THE FIRST ATTACK

Von POV 

I'd learned to read violence before I could read books.

Growing up as the hidden son of a mafia king meant understanding intent before action, seeing death in a man's eyes before his hand ever moved. My father had trained me for a world I'd rejected, but the instincts remained, carved into my bones like commandments.

The man approaching us carried death in his smile.

"Move," I told Marissa again, positioning myself between her and the threat.

She didn't argue this time. Smart woman.

The attacker was mid thirties, muscular but sloppy in his approach. Prison tattoos crawled up his neck gang affiliations I recognized from my father's world. His eyes were glassy. Drugs, probably. Someone had paid him to do this, pumped him full of courage.

"Castellano," he said, still smiling. "You and the bitch gotta go. Nothing personal."

"It never is." I kept my voice calm, measured. "Who paid you?"

He laughed. "Like I'd tell you that." The shank caught the light. "Boss said make it look like a yard fight. Said no one would care if a couple of murderers killed each other."

Behind me, Marissa's breathing quickened. I could feel her fear like electricity.

"You don't want to do this," I said. "Prison's already hell. You really want to add two murders to your sentence?"

"They promised me protection. Money for my family. All I gotta do is stick you both, say it was self defense." He shifted his weight, preparing to strike. "You attacked me first. That's the story."

"Except the security cameras will show otherwise."

He grinned wider. "Cameras in this section are down for maintenance. Convenient, right?"

Of course they were. Whoever orchestrated this had thought of everything.

The man lunged.

I sidestepped, muscle memory from years of training taking over. My hand shot out, catching his wrist, redirecting the momentum. The shank sliced air where my throat had been seconds before.

He stumbled, recovered faster than I expected, and came at me again.

This time I didn't dodge. I moved into the attack, inside his guard, and drove my elbow into his solar plexus. He gasped, doubled over. The shank clattered to the concrete.

I kicked it away and heard Marissa scramble to grab it.

"Don't touch it!" I barked. "Fingerprints!"

She froze, hands hovering over the weapon. Understanding dawned in her eyes. Someone wanted our prints on that blade.

The attacker wheezed, trying to straighten. I hit him again, harder this time. He went down.

Whistles erupted across the yard. Guards were running now, too late as always.

"On the ground! Everyone on the ground!"

I dropped immediately, hands visible. Marissa did the same, her face pressed against the filthy concrete.

Guards swarmed us. Rough hands yanked me up, slammed me against the wall. Someone was reading me my rights. For what? Defending myself?

"He attacked us!" Marissa shouted. "That man had a knife! He tried to kill us!"

"Shut up!" A guard pressed her face harder against the ground.

They zip tied my hands. The attacker was on a stretcher now, conscious but groaning. Playing it up. Making himself the victim.

"Castellano started it," he wheezed. "Jumped me for no reason. I was just walking..."

"Liar!" Marissa struggled against the guards. "He had a weapon! He admitted someone paid him!"

"I said shut up!" The guard yanked her to her feet.

Our eyes met across the chaos. Hers were blazing with rage and terror and something else recognition. She understood now. This wasn't random. This was orchestrated.

They dragged us in opposite directions.

The last thing I saw was Marissa being shoved toward the medical wing, still fighting, still screaming the truth that no one would believe.