CHAPTER 2: The Man Who Watched

It was supposed to be an ordinary Thursday.

Neera had just finished a client consult that left her drained — a petty white-collar criminal with delusions of grandeur and a habit of interrupting her mid-sentence. She needed air, something simple. Something human.

So, against every rule in her carefully controlled world, she went grocery shopping. No assistant. No security detail. Just her, a reusable bag, and a craving for overpriced wine and fresh strawberries.

The market was quiet, tucked beneath a luxury high-rise in TriBeCa. She liked it there — the silence, the absence of chaos. She moved between aisles with practiced efficiency, eyes scanning labels, mind already back at her office. She didn’t even realize she’d picked out the same brand of cereal her brother, Nathan, used to steal from her cabinet until it was in her cart.

It wasn’t until she was pulling out of the underground lot that she noticed it.

The black car.

Tinted windows. No visible plate. Parked across the street.

Her foot hovered over the brake, tension spiking through her chest like ice water. She stared at the vehicle through her windshield, waiting for something—movement, recognition, a sign.

Nothing.

She swallowed, flicked her signal, and pulled onto the street.

The car waited a few seconds, then followed.

At first, she tried to rationalize it. New York was crowded. Lots of black sedans. She lived in a decent building. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe she was imagining it.

But every turn she made, it made.

Every red light, it waited.

When she cut through an alley to test it, it followed.

Her pulse kicked up, panic pressing like a thumb to her throat. She glanced at her phone. One call and she could have half a dozen off-duty cops at her door in under ten minutes. But that felt like admitting she was afraid. And she refused to be afraid. Not anymore.

She sped up.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the car vanished.

She circled the block twice to confirm, but it had disappeared. No tire screech. No wild U-turn. Just... gone.

By the time she reached her condo, the strawberries had rolled out of their container and her heart was thudding like it had run a marathon.

She told herself not to be paranoid. Told herself she was tired. That it wasn’t unusual for powerful enemies to loom in her periphery. She was a defense lawyer for criminals, after all.

But when she stepped inside her apartment and closed the door, her fingers trembled slightly as she locked all three deadbolts.

It was just a car.

A black car.

With no license plate.

And a driver she never saw.

Don’t be paranoid, she told herself again.

But the shadows in her mind whispered back in her father’s voice.

Six years ago, he’d kissed her on the cheek, told her to stay out of politics, and walked into a restaurant.

Two minutes later, he was dead.

Two shooters. No security footage. No witnesses. No suspects.

And even now, a prosecutor with decades of enemies, his case remained unsolved. The NYPD called it a mafia hit, but no family ever took credit. No names were ever whispered.

She poured herself a double shot of whiskey that night, let it burn down her throat like liquid armor, and told herself she didn’t care.

It wasn’t the first lie she’d told herself. And it wouldn’t be the last.

—

Three days later, her life shifted again.

She was in her office, surrounded by legal briefs and three phones ringing at once, when her secretary, Amy, buzzed in.

“There’s a courier here for you.”

“Tell him to leave it with security.”

“He won’t. Said it’s for your hands only. Said it’s… sensitive.”

Neera frowned. She didn’t like surprises. She liked routine. Control.

She opened her office door.

The man in the hall wore a tailored black suit and aviators, and didn’t look like any typical courier she’d ever seen. He offered her a slight nod, reached into his case, and produced a black envelope. Sleek. Matte. No markings.

“From a client,” he said. “You’ve been requested personally.”

Before she could question him, he turned and walked away without waiting for a signature.

Amy stared after him. “Is it weird if I say that felt like a movie?”

“Very weird,” She said, stepping back inside.

She locked the door behind her.

Her fingers brushed the envelope. Thick. Heavy. She sat at her desk, opened it.

Inside, a single sheet of black cardstock with silver embossed text:

Attorney Miller,

You’ve impressed me. I’d like to offer you a position.

One year. Personal legal advisor. Exclusive contract.

Triple your current rate. Full immunity. Zero questions.

You’ll be protected.

You know how to reach me.

— K.R.

She stared at the signature.

K.R.

She didn’t need to guess.

Kieran Renzaro.

The man from the courtroom.

The man who might be watching her.

She let the letter fall onto the desk and leaned back in her chair.

This wasn’t a job offer. This was a move in a game she didn’t know she was playing.

And she had to wonder—

Was the car a warning?

Or a test?

She picked up the letter again and re-read it. Every word dripped power. Confidence. Control.

Just like him.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Pierce.

Saw him again. Renzaro. He was at the bar you used to go to with Nathan. Two nights ago. Didn’t talk to anyone. Just sat there. Watching.

Her blood chilled.

That wasn’t business.

That was personal.

She stood, envelope still in hand, and crossed to her office window. Down on the street, taxis and people bustled as usual. But in the sea of movement, her eyes caught on a figure standing still near the curb.

Black suit. Hands in pockets.

Watching.

Again.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just looked up—right at her window.

And smiled.