of desperation, she calculated the odds, her body moving on instinct and adrenaline before logic had any say. Her knee shot up with vicious precision, hitting the man's groin like a guided missile. He crumpled forward, an animalistic groan tearing from his throat. Without hesitation, Serenity grabbed his shoulders for leverage and slammed her forehead into his nose, feeling the brutal satisfaction of cartilage crunching under her skin. Blood exploded from his face as he went down hard, a red mist painting the night.
Around her, the chaos of the attack unfolded in dizzying detail. Shouts rang out from the men surrounding her; the whoosh of bodies rushing forward and the dull thud of boots on pavement became a perverse symphony. One down, seven more to go, she thought as more of them closed in. These bastards might have numbers, but she had rage. Maybe they'd underestimated her because she was an Omega. Maybe they thought she'd roll over and cry. Stupid move. Her pulse roared in her ears, a drumbeat of defiance, as she pivoted with a speed that surprised even her, ready to bolt.
"Wrong girl, asshole," she snarled, her voice fueled by a combative fire. Pivoting with desperate agility, she went for a dash.
But two more men sprang into her path, appearing with disciplined precision. One lunged, reaching for her arm with a cruel grip, but Serenity was faster. She twisted with practiced finesse and drove her elbow into his throat, relishing the gurgled gasp that followed. The self-defense classes she'd insisted on taking—despite her mother's constant whining that "Omegas shouldn’t appear aggressive"—were proving worth every second. Mom would’ve rather had her knitting sweaters and pining for an Alpha. Instead, she was out here giving these bastards hell.
"Tranq her," barked a voice at the edge of the chaos.
Serenity whirled, her instincts saving her skin as a glimpse of steel caught her eye. A gun, but not the kind that ended things in a flash. No bullets—just a fucking dart gun. She ducked, feeling it split the air right past her ear.
"I said alive and conscious, you idiots!" The voice dripped with command, but all Serenity cared about was keeping her skin unmarked longer than these suits believed she could.
Four men crushed in on her now, an ominous wave of muscle and tactical gear. Her fist landed a punishing blow to the jaw of one, the crunch of bone and cartilage thick in the air. Another caught her arm, but she was on pure gut and rage, twisting and striking backward with a fierce kick. A shin. Her foot connected. Satisfaction blazed as she heard another grunt of pain. Fuck these guys.
Then it came—all darkness and finality, pressing down against her face like the weight of fate. Cloth, sweet-smelling and chemical, pushing her senses into a whirlpool. Her muscles betrayed her, traitorous bastards, turning to fucking water as her mind screamed fight, fight, fight against the dying of the light.
Chloroform. Old school. Fucking amateurs , she thought, the irony biting and cruel as the shadows claimed her.
The first sensation was softness beneath her fingertips. Leather. Expensive. The second was the headache drilling through her temples.
When Serenity came to, it was like clawing her way back from the depths of the ocean. Her mind swam in thick fog, struggling to rise to the surface as reality sharpened around her, each detail cutting into her awareness with brutal clarity. Serenity kept her eyes closed, feigning continued unconsciousness while she assessed. Voices murmured nearby—male, clipped, professional. The air smelled of sandalwood and money. No street smells, no exhaust fumes. Inside. Somewhere with climate control set to a precise 68 degrees.
She cracked one eye open a sliver.
She was in an office, but not the kind she was used to running. This one was opulent, sick with luxury and power, the kind of obscene wealth that screamed "fuck you" at anyone who walked through its doors. The furniture was sleek and dark, Mahogany paneling, and the walls were adorned with expensive-looking art that was probably worth more than some people’s lives. Original artwork. A fucking Degas ballet dancer on the far wall that had to be worth eight figures minimum. She'd authenticated enough art for wealthy clients to recognize the real thing.
It was a place designed to intimidate.
"She's awake," a voice announced.
Shit. So much for playing possum.
