My Father’s Enemy, My Obsession

I was raised to protect my father’s empire.

Tonight, I’m here to help burn it down.

Rain slicks off the edge of the rooftop, forty floors above Manhattan. From up here, the towers look clean—neon reflections on glass, white headlights gliding over wet streets.

From down there, they look like salvation.

From up here, Ava Moretti can see exactly what they are:

crime scenes with better lighting.

“Ava, this is the part where a sane person pulls the plug,” Cass hisses in her ear. “We can still order dumplings and talk shit about your father from the safety of our illegally cheap apartment.”

Ava pulls her hood tighter and steps up to the ledge. Across the street, the Axiom glows like a high-end spa—pale wood, frosted glass, and soft interior light.

On the surface, it’s a wellness club for the rich.

Underneath, it’s where the worst people in the city auction off sins and call them investments.

“Send me the node again,” Ava murmurs.

Cass grumbles, keys clacking faintly over the comm. “You’re lucky I love you enough to break into the kind of server farm that could buy and sell my soul.”

A faint arrow flickers into Ava’s vision as her HUD boots up—thin blue overlay, painting the building’s underbelly in ghost lines and data.

> Axiom – Sublevel 3: Unauthorized activity detected

> Node origin: Encrypted auction server

> Lot of interest: 17

“Lot Seventeen,” Ava says. “Still there?”

“Still there,” Cass confirms. “Still labeled ‘development portfolio.’ Still allegedly loaded with contracts, bribes, and offshore accounts from half the real-estate cartel.”

Half the cartel. Including Vince Moretti.

Her father.

“You crack that drive,” Ava says quietly, “you don’t just take my father down. You take them all down.”

Silence crackles across the line, and then Cass sighs.

“You are not responsible for what Vince did,” she says. Softer. “None of this is on you.”

Ava flashes on a memory anyway.

An old woman on a crumbling sidewalk. The building behind her a pile of dust and broken brick. *We had nowhere else to go.* Her voice dull with shock.

The glossy render of a glass tower on the “Coming Soon” sign beside it: MORETTI DEVELOPMENT.

Vince grinned on stage at the groundbreaking. The champagne her brothers poured afterward.

Maybe she’s not responsible.

But she’s been standing on the balcony long enough, watching.

“If I get the drive, they can’t do it again,” she says. “That part is on me.”

“Yeah, and if they catch you, your part’s going to be on five different floors,” Cass mutters. “Last chance to bail, Ava. I mean it.”

Ava swings herself over the rooftop ledge before she can talk herself out of it. Her boots scrape wet concrete as she drops to a lower fire-escape ladder, fingers catching cold metal.

She climbs down toward the alley, toward The Axiom’s service entrance, heart steady, breath controlled.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes before I loop the lobby cams again,” Cass warns. “After that, you’re a very pretty glitch in their security footage.”

“That’s why I have you,” Ava says, dropping the last few feet to the alley.

She slips in through the shadows toward the unmarked steel door. Two guards in black flank it, faces flat, eyes scanning.

Ava smooths her coat, adjusts the simple black mask covering the lower half of her face, and walks toward them like she owns the block.

“Invite,” one of them says, palm out.

She produces a matte-black card, no name, just an embossed silver infinity symbol. It's one of Cass’s more illegal little miracles.

The guard runs it under a scanner. Her HUD flashes:

> Authentication spoof – valid

“Name?” he asks.

“Alessia Russo,” she says with a faint Milanese lilt. “First time. I was told this would be… entertaining.”

His gaze drags down then up again, taking in her sleek black dress, minimal jewelry, the calm in her posture. His eyes catch on the inside of her wrist, where her sleeve’s ridden up just enough to show the faint, stylized M inked in dark lines.

The Moretti crest.

A nineteen-year-old mistake. The one thing she can’t take off.

Ava curls her fingers, tugging the sleeve down, hiding the mark.

The guard hesitates a fraction of a second—and then hands the card back.

“Enjoy the show, Ms. Russo.”

The steel door hisses open.

