Chapter Three

KADE, 32

“Bold,” I murmured under my breath as I watched the woman speak.

The same woman who had launched a tornado kick at me the night before, mistaking me for some street-level thief. She’d clipped my jaw and then tried to fight me like she had something to prove, like she wasn’t already in over her head. Now she stood in my boardroom wearing a blue top, black trousers, and heels, talking through her proposal with a blend of nerves and confidence that didn’t quite match her small frame.

At first, she avoided my eyes. Her voice wavered, just slightly. But the longer she spoke, the steadier she became, as though she was convincing herself while trying to convince us.

She wasn’t tall. Not particularly short either. Her ponytail revealed thick, curly brunette hair, and her chocolate-colored eyes held far more life than caution. She didn’t look like someone connected to anything dangerous.

And yet, she was.

I remembered her instantly from the alley. But even before that, I’d already seen her name in one of the reports the week prior. I made it a rule to investigate every business owner or executive connected, even remotely, to anything Damon showed interest in. For reasons no one could explain, my brother had taken an interest in her bakery. No motive. No clear link. Just his unnecessary curiosity.

So I watched her. Once. Then again. From a distance.

Her bakery was barely holding together. The finances were a disaster. She was painfully ordinary—a clever woman weighed down by childhood damage and a business on the verge of collapse. Nothing about her should have attracted Damon’s attention. Nothing that made sense.

And yet here she stood, inside my boardroom, speaking like she belonged here.

I lifted my pen slightly.

She froze mid-step, her shoulders stiffening and her eyes flashed with defiance she quickly tried to swallow. There had to be something about her that made Damon look twice, and I intended to uncover it.

“Miss Statham,” I said evenly. “Your request lacks clarity. Why should I invest in a bakery that can’t even keep its ovens running?”

She straightened immediately, lifting her chin as she met my gaze. “Because it has potential—with the right support.”

“Based on what?” I asked. “Sentiment?”

“It’s not sentiment,” she replied quickly. “It’s data. I brought reports—”

I cut her off without hesitation. “Reports don’t change the fact that your debt outweighs your projected profit. I don’t pour money into businesses already drowning.”

Her smile tightened, and goodness was t amusing to see someone try so hard to keep their smile. A fake one, the kind people used when they needed something badly and didn’t want to show irritation. I could tell she’d rather fling those documents at my face if she were given the chance.

I continued, unbothered. “If I invest, I expect returns. What assurance do you have that your bakery won’t shut down within a year?”

She inhaled, visibly steadying herself. “I plan to expand the menu, improve visibility, and rebrand—”

“And what makes you think you can manage that,” I interrupted, “when you couldn’t even keep your staff from quitting last month?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “How did you—”

“I know everything I need to know.”

She swallowed and smiled again, even more artificial this time. She sure knows how to smile a lot, undoubtedly to get what she wants. It irritated me. As much as I enjoyed the fear, I enjoyed resistance even more. I liked it when people believed they had a voice, even if they would lose in the end. At least they tried.

“I understand it seems risky to invest in me, sir,” she said carefully, “but I’m not just hardworking—I work smart, and—”

“And what if—”

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, irritation flashing through her expression. “If you would let me finish, sir, I could convince you even further.”

I smiled.

There it was. The fire.

Before I could press her again, Javier stepped closer, leaning in. “Boss,” he said quietly, “...we found one of Xaviero’s men. The shooter from nine years ago.”

My fist clenched beneath the table.

That man. The one who pulled the trigger on Celine’s younger sister. The reason I’d been out the night before—before crossing paths with Raven and her stolen-purse chaos.

Damon’s amateur thieves had been roaming that area. If she’d chased further into that alley, Damon would have gotten to her first and turned her into another disposable plant for his drugs. What angered me more was that the idiot thief had worn my jacket while doing something that stupid. Javier made sure he learned his lesson. He was lucky he was still breathing.

I stood. “Summer, conclude the interview. Prepare the required documents.”

Summer and the two men overseeing my Washington operations nodded immediately. Javier followed as I left the room, heading toward the lower floors where the private ring was located.

“Everything is arranged,” Javier said as we walked. “Valerie Statham will arrive in two hours to sign the marriage contract. These are the documents for both women.” He handed me two envelopes.

“Statham?” I asked, glancing at him.

He nodded. “Same surname but surprisingly not related. I checked.”

I acknowledged it without interest. Marriage meant nothing to me. I never wanted it. The only reason it mattered now was the vow I’d made at nineteen—a decree Damon assumed I’d forgotten. He’d been waiting for me to forget it, to let the age limit pass so he could use it against me and take my seat. I delayed deliberately, to let him relax and let his guard down.

Javier opened the door to the dark hallway.

Benard Hastings was tied to a chair, his face covered in leather and his muffled pleas leaked through the mask.

A guard tore it off and the poor guy’s panic sharpened the moment he saw me.

He always looked like a man running from his own sins. Now he had nowhere left to run.

I picked up the same knife he’d used nine years ago. Recognition flashed in his eyes immediately, and he tried to laugh, as if this were something he could negotiate his way out of.

They all knew about the vengeance list. Everyone who touched Celine’s family—and mine—that night. I’d erased most of them already, chased the rest across borders. They called me many things. The Reaper was the one that stuck.

“Kade, please,” He pleaded. “You can’t kill me over something that happened ten years ago.”

“And yet,” I replied calmly, “you killed them over something that happened thirty years before—before she or her siblings were even born.”

“It was justified,” he said quickly. “The Romano family betrayed us. It was protocol.”

“That so?” I asked. “Then what did my father do?”

“Your father’s death was a contract,” he said, trembling. “You know how this works. If you’re angry, take it up with your brother. He gave the information. Or with Xaviero Del Rios who ordered it.”

I closed my eyes briefly. I’d killed enough men to know exactly who orchestrated every death. None of it was new.

“And you?” I asked.

“I only followed orders,” he rushed out. “You can’t kill me for that.”

He spoke fast, desperate, like rushing might save him.

I stepped closer and he recoiled against the chair.

“You destroyed lives over a lie,” I said. “You didn’t even investigate.”

“It was urgent,” he stammered. “You know the life. You were a member—”

Fatal mistake.

His scream tore through the room as I drove the knife into his thigh. I pulled it free and buried it into the other one. Blood flooded the floor as he convulsed.

I lifted the knife again. “I was never a member.”

Then I drove it clean through his throat.

His body jerked a couple times, blood spurting out of the slit before he went still.

Suddenly a muffled sound came from the corner. I turned instantly, so did my men.

I scanned the place and caught side of a familiar petite figure trying to avoid the light and my sight.

Raven.

She was pressed into the shadows, hands clamped over her mouth, breathing far too loud for someone trying to hide.

A quiet snort escaped me.

So she’d followed me.

Was that why Benard wanted her? Because she’d seen something? Or because she belonged to someone else? Damon? A spy?

Javier stepped forward. “Boss, should we handle her?”

I raised a hand. “No.”

I moved toward her slowly.

With that weak kick last night and the way she trembled now, I wanted to peel her apart layer by layer. And if Damon had sent her—well. Good for both of them.

“Why not bring a pen instead,” I said calmly, turning back toward the table, “when our beautiful baker seems so eager to sign that she came looking for me herself?”