CHAPTER 6

RON

I change my mind at the last possible second, my instincts screaming louder than the rhythmic throb in my skull. I dash after the dangerous predator who just tried to gut me in my own sanctuary. I bolt into the hallway of the Bellgrave Hotel, barefoot and bleeding, still half-hard from the friction of a ghost I haven't quite exorcised.

The heavy mahogany door slams shut behind me with a mechanical click. Locked.

"Fuck," I hiss, the word vibrating through my teeth.

I don't stop. I tear down the corridor, my heels slapping against the plush carpet. I’m dodging room service carts and terrifying a few early-morning staff members as I follow the phantom echo of his frantic footsteps. My wound protests with every stride—a white-hot, burning ache in my side where Zlliot—"Mike"—tried to open me up like a ledger.

Adrenaline is a beautiful, deceptive drug; it drowns out the scream of my nerves and makes it easy to focus on the sway of his silhouette disappearing around the corner.

"Zli!" I shout, my voice echoing off the ornate wallpaper. "Get back here! You forgot to settle the bill!"

But he’s a ghost, a tactical shadow. He’s already hitting the emergency exit, shrinking into the distance as he leaps toward the stairwell. He becomes nothing more than a flicker of dark fabric against the industrial gray of the service exit, blending into the midnight landscape of Lower Manhattan.

"Fucking tease," I growl under my breath. Sharp pain stings my abdomen as I turn and trudge back toward the suite.

I’ve dripped blood on the cream-colored carpet. I look like a lunatic—standing in my boxers, clutching a handgun, glistening with sweat and gore. A few guests have poked their heads out, their eyes wide with the kind of terror you only find in five-star hotels when the reality of the city leaks in. One woman lifts her phone, her thumb hovering over the camera. The flash goes off, searing into my retinas and spiking my migraine into a new dimension.

"What are you looking at?" I snarl, my voice dropping into the low, dangerous register of the Castellano bloodline. "Never seen a man get played by a forensic accountant with a ceramic blade? There’s a first time for everything. Put the phone away before I make you eat it."

I stalk past them with the indignant air of a man who owns the building, even if I’m currently bleeding out in my underwear. I try the handle to my suite, already knowing the result.

Locked. My keycard is on the nightstand, right next to the bottle of scotch he didn't drink.

My phone, my clothes, my dignity—all behind three inches of reinforced wood. I just had to chase him. I just had to be so captivated by the way he fought back that I intentionally missed the shot I took. I haven’t even had a taste of him yet, and I’m already acting like a lovesick enforcer.

A scowl clenches my face. Things between us had been perfect—electric—until he decided to ruin the mood with a knife. Couldn't he have just played the part? Most people I pick up in the Village don't try to perform surgery on my liver.

Because he’s not most people, you idiot. He’s a hunter.

I head toward the elevator, blood dribbling onto the marble floor. Several businessmen in the lobby give me disapproving shakes of their heads; a woman in a Chanel suit screams and flees toward the revolving doors.

"Drama queen," I mutter.

I know what they’re seeing. The Bellgrave is supposed to be the pinnacle of Upper East Side sophistication, the neutral ground where the Crimson Dragons conduct their legitimate business. And here comes the matriarch’s son, looking like a discarded extra from a slasher flick.

The clerk behind the front desk eyes me like I’m a stray dog that’s wandered into a cathedral. Her nostrils twitch. She clearly doesn't recognize the face that pays her salary.

"Sir," she says in a clipped, British-inflected tone, her chin tilted up. "This is a prestigious establishment. We ask that you remove yourself immediately, or I will be forced to alert the NYPD."

I heave a tedious sigh and present my forearm on the polished granite counter. The crimson dragon inked into my skin—the hybrid crest of the Hwan-Castellano alliance—glows under the recessed lighting.

Her entire demeanor collapses.

She gives three frantic nods. "Mr. Hwan! Please, forgive me. I had no idea—what do you need? A trauma kit? A clean shirt? Would you like us to clear the floor? Complimentary champagne?"

"Save the groveling," I snap, the English sharp and cold. "Just get me a new key. Penthouse 1. And yes, send the champagne. Make it the '96 Krug."

Once I have the key and the bottle, I head back to the elevator. I board at the same time as an older couple who stare at me like I’m a display at the Museum of Natural History. The wife looks horrified; the husband looks strangely impressed.

The old man chuckles. "What kind of New York woman drove you to this, son?"

"It’s a long story," I answer, leaning my head against the cool metal of the elevator wall. "But the gist is: never trust an analyst with a hidden garter."

The man lets out a wheezing laugh until his wife digs an elbow into his ribs.

Relief washes over me when the lock flashes green. I plod into the suite like an exhausted laborer. Dealing with Zlliot Lukeson is more draining than a three-day turf war. He was playing a game all night—a game of shadows and ledgers—and I walked right into his trap.

My first instincts were right. He is dangerous. But it’s not just the knife. It’s the eyes.