Cold air and the hum of distant bass spill out.

“You’re in the staff corridor,” Cass whispers. “Two cameras overhead—they’re blind for ninety seconds. Follow the arrow to the freight elevator. And maybe don’t flash the family logo next time.”

“I’ll add it to my list of regrets,” Ava murmurs and slips into the narrow hallway.

Bare concrete. Fluorescent lights. Cardboard boxes lining the walls. The faint scent of chemical cleaner over something darker.

The golden arrow in her HUD blinks ahead. She moves fast, heels soundless on the floor, the distant thrum of music getting louder with each step.

She hits the freight elevator button. The old doors grind open—

A hand slides between them, stopping their progress.

The doors jerk back.

And he steps in.

Damian Kade.

He doesn’t look like a tech CEO. He looks like the problem your parents warned you about in polished black and a gunmetal watch worth more than most cars.

Well, over six feet, lean and hard, his suit cut like sin. Dark hair pushed back carelessly, still damp from the rain. His jaw carved in ruthless lines, his mouth unsmiling.

Her HUD pings, late and useless.

> Subject: Kade, Damian

> Alias: “The Silicon King”

> Net worth: obscene

Cass sucks in a sharp breath in her ear. “Okay. Plot twist. You’re definitely not going in there.”

“He’s not on the guest list you pulled,” Ava says under her breath, stepping into the elevator anyway.

“I know,” Cass snaps. “Which is why you should turn around and go home and maybe take up knitting instead.”

The doors close, trapping Ava, Damian, and a nervous-looking server between metal walls.

The elevator hums as it descends.

Damian smells like rain and something dark and expensive. He barely glances at the server before dismissing him. When his gaze hits Ava, it stays.

One beat. Two.

From behind her mask, Ava keeps her chin level. To him, she’s just another masked girl with money and poor judgment.

His eyes narrow with mild curiosity.

“First time?” he asks, voice low, lazy, the kind of voice that assumes the world is built to obey it.

“Is it that obvious?” she replies, letting the accent drag a little thicker.

“Terrified or bored,” he says. “Those are the usual options. You don’t look like either.”

“Maybe I’m very good at pretending,” she counters.

His mouth curves—not quite a smile. “Maybe.”

Cass mutters, “Stop talking to him. Stop. Talking. To. Him.”

He tilts his head, studying her. “What did they tell you this place is, Ms…?”

“Russo,” she supplies. “Alessia Russo.”

“Ms. Russo.” He tastes the name. “What did they tell you we sell down here?”

“Investments,” she says. “Opportunities. Leverage.”

“That’s what the invitations say,” he agrees. “Personally, I prefer clearer words.”

“Such as?”

“Debt,” he says. “Weakness. Ammunition. Toys.” His gaze slides over her, slow, appraising, then back up. “Depends what you came for.”

Ava meets his eyes. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“You came anyway,” he notes.

“I get bored easily.”

“Then my advice, Ms. Russo?” His tone softens, dangerous. “Try not to outbid anyone who looks like they’d enjoy watching you bleed.”

The elevator shudders to a stop.

The doors slide open.

Sound slams into them—bass, laughter, the murmur of voices with money, and no conscience.

The underground auction is a cathedral built for sin.

Dark marble floors. Chrome railings. Red and violet light washing over rows of leather seats descending toward a raised podium, where a woman in a blood-red dress smiles like a shark.

On the twin screens, rules scroll past: anonymity guaranteed, no phones, house laws.

Everything else?

Fair game.

“I’m losing signal the deeper you go,” Cass says, voice warping with interference. “I’ll keep the basics, but don’t expect a rescue if you faceplant.”

“Noted,” Ava murmurs.

Damian steps out first.

The room reacts to him like a pressure drop. Heads turn. Conversations falter. A murmur runs through the crowd—his name on half their lips, envy or hate in the other half.

Kade. Kade. Kade.

He doesn’t acknowledge anyone. He doesn’t need to. He moves through the center aisle like the building tilts under his feet.

