Chapter One: Blood Debt
The first bullet didn't kill my father. It was the second—right between the eyes—that shattered everything.
I watched from behind the blinds as his bodyguards screamed, too late, too distracted. My mother clutched my arm like I'd been the one shot, her nails digging into my skin, her breath shallow with fear. But I couldn't look away. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I only stared at the man lying on our front steps, blood spilling across marble like spilled wine, staining everything red.
The men who killed him didn't wear masks. They didn't need to. No one would dare touch them. Everyone knew who they were.
The Blackthorn Syndicate.
That night, something inside me snapped. My childhood ended. Grief didn't come in waves—it came like war. And as I stood staring at my father's lifeless body, I made a vow. I'd bury every last man responsible. Starting with Killian Moretti.
Six months later, Amara De Luca no longer existed.
I burned her down. Cut my hair, dyed it black, changed my name to Rena Vale. Learned to disappear in plain sight. I left behind the lavish estates, the silk sheets, the polished manners. I learned how to forge documents, lie without blinking, and shoot straight.
And I waited. Waited until I was close enough to strike.
Killian Moretti was the next king of the Blackthorn Syndicate. Ruthless. Brilliant. Untouchable. He didn't run clubs—he ran cities. He wasn't flashy, didn't crave chaos the way most mafia sons did. He was quiet. Calculated. Dangerous in the way of men who didn't need to raise their voice to control a room.
I got a job bartending at one of his nightclubs—Velvet Knife. From there, I listened. Observed. Waited. His soldiers drank too much and talked too freely. Every night, I collected pieces of the puzzle.
Then he walked in.
The club fell quiet—not obviously, but enough. The air changed. Every person in the room straightened. And there he was.
Killian Moretti.
Black suit, no tie, shirt open at the collar. His hair slicked back, eyes sharp like blades. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. He walked like someone who never feared the ground beneath him. And when his gaze landed on me—just for a second—my breath caught.
He didn't speak. Just sat in the VIP section like a king surveying his kingdom.
"You're new," a voice rasped.
It wasn't him. It was his cousin, Vin. Tall, cocky, and drunk on his last name.
"Started last week," I replied smoothly.
Vin leaned over the bar, smirking. "You got a name, sweetheart?"
"Rena," I lied. "Rena Vale."
He grinned like he owned me. "Pretty name. You pour like a pro."
I offered a polite smile and handed him his drink. "Thanks. I learn fast."
Across the room, Killian's gaze lingered for a beat longer.
He was watching me.
I felt it. The weight of his eyes, the quiet way he dissected people with a single glance. He didn't say a word the entire night. Just watched. Measured. Calculated.
He returned the next night. And the next.
Always the same table. Always the same silence.
Until the night he finally spoke to me.
"You're right-handed," he said, eyeing the glass in my left. "But you pour with your left hand."
I paused. "What?"
"Means your dominant hand's free. In case something happens."
He was testing me. Profiling me. My blood chilled, but I didn't let it show.
"Habit," I lied.
He studied me. "Smart habit."
I leaned in slightly, not backing down. "You always psychoanalyze your bartenders?"
"Only the ones who hide their reflexes."
He stood and left without another word.
From that night on, I knew he suspected something. Not everything—but enough. And still, he didn't expose me. He let me stay.
Maybe he was curious.
Or maybe… he wanted to play