Her golden eyes, now wide with defiance even as she fought off the lingering haze, took in the men standing around her. Stern-faced and silent, they wore suits that spelled out dollar signs and then some. They might as well have been wearing price tags. Everything about them was polished and controlled, but these weren’t corporate sharks. No, the air was too thick with menace for that. These were men used to having lives in their hands, and not in the metaphorical sense. She'd been delivered straight into the lion’s den.
Every muscle in her body felt like lead, but Serenity was nobody’s puppet. She fought against the invisible chains of unconsciousness and fear, her gaze darting from one hard face to the next, assessing, calculating, refusing to show any of the panic that thudded in her chest like a trapped bird.
The last thing she remembered was the chaos of the ambush, the surge of bodies, her own limbs failing her as that last breath of consciousness slipped away. Now, this. An office that looked fit for a kingpin. Her mind worked at a furious pace, trying to make sense of the puzzle as the pieces loomed threateningly around her.
The moment stretched as she forced clarity into the fog. Whoever these assholes were, they'd gotten the jump on her. But she'd be damned if she let them see her rattle.
"Ms. Vale," a voice said, slicing through the quiet with professional detachment. Serenity turned, locking eyes with a man who clearly ran the show, or thought he did. "I see you’re awake."
The statement carried the weight of victory, but Serenity refused to let it crush her. Not with these smug bastards watching.
Serenity opened her eyes fully, forcing herself to sit upright despite the room's gentle spin. She was on a leather chaise lounge in what looked like the office of someone who collected other people's souls as a hobby.
Six men in suits costing more than her monthly rent stood in a loose semicircle. Their faces might as well have been carved from granite—all sharp angles and cold calculation.
Not a hint of empathy among them.
Figures.
"Quite the welcome wagon," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Usually when I'm drugged and kidnapped, I at least get dinner first."
None of them smiled.
The tallest man, silver-haired with a face that had seen too many winters, stepped forward.
"Water?"
He offered a crystal tumbler that probably cost more than her car.
"Poisoned or just drugged?" she asked, but took it anyway. If they wanted her dead, she'd be dead. She needed to clear her head.
"Neither," he replied. "You'll need your wits about you."
The water tasted clean, expensive like everything else in this room. Serenity took stock of her surroundings more carefully now. The office was cavernous, dominated by a desk that could double as a helipad. Behind it, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a panoramic view of the city skyline from what had to be at least the 80th floor of some downtown skyscraper.
Calculating kidnapping distance, time unconscious, and elevation... I'm still in the financial district.
Her body ached from the fight, and a quick glance confirmed bruises forming on her forearms. She was still wearing her pencil skirt and blouse from work, though her jacket was missing, along with her purse and phone. The professional attire felt absurdly out of place now.
"Is this where you tell me what you want?" Serenity asked, meeting each man's gaze in turn. "Money? Information? Or is this some Alpha power trip because an Omega dared to exist in public without a collar?"
Her scent suppressants should still be working—she'd applied them this morning—but in close quarters like this, with this many people, subtle cues might still break through. She couldn't afford to appear weak.
One of the men shifted uncomfortably at her directness. Good. She'd rattled him.
"Your lineage has become a matter of significant interest," another said, his voice cultured, English clearly not his first language though his accent was faint.
Serenity's stomach dropped, but her face remained impassive. Years of business negotiations had given her a poker face that could bluff God himself.
"My lineage?" She let disbelief color her voice. "You knocked me unconscious and dragged me to—where is this, the Evil Overlord's summer home?—to discuss my family tree?"
The silver-haired man made a slight gesture, and one of the others placed a leather portfolio on the small table beside her.
"We'll discuss everything once our host arrives," he said. "He insisted on explaining matters personally."
Host. Wonderful. The final boss hasn't even appeared yet.
Serenity took another sip of water, mind racing beneath her composed exterior. They knew who she was—her real identity, not the careful construction she'd built. The timing couldn't be coincidence, not with her father less days dead.
The double doors at the far end of the room swung open, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The suited men straightened, their attention snapping toward the entrance with military precision.