Just before he disappears into the crowd, he glances back once.

“Enjoy the show, Ms. Russo,” he says.

“After you, Mr. Kade,” she replies, ignoring the way her pulse spikes at saying his name out loud.

Then he’s gone.

Ava slips along the side wall toward her assigned seat—C17—highlighted in her HUD with a golden ring. From here, she’ll have a clear view of the stage and enough distance from the true monsters to breathe.

She sits, crosses her legs, takes the champagne a server offers, and pretends her heart isn’t pounding.

Onstage, the woman in red leans into the mic.

“Welcome, distinguished guests, to tonight’s exchange,” she purrs. “The house thanks you for your discretion… and your taste.”

Polite, black laughter rolls through the crowd.

“We remind you that anonymity is guaranteed, that all bids are binding, and that no harm may come to our staff on these premises.” Her smile sharpens. “What you do when you leave is, as always, your business.”

A titter of amusement.

“Let’s begin.”

The first lots are vile in a very specific, very rich way.

Blackmail photos. Patents. A mistress’s NDA. A trafficking route disguised as “logistics solutions.”

Each gavel strike is a small execution.

“Focus,” Cass breathes in her ear. “Lot Seventeen is queued. In, out, no hero shit.”

Ava’s gaze flicks to the corner of her HUD. A small icon pulses: 17.

Her throat is dry.

> I was raised to protect my father’s empire.

> Tonight, I’m here to steal the one thing that can end it.

“Lot Seventeen,” the woman in red announces, smile widening. “Something… special.”

An assistant carries out a velvet-lined tray. In the center lies a slim, silver USB drive.

“On this drive,” the auctioneer says, “you will find documentation of certain high-value developments in our fair city. Unreported payments. Offshore accounts. Names. Numbers. Enough to build—or topple—empires.”

A hush drops over the room.

Ava’s fingers tighten around her glass.

“This is it,” Cass whispers.

“Starting bid: one million.”

Ava’s chair arm vibrates softly. A discreet sensor waits under her fingertips.

Numbers flash on the screen.

1,000,000.

2,000,000.

5,000,000.

She waits. Watches.

Three distinct bidders trade numbers—fast, sharp, practiced. A fourth tosses in smaller jumps.

“We can safely go to fifteen,” Cass says. “Over that, and you owe some very bad people some very awkward favors. Don’t be stupid.”

“Never my brand,” Ava mutters.

She presses her finger to the sensor.

8,000,000 – Seat C17.

A few heads turn. Attention brushes over her; she keeps her shoulders loose and sips champagne.

“I hate you,” Cass mutters. “I love you, but I hate you.”

The bids climb.

10,000,000.

12,000,000.

“Okay, that’s the edge,” Cass warns. “If it jumps again, we walk. Vince isn’t worth your corpse.”

The numbers jump.

14,000,000 – Seat A05.

Her HUD flares, tagging A05 in red.

“Shit,” Cass breathes. “That shell routes back to a Kade Dynamics holding. He’s in.”

Ava’s eyes cut toward the front.

Damian lounges in one of the prime seats, fingers tapping once against the armrest, gaze half-lidded, like this is nothing more than a mildly interesting game.

His hand lifts a fraction.

14,000,000 solidifies on the screen.

“Fourteen million,” the auctioneer purrs. “Do I hear fifteen?”

Ava’s pulse hammers. Fifteen million. Enough to matter. Enough to piss off someone who can kill her.

She presses down.

15,000,000 – Seat C17.

The room sharpens.

The auctioneer’s smile grows teeth. “Fifteen. We have a new player with excellent taste.”

On the screens, A05 flashes again.

25,000,000 – Seat A05.

Cass’s voice spikes. “We can not follow that. If you go over twenty-five million, every fixer in New York is going to know your alias by breakfast. Do. Not. Touch. That. Sensor.”

Ava’s finger hovers.

If I win this drive, I put a bullet in Vince Moretti’s empire.

If Damian keeps it, he pulls the trigger first.

