MOVING ON…?

I arrived at the office early, like I always did. No amount of chaos, no freak accident, and certainly no stray bullets from last night’s ordeal could keep me from my work. Whatever happened then didn’t actually happen. It was a fever dream, a twisted nightmare. I was awake now. Life moved on.

But as soon as I stepped out of the elevator, something felt wrong. A thick, stifling silence hung in the air, interrupted only by hushed whispers and quiet sniffles. The cleaners stood with mops they hadn’t used, their backs rigid. Some of my colleagues gathered in tight clusters, heads bowed, their faces drawn and pale. A few were crying.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t ask. Office gossip was the lowest of my priorities. Whatever tragedy had befallen some poor soul today was not my business—until it was.

A man I didn’t recognize stepped in front of me, his face unreadable. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you can’t go in.”

I blinked, registering the yellow tape stretched across the hallway. “Excuse me?”

“This building is a crime scene,” he said, flashing a badge. “I’m with the police. Please step behind the tape with your colleagues.”

My stomach twisted. “Crime scene?”

Sharon, my assistant, broke through the crowd, her eyes wet and red-rimmed. “Miss Bianca,” she choked out. “It’s Mrs. Bayern. She was murdered.”

The words settled over me like a suffocating weight. Mrs. Bayern. Murdered.

She was the first one in the office every morning. That was her routine, her obsession. She liked the quiet before the storm, liked to go over everything before anyone else walked in. It was predictable. Predictable enough to plan around.

My throat felt dry. “Murdered?”

Sharon nodded, wiping her nose. “They found her this morning. In her office.”

I processed that, slowly, methodically. Mrs. Bayern was many things—strict, sharp-tongued, and painfully meticulous—but she was not the type to make enemies. The woman was generous to a fault, handing out second chances like candy. Who would want her dead?

More importantly, how?

I moved forward, stepping around the officer as he was distracted, and crossed the threshold of Mrs. Bayern’s office.

The air smelled like blood. Coppery and thick.

She was slumped over her desk, her throat a gaping red smile. The blood had congealed, dark and glossy, pooling across the polished wood and staining the expensive vintage carpet beneath her. The glass wall behind her was smeared with it—splattered in a way that was neither rushed nor frenzied. It was precise. Calculated.

The room was freezing, but I felt hot all over, my skin prickling.

Mrs. Bayern. Gone. Just like that.

I refused to cry. Crying was pointless. Crying didn’t solve shit.

Anger, though—anger got results.

I clenched my jaw and turned away, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Whoever did this would pay.

“Miss, please, this way,” the officer called after me, guiding me back behind the caution tape. I let him.

A new voice cut through the murmurs. “Alright, everyone, listen up.”

A man in a dark suit strolled into the room, his presence sharp, commanding. He wasn’t in uniform, but he carried himself with the kind of authority that didn’t need one. “I’m Detective Morris, and I’m leading this investigation. Follow protocol, and we’ll get through this quickly.”

I exhaled sharply. Just get to the point.

“As of this morning,” he continued, “Mr. Brown Clarke, CEO of Clarke & Associates LLP, was also found dead.”

A ripple of shock spread through the room. People gasped. Someone started crying again.

I didn’t react. I just raised my hand. “Excuse me.”

Detective Morris turned his sharp gaze to me. “Yes, Miss…?”

“Bianca Marcelo,” I said. “Was it murder? Or a natural death, given his age?”

Eyes turned to me, wide, judging. I could practically hear their thoughts. Insensitive. Cold. Bitch. Like they weren’t all thinking the same thing. Like I gave a damn.

I hugely prefer they think I’m a bitch.

The detective’s lips twitched in amusement, but his tone remained neutral. “We can’t disclose details to the public yet, Miss Bianca. But we are doing everything we can to ensure safety.”

Sure. Safety. That was bullshit. There was nothing safe about this.

My phone rang. Loud. Inappropriate. The judgmental stares deepened, but I ignored them, walking toward the elevator as I checked the caller ID.

Leonardo.

Of course. He was always one step ahead.

I answered. “Hi, brother.”

His voice was calm, too calm. “Two of your bosses are dead, which means you’re either a target or a suspect. Come to Italy before things get out of hand.”

I stepped out of the elevator, into the crisp morning air, and sighed. “I’m fine, Leo. And you made sure I had two bodyguards shadowing me since that damn shootout. I’m not—”

“Bianca.” His voice was quiet. Dangerous. “I’m not asking. If you don’t come to protection, protection will come to you.”

As if on cue, a black car rolled into the parking lot. Heavily tinted windows. Security.

Fuck.

I pressed my fingers to my temple. “You were just calling for formalities, weren’t you?”

“Great,” he said, satisfied, and hung up.

I turned back to the building, my blood simmering. I was not going to Italy. I was not getting dragged back into that world.

I stormed back inside, seething, only to find a young man addressing my colleagues. He had the same sharp, angular features as Mr. Brown. The resemblance was uncanny.

He turned as I approached. “You must be Bianca Marcelo.”

I arched a brow. “And you are?”

He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Jason Clarke. Your new boss.”

Figures.

I crossed my arms, my eyes raking over him. “Did you kill him?”

A flicker of something dark crossed his face. “Excuse me?”

I tilted my head. “Your father. Did you kill him to take over?”

The air between us shifted, the temperature dropping. A thick, tense silence settled.

Then he chuckled, low and amused. “I’ll see you around, Miss Bianca.”

As he walked past, his fingers barely grazed my arm, but it was enough. Enough to leave behind a chill that sank deep into my skin.

My brother’s words echoed in my head. You’re either next in line… or next in the grave.

What the fuck was going on?