LOGINWhen struggling single mother Liora Sable is cornered by mafia enforcers outside her diner shift, the last person she expects to save her is Varian Kole — the ex-lover she left years ago without explanation. Now the city’s most feared crime boss, Varian insists on bringing her into his guarded penthouse “for protection,” but protection comes with a price: he demands she become his mistress. Liora agrees only to survive, hiding the existence of her six-year-old daughter, Wren. But when Wren’s worsening heart condition forces Liora to risk exposure, Varian discovers the truth — and his daughter’s life becomes the center of a violent turf war. As kidnappings, betrayals, and rival syndicates close in, Liora is forced to navigate Varian’s dangerous world, transforming from captive to strategic partner. Together, they dismantle old enemies and face new ones, ultimately remaking Varian’s empire into something that can protect their family. But in their world, peace is fragile — and every choice could be the one that shatters it.
View MoreInes burst into the room so fast the door rebounded off the wall. “Liora. Varian. You both need to see this. Now.”Varian straightened from the holo-map, tension already sharpening. “If this is another Marcelli strike—”“It’s worse,” Ines said, tossing a drive onto the table. “I found something in the city-grid logs. Ghost packets. Disappearing code threads. Someone’s been routing intel into Marcelli hands through a pattern we’ve seen before.”Liora’s stomach tightened. “Edda.”“Or what’s left of her,” Ines murmured. “The code’s fractured… but it’s still thinking.”Varian leaned in. “Show me.”Ines projected the data. A twisting, pulsing lattice of symbols and jumps, almost organic, almost alive.Liora whispered, “She’s dead.”Ines shook her head. “Her body is dead. But this? This is the Harrow’s architecture—her architecture. And it’s been feeding the Marcelli everything they need to stay twelve moves ahead.”Varian stared at the spinning code. His jaw locked. “So the Marcelli think
The compound was a storm.Men ran ammo belts across tables, drones buzzed in diagnostic sweeps, and Bram’s voice carried over the hum — sharp, decisive, battle-born.“Teams Delta through Kilo go red by sundown,” he said, slapping a tablet down on the briefing table. “Every Marcelli front gets hit tonight. No signals. No mercy.”Liora entered mid-command, hair pulled back, jaw set. “Bram.”He didn’t stop talking. “We’ve got routes, maps, weapons, and men who want blood. We give it to them.”“Bram.” Her tone cut through.He turned. His eyes were darker than usual — sleepless, grieving. “You shouldn’t be here. Varian’s orders—”“Varian’s sleeping after a sleepless 48 hours and you’re starting a war?”Bram exhaled roughly. “You think he’ll rest once he hears what the Marcelli did to Dockside? Six dead, Liora. Two of them were kids he trained himself.”“I know,” she said softly. “I went to the morgue. I was at the funeral too.”The room stilled.For a moment, even the hum of electronics fe
The rain hadn’t stopped since the yard burned. It came down thin and relentless, a whispering curtain over the makeshift funeral pyre in the courtyard of the old tribunal hall.Two bodies lay beneath tarps—Daren and Silo—the last of the old guard who had stayed when everyone else had fled. Around them stood a dozen of Varian’s people: Bram, Ines, Liora, and the scattered remnants of a family stitched together by blood and war.No priests. No speeches written in advance. Just silence, and the smell of soaked earth and smoke.Liora stepped forward first. The torch trembled slightly in her hand, though her face was carved from calm.“They built this with him,” she began, nodding once toward Varian. “Every brick. Every system. Every risk. They knew the cost, and they paid it without hesitation.”Bram looked away, jaw tight.“They didn’t die for a throne,” Liora continued. “They died to make sure this city never bows again. And if that’s the price, then none of us gets to pretend we’re inn
Rain fell like static over the southern district, the kind that blurred faces and hid intentions. Liora pulled her hood low, hand resting lightly on the small transmitter pinned beneath her collar. The signal crackled once—Varian’s voice, low and steady.“You sure about this?”She answered quietly. “He reached out to me. Said he wants amnesty. If he’s telling the truth, he could end the Marcelli line from inside.”“Or bait you out.”“Then I’ll know which it is,” she said, stepping into the flickering light of the abandoned café.Inside sat Luca Marcelli, the youngest of them—barely thirty, dressed like he’d stolen his own life back an hour ago. His hands trembled around a cup of untouched coffee.“Liora,” he greeted, voice cracked from exhaustion. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”“You said you had information.”“I have more than that.” He leaned forward. “I have reason to switch sides.”Her eyes narrowed. “Reason or survival?”“Both,” he admitted. “The family’s splitting apart.
The lights in the command room glared too bright for dawn. Ines’s monitors flickered through data trails like veins of electricity—payments, proxies, ghost accounts. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, hair tied back in a messy knot.Bram leaned over her shoulder. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”“It’s worse,” Ines muttered. “Three holding companies—Whitevale, Ferron Systems, Aegis Trades. All routing payments to the same offshore node.”“Whose node?”She tapped the screen. The symbol glowed faintly—a stylized H.Bram cursed. “The Harrow.”Liora entered then, still in her black field jacket, face drawn but alert. “They’re supposed to be finished.”Ines shook her head. “Not finished. Fragmented. Someone’s using their shell network to buy manpower. Mercenaries, freelancers, deniable assets.”“Who’s paying?”“That’s the best part,” Ines said grimly. “The Marcellis. Using Harrow ghosts to fund a private army inside city limits.”Varian’s voice came from the doorway, low, sharp.
The morning broke grey, heavy, and far too quiet. Dockside still smoked in the distance, the skyline smeared with the residue of last night’s fire. Inside the house, no one spoke above a murmur. Every sound—footsteps, doors, even breath—carried weight.Bram broke the silence first. “We can’t sit on this,” he snapped, slamming a file onto the table. “Three men dead, two missing, a blood crest on our doorstep. If we don’t answer—”Varian’s voice cut through, low and final. “We don’t.”Bram turned on him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”“You heard me,” Varian said, steady as glass. “No retaliation. Not yet.”Bram’s hands curled into fists. “You’re serious? After that display?”“Especially after that display,” Varian replied.Bram stepped forward, anger raw. “They hit us in the open! The men are restless, Varian. They want payback—hell, they deserve it!”Liora’s voice joined, calm but iron-edged. “Deserve doesn’t win wars, Bram. Precision does.”He turned to her, frustration flaring. “You’re si






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