Her hand starts to move—

A warm, unyielding hand closes around her wrist, pinning it gently but firmly to the armrest.

“Don’t,” a low voice murmurs by her ear. “Unless you want to leave here in pieces.”

Damian Kade stands beside her row, close enough that she can see the cool edge in his storm-grey eyes.

“Sold!” the auctioneer’s voice cuts through, gavel slamming. “To Seat A05.”

Polite applause ripples through the room like tiny knives.

On the screen, 25,000,000 freezes beside an anonymized code she knows belongs to him.

His grip tightens just enough to remind her it’s there before he lets go.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

“For what?” Ava manages, anger and adrenaline burning under her skin.

“For not letting you paint a target on that pretty forehead,” he replies. “There are numbers even rich little tourists don’t touch in a room like this.”

“You assume I scare that easily.”

“I assume you’re not suicidal.” His gaze drags over her mask, her eyes, her hair—measuring, filing something away. “Most people in this room spend millions trying to stay invisible,” he says softly. “You just tried to spend twenty-five to be noticed.”

The words skim something raw and reckless inside her.

“You don’t know what I want,” she says.

“Not yet,” he replies.

The lights flicker.

Once. Twice.

Then everything goes black.

For a heartbeat, the room holds its breath.

Then someone screams.

Glass shatters. Chairs scrape. A gunshot cracks through the dark—deafening.

Cass’s voice disintegrates into static.

Ava jerks, but before she can move, something solid slams into her, driving her back into the leather seat. An arm bands around her waist, pinning her down.

“Stay down,” Damian snarls in her ear, body covering hers completely. His thigh braces between her legs, anchoring her to the floor.

Panic claws at her throat.

Shouts. Running footsteps. Another gunshot. Somewhere close, a woman sobs.

“Find the Moretti girl!” A man roars over the chaos. “She’s here!”

The word knives through Ava’s chest.

Moretti.

Damian goes very still against her.

“What did he just say?” he asks, too calm.

Flashlight beams swipe through the dark.

“They saw a crest,” someone yells. “Inside her wrist. Like the old man’s. She’s here. Find her.”

Damian’s hand closes around her forearm. He shoves her sleeve up.

In the bloody red glow of emergency lights flickering to life, the stylized M looks like it’s carved into her skin.

His eyes meet hers.

Recognition detonates.

Moretti.

For a suspended second, the world narrows to two inescapable facts:

She came here to destroy her father.

She’s pinned under his worst enemy.

A flashlight beam swings their way.

“Move,” Damian growls.

He doesn’t wait for the agreement.

He hauls her upright, spins her, and presses her back into the seat, his body caging hers. One large hand grips her jaw, angling her face up.

“To everyone else,” he breathes, “we’re just another couple taking advantage of the blackout. Do. Not. Flinch.”

Before she can protest—

His mouth crashes down on hers.

Hard. Commanding. All cover, no apology.

Heat slams through her as his lips crush hers, his hand holding her in place. His body pins her, thigh wedged between hers, the scent of rain and smoke and danger crowding her lungs.

She knows it’s camouflage. A tactic.

Her fingers still curl in his shirt anyway.

A flashlight beam lingers on them.

“Just horny rich assholes,” a voice snorts. “Keep moving. The Moretti girl’s not that stupid.”

The light swings away.

Damian doesn’t pull back immediately.

He presses in one heartbeat longer than necessary. His mouth drags over hers, angle shifting, taking just a little more than the lie requires.

Then he rips his mouth away, breath rough, forehead resting against hers in the pulsing red glow.

Between gunshots and shouting, there is one clear, impossible truth:

He knows.

“Congratulations, Ms. Moretti,” he says softly, the fake name dead now. Lethal amusement threads his voice. “Now everyone in this room has a reason to kill you.”

His gaze holds hers.

“Including me,” he adds lightly, “if you become a problem.”

Another gunshot cracks closer this time.

And the most dangerous part isn’t the gunfire.

It’s the man who just walked away with the drive that can destroy her father—

and now knows exactly how she tastes.