Showtime , Serenity thought, setting down her water glass with deliberate calm. Let's see who's pulling the strings.
The silence that fell was absolute, the kind that announced power before its wielder even stepped into view.
When he finally entered, Victor Zhao commanded the room not with volume or spectacle, but with the quiet certainty of a man who had never questioned his own authority. He moved with unhurried precision, each step deliberate across the polished marble floor. Unlike the other men in their dark suits, he wore a slate gray ensemble with a mandarin collar that accentuated his lean frame and the silver at his temples. His face, though lined with sixty years of hard-earned experience, carried the sharpness of a predator—calculating, patient, dangerous.
Serenity felt the shift in the room's atmospheric pressure. Even the suited men—imposing in their own right—seemed to shrink slightly in his presence.
"Ms. Vale," Victor Zhao said, his voice a smooth baritone that required no volume to fill the room. He didn't extend his hand, instead taking the seat directly across from her. His eyes—dark and penetrating—assessed her with clinical detachment. "I apologize for the manner of your arrival. Certain situations demand... unconventional approaches."
Unconventional approaches. That's a creative way to describe kidnapping.
"I prefer my business meetings scheduled via email," Serenity replied, her voice level despite the adrenaline still coursing through her system. "And without the chloroform appetizer."
The faintest hint of amusement touched Victor's eyes, there and gone in an instant. He nodded to one of his men, who placed a sleek tablet in front of him.
"I am Victor Zhao. I head an organization called The Society." He said it like she should recognize the name, like it was Microsoft or Google instead of what she suspected was the shadow government of the criminal underworld. "We oversee matters of... succession and territory among certain influential families."
Serenity kept her expression neutral. "And I've earned your attention because...?"
"Because you are Serenity Vale, daughter of Marcus Vale." He stated it plainly, the weight of those words hanging in the air between them. "The only child and heir to the Vale Empire—a conglomerate worth billions, spanning four continents, with interests in industries both legitimate and... otherwise."
Her heart hammered against her ribcage, but she kept her breathing even. So this is it. The moment everything changes.
"My father was Andrew Brooks, a regional sales manager for medical equipment," she countered, the lie practiced and perfect. "He died when I was twelve. Cancer."
Victor's expression didn't change as he turned the tablet toward her. On the screen was a photograph she'd never seen—a younger version of her mother, radiant in an evening gown, smiling up at a tall, imposing man with golden eyes identical to her own.
"Marcus Vale was murdered," Victor continued, his voice a study in controlled authority. "Shot in his penthouse by professionals. The power vacuum his death created has destabilized operations across North America. Blood will flow in the streets unless succession is established quickly and decisively."
Serenity felt ice form in her veins. "And this concerns me how, exactly?"
"It concerns you, Ms. Vale, because you now own everything. The properties, the businesses, the alliances, the enemies." Victor leaned forward slightly, his presence intensifying. "Your father built an empire that controls major drug trafficking routes across three continents, weapons manufacturing facilities in six countries, a shipping fleet that moves cargo no customs agent is permitted to inspect, and real estate holdings that would make small nations envious."
He paused, his gaze unflinching.
"And now, every Alpha with ambition and firepower wants to claim it—and you—as their own. Your father's lieutenants are already positioning themselves. His rivals are mobilizing. And The Society must ensure the transition adheres to our protocols—for everyone's safety."
Everyone's safety except mine , Serenity thought, her mind racing through implications, dangers, angles.
"You have your father's eyes," Victor observed quietly. "I wonder if you have his instinct for survival as well. You'll need it in the coming days."
Serenity's heartbeat thundered in her ears, though she maintained an outward calm that belied the chaos inside her. Marcus Vale. Her father. An empire built on blood.
She knew it all, of course—had known it for months. But these men couldn't know that. They couldn't know about the encrypted files she'd decrypted, the offshore accounts she'd traced, the midnight visits to her mother where she'd extracted painful truths from a dying woman.
