CHAPTER 2

ZLLIOT

“You look like you’re attending a funeral, Zli. Loosen the tie before you cut off the oxygen to your brain.”

I catch Phoebe’s reflection in the hallway mirror of our Brooklyn brownstone. She’s leaning against the doorframe, a mug of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other, her afro puffs framed by the soft morning light. In her oversized Harvard med sweatshirt and glasses, she looks like any other postgraduate student—which is exactly why she’s the perfect deep-cover asset for the Camelot Financial Crimes Unit.

“It’s a bespoke charcoal suit, Phoebe. It doesn't have a tie,” I mutter, adjusting my cuffs. “And for the record, this is a funeral. I’m here to bury the Crimson Dragons’ offshore accounts.”

Phoebe’s expression softens, the teasing edge vanishing. “I know the date, Zli. It’s been exactly three years since Gina... since they took her. But LIL is worried. She says your metrics are spiking. You’re not sleeping, and your heart rate hasn't dropped below ninety since you pulled the Ombra surveillance logs.”

“Lydia needs to worry about the Senate hearing, not my pulse,” I say, my voice cold. I turn away from the mirror, snatching my wallet and the encrypted key-fob from the mahogany sideboard. “The Crimson Dragons aren't just a syndicate; they’re a virus. Gina died trying to find the source code, and I’m the only one who can compile it.”

“You’re a forensic accountant, Zli,” Phoebe says, stepping into my path. “You’re the best ‘Ledger’ the Agency has ever had. But tonight, you’re walking into Club Ombra—the heart of their Lower Manhattan operations—without backup. Callum is still in DC, and Eleanor is breathing down our necks for results.”

“I don't need Callum to hold my hand to plant a hardware sniffer,” I retort. I move past her, heading for the door. “Besides, I have to live with my roommate’s boyfriend. Dealing with the Italian-American mafia is a vacation compared to watching you and Callum play house in my kitchen.”

Phoebe flushes, a defensive spark in her eyes. “Hey! Callum is a world-class field agent. And we are very discreet.”

“I found his tactical holster in the vegetable crisper yesterday, Phoebe. Discreet is not the word I would use.” I reach the door, pausing with my hand on the brass knob. “Don't wait up. If everything goes right, the Crimson Dragons will be bankrupt by sunrise.”

I slip out into the Brooklyn night. The air is thick with the scent of rain and salt from the harbor. By the time I reach Lower Manhattan, the city is a blur of motion and steel. Club Ombra looms ahead, a cathedral of black glass and crimson neon.

I take a breath, letting the "Zli" part of me retreat into a cold, dark corner of my mind. I am Mike now. Just a wealthy, bored analyst looking for a thrill.

The music hits me like a physical blow the moment I step inside. It’s deep, rhythmic, and heavy—designed to drown out thought. I weave through the crowd, my eyes moving with clinical precision. I see the hitters at the door, the hand-offs in the VIP booths, and the high-definition cameras that I’ve already looped.

I settle at the bar, ordering a bourbon, neat. I don't drink it. I just need the glass. My fingers trace the tungsten ring on the chain beneath my shirt—my father’s ring. A weight. A promise.

I’m scanning the room when I see him.

Ronan Hwan.

He stands by the VIP entrance like he owns the oxygen in the room. He’s exactly as the files described: arrogant, dangerously handsome, and carrying the weight of the Hwan-Castellano alliance on his shoulders. But there’s something else—a twitch in his eye, a tension in his posture. He’s in pain.

I catch his eye. It’s a calculated risk. I don't look away, nor do I look intimidated. I give him a slow, measured smirk—the kind that screams I have a secret you want.

I see him say something to the blonde guy next to him—Julian Knox, the syndicate’s loud-mouthed intel tech. Julian starts heading my way, swaggering in a lime-green jacket that should be a crime in itself.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Julian says, leaning against the bar. “You look like you’re waiting for something better than this bourbon. I’m Julian. I’m pretty sure the stars aligned just to put you in my line of sight tonight.”

I offer a dry, thin smile. “The stars must be having an off night, Julian. I’m not interested.”

“Ouch. Straight to the heart,” Julian laughs, undeterred. “But seriously, you’re new. I know everyone in Manhattan worth knowing, and I’ve never seen a face like yours.”

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places,” I say, taking a mock sip of my drink.

A heavy hand lands on Julian’s shoulder. The air around us seems to drop ten degrees. Ronan Hwan has arrived.

