The Blackwell Claim

The air in the penthouse office of Saati Town tasted like expensive scotch and unwashed ego. Samon Lity slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk, the force rattling the crystal decanters.

"I want him alive!" Lity roared. "The boy stays breathing, or nobody gets paid."

Kan Nelblack didn't blink. He just leaned back in the leather chair, watching the vein throb in the older man’s forehead. Beside him, Gideon Blackwell shifted, the movement subtle but lethal. Lity was a heavyweight in the New Orleans underworld, a man who thought money bought immunity from the consequences of being a prick. He was wrong.

Gideon tossed the thin manila folder back onto the desk. "What’s your stake in him, Samon? You don't hire the best trackers in the South for a simple debt collection."

Kan pulled a single black-and-white photo from the file before it slid away. It was a grainy shot of a young man—slender, sharp-jawed, with dark eyes that seemed to be looking right through the lens.

Timothy Gal. No last name on the birth certificate. No paper trail for the last three years.

"He's a ghost," Kan muttered, his thumb brushing over the image of Timothy’s throat. He was small—maybe five-seven. Kan stood at six-five, a wall of muscle and scarred skin. He could already feel the phantom weight of the kid in his arms, pinned between him and Gideon. The image of Timothy’s pale skin flushing red while they took turns breaking him into the mattress made Kan’s pulse kick.

"He's a thief," Lity spat, pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Sopttyi District. "He seduced my son. Turned him into a spineless, babbling wreck. The kid isn't human—he's got a way of talking, a way of looking at you that melts your brain."

Kan let out a short, dry bark of a laugh. "So your son is a weak-willed brat and you’re blaming the boy he’s sleeping with? That’s pathetic, even for you, Lity."

"Watch your mouth, Nelblack," Lity hissed, his face darkening. "I’m telling you, Gal is a 'Siren.' Not the myth, the method. He gets under the skin. He’s a Nash Rebellion operative, and he’s got secrets that belong to me."

"Bullshit," Kan said. The word was a jagged stone. "Sirens are for fairy tales. You’re looking for a spy who played your kid like a fiddle. Just say it."

Gideon leaned forward, his voice like silk over a blade. "If he’s a rebel operative, why haven't your enforcers handled it? Why call us?"

"Because my enforcers keep turning up dead or 'convinced' to let him go," Lity growled. He leaned over the desk, his shadow stretching long across the floor. "I want him captured. I want him broken. I'll pay triple your usual rate."

Kan felt a surge of possessive heat that had nothing to do with the contract. The idea of this bloated mob boss putting his hands on Timothy—the boy with the haunting eyes—made his knuckles itch for impact.

"We find him," Gideon said, his voice cold and professional. "But we don't hand him over until we verify the 'secrets' you’re talking about. We don't do hits, and we don't do delivery for personal vendettas unless the guilt is proven."

Kan stood up, towering over Lity. He reached out and snatched the gold pen from Lity’s desk, snapping it between two fingers. "The price just went up. And if I find out you’re lying about why you want him, I’m going to come back here and show you exactly how 'sirens' sound when they’re screaming."

Lity flinched. The reputation of the Blackwell-Nelblack duo was built on a foundation of bodies and successful hunts. They were the apex predators of Saati Town.

"Fine," Lity whispered. "Just bring me Timothy Gal."

The elevator ride down was silent until the doors hissed shut.

"You’re thinking about it," Gideon said, glancing at Kan in the mirrored walls.

"Thinking about what?"

"Fucking him," Gideon replied simply. "You’ve been staring at that photo like you want to eat him alive."

Kan grunted, his hand tightening on the folder. "He looks like he’d break easy. I want to see if he actually does."

They stepped out into the humid New Orleans night and climbed into the matte-black Spyder. Gideon fired the engine, the roar echoing off the concrete walls of the garage.

"We’re going after him," Kan said as they tore out onto the street, the neon lights of the Sopttyi District blurring into streaks of violet and gold.

"Obviously," Gideon steered the car with one hand, a smirk playing on his lips. "But we aren't giving him back to Lity. Not until we’ve had our turn."

Kan looked at the photo one last time. Timothy Gal looked back, defiant even in a still image. "He’s a rebel. He’s going to fight."

"Good," Kan growled, feeling a dark, heavy ache in his gut. "I hope he tries to run. I want to see him sweat."