The Society thought they were revealing her lineage. In reality, they were revealing their own ignorance.
"This is absurd," she said, injecting just the right amount of incredulity into her voice. "My father is not some... drug lord." She looked around the opulent office, letting her eyes widen slightly. "This is some kind of mistake. Or a sick joke."
Victor's thin smile never reached his eyes.
"I assure you, Ms. Vale, The Society does not make mistakes of this magnitude." He nodded to a man standing in the corner, who stepped forward with a sleek black portfolio.
"Perhaps some evidence will help clarify the situation."
The man placed the portfolio on the glass desk between them and opened it methodically. Serenity leaned forward, pretending reluctance, while her analytical mind raced ahead. Why now? Why ambush me tonight? They could have approached me properly if they just wanted to inform me. There's something more.
"DNA comparison," Victor said, sliding a document across the desk. "Your profile from a glass you used at Verte last Tuesday, compared against samples we have of Marcus Vale."
Serenity studied the document, buying time. They've been watching me. For how long?
"99.998% paternal match," she read aloud, allowing her voice to waver slightly. "This could be fabricated."
Victor's expression didn't change. "Perhaps. But this?"
He placed a photograph on the desk. Her mother—younger, radiant, wearing an elegant evening gown—stood beside a tall man with striking golden eyes. The same eyes Serenity saw in her mirror every morning.
"That's my mother," she whispered, genuine emotion slipping through her guard. She'd never seen this photo before. Her mother looked happy, her hand resting on Marcus Vale's arm with comfortable intimacy.
They've had access to my father's private files. Which means they've had access to his properties. For a long time. What else do they have?
"They met at a charity gala in Monaco," Victor explained. "Marcus was there laundering money through art auctions. Your mother was... accompanying a business associate."
Another photograph appeared. Her mother again, visibly pregnant, walking through a garden with Marcus. His hand protectively at the small of her back.
"And finally," Victor said, "your original birth certificate."
The document looked official, bearing government seals and stamps. Father: Marcus Alexander Vale. Mother: Elise Catherine Winters.
Why did they collect all this evidence? The Society enforces rules among criminal enterprises, they don't get involved in succession planning. Unless... unless there's something about my father's empire that makes it strategic to them.
Serenity let her hands tremble slightly as she pushed the papers away. "I don't understand why you're showing me all this. Even if it's true?—"
"It is," Victor interrupted.
"—why kidnap me? Why not just call me for a meeting?" She narrowed her eyes. "And why now ? My father—this Marcus Vale—has been dead for how long?"
"Days," Victor replied. "And as to why now..." He leaned back in his chair. "There are protocols for these situations, Ms. Vale. Protocols that require action before word spreads too far. Your father made powerful enemies and allies. Both are equally dangerous to you."
Serenity folded her arms across her chest, mind working through calculations. They want something from me. Something only I can provide. Access to accounts? Codes? Or is it something else entirely?
"So what?" she challenged, letting anger show. "You expect me to believe I suddenly own some criminal empire? That's not how inheritance works. I didn't sign anything. I wasn't in any will."
Victor's laugh was short and humorless. "The Vale Empire doesn't operate by conventional laws, Ms. Vale. Your father's organization recognizes blood right. As his only child, everything passes to you." He tilted his head. "Unless, of course, you're claimed by an Alpha who can... manage those assets on your behalf."
There it is. Serenity felt cold understanding creep through her veins. They don't want me to run the empire. They want to control who gets to run it through me.
"I'm not some medieval princess to be married off for an alliance," she snapped, genuine anger flaring now.
"No," Victor agreed, his voice softening dangerously. "You're something far more valuable in our world. You're an unmated Omega with a price on her head and no protection. Without The Society's intervention, you wouldn't survive the week."
Serenity held his gaze, fighting to keep her breathing even as she processed the implications. They thought they had her cornered. They thought they were dealing with an ignorant, helpless Omega suddenly thrust into a world she didn't understand.
They have no idea what I've been preparing for.