“Julian,” Ronan says, his voice a low, gravelly warning. “Go find someone who actually likes neon. I think the lady—I mean, our guest—wants a moment of silence.”

Julian winks at me, completely oblivious to the lethal tension. “Your loss, Mike! Catch you on the flip side.”

He vanishes into the crowd, leaving me alone with the man who represents everything I’ve sworn to destroy. Ronan doesn't look away. He leans in, his shadow falling over me.

“First time at Ombra?” he asks.

“Does it matter?” I reply, my voice smooth as silk.

“I know every face that enters my club,” Ronan says, his eyes searching mine with a terrifying intensity. “And I know you aren't here for the bourbon. So, tell me, Mike... did you really think you could walk into my house without me noticing?”

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my expression locked. He knows. No, he doesn't know—he suspects. He’s fishing.

“I’m just a man at a bar,” I say, leaning closer until I can smell the expensive leather of his jacket. “Unless you have a rule against that?”

RONAN

Most people stay in bed when the world feels like it’s collapsing into their skull. Not me. I stand in the middle of a strobe-lit hellscape called Club Ombra and pretend I’m not two seconds away from an aneurysm.

I pop the cap on my pill bottle, shaking out three tablets this time. My mother, Theresa Nalila, had spent twenty minutes on the phone earlier telling me I was a failure because the "Ledger" had just ghosted another fifty million from our Naples accounts.

The Ledger. The name makes my teeth ache.

“Ron, you’re doing that brooding thing again,” Julian says, shouting over a bass drop that feels like a sledgehammer to my temple. “Look at the redhead by the speaker. She’s been staring at you for ten minutes.”

“I don't care about the redhead, Julian. I care about the fact that Camelot is inside our firewalls,” I growl.

“Relax. Nobody’s getting through my encryption. I’m a genius, remember?” Julian adjusts his lime-green windbreaker. Then, he freezes. “Wait. Forget the redhead. Look at the bar.”

I follow his gaze.

Sitting alone, amidst a sea of sweating, grinding bodies, is a man who looks like he belongs in a high-rise boardroom—or a sniper’s nest. He’s dressed in a suit that costs more than Julian’s car. He’s sitting perfectly still, watching the room with eyes that are far too sharp, far too cold.

He’s beautiful. In a way that makes you want to reach out and touch him just to see if he’s made of ice or skin.

“He’s a tourist,” Julian says, his eyes wide. “Definitely a tourist. I’m gonna go introduce him to the family business.”

“Julian, don't—”

But he’s already gone, weaving through the crowd with that idiotic swagger of his. I watch from the shadows of the VIP lounge. I see Julian approach him. I see the stranger—Mike—look up.

Even from twenty feet away, the impact of his gaze hits me. It’s like a physical weight. He doesn't look like a victim. He looks like a hunter who just realized the prey walked right into his trap.

I see him smirk. It’s the most arrogant, beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I can’t stay back. My head is screaming, a pulse of white-hot agony behind my left eye, but I move forward anyway. I shove through the crowd, my presence acting like a prow of a ship, parting the sea of dancers.

I reach the bar just as Julian is failing miserably. I put my hand on Julian’s shoulder, feeling the cheap fabric of his jacket.

“Julian,” I say. My voice sounds like grinding stones even to my own ears. “Leave him alone.”

Julian scurries off, and suddenly, the world narrows down to just us. The stranger. And me.

“First time here?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. I know he’s never been here. I would have remembered a face like that. It would have been burned into my retinas.

“How did you know?” he asks. His voice is calm. Too calm.

“I know everything that happens in New York,” I say, leaning into his space. I want to see him flinch. I want to see those cold blue eyes flicker with fear.

But he doesn't move. He just blinks, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. He looks at me with a curiosity that feels like a challenge.

“I know you aren't here for the music,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper that only he can hear over the roar of the club. “And I know you aren't Mike. So why don't you tell me who you really are?”

He smiles then. It’s a small, dangerous thing. “Maybe I’m the man you’ve been looking for, Ronan.”

My heart stops. The migraine spikes, a blinding flash of pain that nearly brings me to my knees, but I don't let go of the bar. I lean closer, my chest almost touching his.

“If you are,” I hiss, “you’re much braver than you are smart.”

He doesn't look away. He doesn't back down. He just sips his bourbon and watches me, a ghost in a charcoal suit, waiting to see who burns first.