I get it now. Tonight wasn't just a pickup; it was predator versus predator. I wasn't drawn to him out of pure lust. It was the violent recognition one killer has for another. A recognition of kind.

My fingers comb through my hair as I realize the wreckage of the room. Smashed bottles, a shattered lamp, and a puddle of blood on the rug that’s going to be a bitch to clean.

"What the hell happened to you, Ron?"

The voice comes from the shadows near the minibar. Julian Knox stands there, sipping a neat bourbon, looking entirely too comfortable amidst the chaos.

"How the hell did you get in, Julian?" I ask, collapsing into a velvet armchair.

"The girl at the desk has a crush on me. And I tipped her two hundred dollars." Julian glances at the slash mark on my stomach, then the gun in my hand. "You look like you wrestled a blender. Should I call Dr. Sebastian?"

"It’s a scratch," I lie, though the stinging says otherwise.

"Things go south with the little Brooklyn consultant? Or was he too much for you to handle?"

"Let's just say he had a very specific agenda," I say, popping the cork on the champagne. I take a long, burning swig. "He’s a Camelot Suit, Julian."

Julian stops mid-sip. "A Financial Crimes fed? In your bed?"

"Not just a suit. He’s 'The Ledger.' Zlliot Lukeson," I say. "We thought the agent dismantling our Naples accounts was some gray-haired bureaucrat in a basement. It’s him. He’s the one who’s been bleeding us dry."

Julian rubs the back of his neck. "So the whole night was a setup? He was luring you?"

"He was hunting me. It was all by design."

"Wow. You’re in a goddamn spy thriller, Ron. What are you going to do? Tell your mother?"

I roll my eyes. If Theresa "Tess" Nalila finds out I let a federal agent into the inner sanctum because I liked the way he looked in a slim-fit suit, she’ll have me fitted for a concrete waistcoat.

"He’s not going to find out. I’m handling this myself."

A slow, predatory grin spreads across Julian’s face. "I know that look. That’s the look you had before we burned down the Little Italy docks. You're going to hunt him."

"He thinks he’s the one holding the pen," I say, getting up and moving toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. I look out over the glowing grid of Manhattan. Somewhere out there, Zli is running, thinking he escaped. "He doesn't realize I’ve already balanced the books. His days are numbered."

ZLLIOT

The bruise on my side is turning a sickly shade of violet, a Rorschach test of my own failure. I prod at my ribs, hissing through my teeth as the door to the brownstone flies open.

Phoebe Clarke bounces in, her blonde curls chaotic, two mugs of steaming liquid in her hands. "I made the caramel-tahini tea!" she chirps. "It’s the one from that London cafe. It’s supposed to be a mood stabilizer. Don't look at me like that, Zli. Just drink it."

I scramble to pull my shirt down, but I’m too slow. Phoebe’s eyes drop to the mottled skin of my torso. Her smile vanishes.

"Wait. Zli, what is that? Did someone jump you? Was it the Dragons? Oh my god, do we need to call LIL? Is the safe house compromised?"

I turn away, pulling the fabric tight. "It's nothing, Phoebe. I tripped. New York sidewalks are a hazard."

"You didn't trip into a purple-and-black hematoma," she snaps, setting the mugs down. "Was it him? Ronan Hwan?"

"I said I'm fine," I bark, my voice sharper than intended. "And knock before you come in. We talked about boundaries."

She flinches, her expression softening into that hurt, pouty look that always makes me feel like a monster. "I was just... I was worried. You were gone for six hours and your tracker went dark."

I soften my stance, taking a mug from her. "The tea is good. Thank you. I have meetings at the Unit all day. Callum is picking me up."

"He's already downstairs," she says quietly, walking toward the door. "Be careful, Zli. You're getting too close to the fire. You're starting to smell like smoke."

A knot of guilt settles in my stomach. Phoebe has been my anchor since Gina died. She’s the only person who doesn't look at me like a weapon. But I don't do relationships. I don't do friends. Trust is a luxury I traded for a keyboard and a vendetta.

My mind drifts back to the penthouse. To the way Ron looked when the light hit his eyes. He was charming, lethal, and for a few minutes, he almost made me forget why I was there.

Is that why I failed? Was I blinded by the very fire Phoebe warned me about? I can still feel the heat of his skin against mine. My ribs ache, but so does the ghost of his touch on my chest.

The front door opens again. Callum Hart’s voice booms through the hallway. "Lukeson! Move your ass! The Director is in a 'fire everyone' kind of mood!"

I push the thoughts of Ronan Hwan into a locked file in my mind. I have to get back to the ledger. I have to finish what Gina started.

I walk into the living room. Callum is standing there, looking at his watch, his jaw set in that rigid, military line.

"Ready to explain to Director Eleanor why you came back empty-handed and covered in bruises?" Callum asks.

"I’m ready to tell her that the Dragon has a name," I say, grabbing my coat. "And I’m going to be the one to write his ending."

We head for the elevator, but I can feel it—the prickle on the back of my neck. The feeling that I’m being watched. Somewhere in the city, the Lion is waking up, and he’s realized the Ledger is still open.