Chapter One

Anna

The velvet draped over the private gallery doors did nothing to muffle the heavy bass vibrating from the floor below.

Downstairs, Clifford Mandell was holding court. I knew without looking exactly how my father looked at that very second: a glass of twenty-year-old scotch balanced between finger and thumb, his teeth flashing in a politician’s polished grin, surrounded by men who bought laws and sold influence.

Upstairs, in the quiet, dim corridor reserved for VIP guests, I stood alone in front of a heavy gilded mirror, tracing the silver embroidery along the bodice of my gown. I hated events like this. I hated the perfume that smelled like artificial jasmine, the clinking of crystal glasses, and most of all, the lingering gaze of men trying to calculate my net worth based on my last name.

I leaned closer to the mirror, adjusting the silk ribbon of my lace masquerade mask.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

I froze, my hand dropping slowly from my face. The gallery hallway was supposed to be restricted, guarded by two of my father’s private detail at the base of the staircase.

"Father?" I called out, keeping my voice light, though a cold coil of unease tightened in my chest. "If you brought another senator up here to pitch me to, I'm jumping out the window."

No reply. Only the low, rhythmic hum of the ventilation system and the distant, muffled pulse of the orchestra below.

"Hello?" I turned around completely, my heels sinking slightly into the plush crimson carpet.

The corridor was empty. Crimson walls, gold-framed oil paintings of nineteenth-century lords, heavy velvet curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I took a step toward the arched exit. "This isn't funny."

A shadow detached itself from the recess between two heavy drapes near the balcony doors.

My breath hitched in my throat. I stumbled backward, my spine hitting the cold frame of the vanity mirror.

The figure was tall, broad, and clad entirely in dark, unbranded tactical gear, wrapped in a heavy charcoal coat that absorbed the warm amber light of the hallway sconces. A silver masquerade mask—carved like a grinning skull covered the upper half of his face.

"Stay back," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound like a Mandell. "My father’s men are at the bottom of the stairs. If I scream,

"They won't answer," a voice replied. It was low, gravelly, and raspy, distorted by a small modifier attached to his collar.

The intruder didn't rush. He walked toward me with a slow, deliberate cadence that belonged to someone who knew he had all the time in the world. From beneath his coat, he pulled something long, thin, and metallic.

A blade.

The steel caught the light of the chandelier, flashing dangerously.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs. Fear sharp, metallic, and primal flooded my mouth. I looked left, then right. The exit was ten feet away, but the intruder blocked the angle entirely.

"What do you want?" I whispered, backing up until my waist pressed hard against the vanity table. "Money? Jewels? Take them." My hands reached behind me, blindly feeling across the marble surface for anything, a heavy brass candlestick, a glass tumbler, a letter opener.

"Clifford Mandell took something that belonged to my family," the man said, stopping five feet away. The heat radiating off him was palpable, mixing with the faint scent of rain and gun oil. "He thinks his wealth makes him untouchable. He thinks you are untouchable."

My fingers locked around the heavy base of a solid bronze perfume burner.

"Don't come closer," I warned, raising my chin.

The man tilted his head, amused by my defiance. He took another step forward, raising the blade. "This is a message."

He didn't lunge at my throat. He didn't reach for my gold necklace. Instead, with terrifying speed, he slashed downward, not toward my skin, but toward the silk ribbon securing my mask.

The blade sliced the ribbon clean in two. The lace mask fell to the floor, fluttering onto the carpet like a wounded bird.

I gasped, bringing the heavy bronze burner down with all the strength I could muster.

The intruder caught my wrist mid-air.

His grip was like an iron vice. I gasped at the pressure, my fingers involuntarily unlocking, sending the bronze burner crashing to the rug with a dull thud. He held my hand pinned between us, his gloved fingers wrapping entirely around my delicate wrist. I could feel the brutal power restrained within his posture, he wasn't even breathing heavily.

For an agonizing second, we were suspended in time. I looked into the eyeholes of the skull mask. Through the narrow slits, I caught a glimpse of eyes so dark they looked black, staring down at me with an intensity that burned through the cold air.

"You have your father’s eyes," the intruder murmured softly, his voice dropping lower, losing some of its electronic rasp. "Pity."

He raised his free hand. In his grip was an antique steel dagger, its hilt shaped like a coiled serpent.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the blade.

Instead, a sharp thunk echoed through the room.

I opened my eyes. The man had driven the dagger deep into the mahogany wood of the vanity table right beside my ear, pinning a piece of heavy parchment to the wood. Written in thick, dark ink across the page was a single sentence: THE DEBT IS DUE, CLIFFORD.

Before I could process the sight, the intruder released my wrist. He didn't run. He simply stepped backward into the shadows of the velvet drapery, vaulted over the low balcony railing, and vanished into the rain slicked darkness outside.

The heavy oak doors of the gallery slammed open seconds later.

"Anna!"

Clifford Mandell burst into the hallway, flanked by four armed security guards with their pistols drawn. My father’s tailored tuxedo was slightly rumpled, his face pale, sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Anna! What happened?" Clifford rushed to my side, his hands trembling as he reached for my shoulders. "We heard a sound, the guards downstairs were knocked unconscious.

I stood frozen by the vanity, my arm still shaking where the stranger had held me. I stared at the balcony doors, where the wind blew rainy air through the open frame, fluttering the crimson curtains.

"He... he was here," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the roaring of blood in my ears.

Clifford’s eyes drifted from me to the vanity table. His gaze locked onto the silver hilt of the dagger pinned into the wood.

The color drained completely from his face. The posture of a powerful, untouchable media baron shattered in an instant, replaced by the hollow mask of a man who had just seen a ghost.

"Father?" I looked at him, the terror returning, but this time fueled by his reaction. "Who was that? What does that note mean?"

Clifford didn't answer me. He stepped toward the table, his hand shaking violently as he pulled the dagger from the wood and crumpled the paper in his fist.

"Clear the room," Clifford ordered his head of security, his voice raw and ragged. "Call the estate. Tell them to clear the west wing."

"Sir?" the guard asked, confused. "Should we call the police?"

"No police!" Clifford roared, turning around with sheer desperation in his eyes. "The police can't stop what's coming. None of you can."

He grabbed my arms, pulling me close. His grip was frantic, desperate, totally unlike the calm, calculated father I knew.

"Listen to me, Anna," Clifford whispered, his eyes darting toward the dark balcony. "You are not leaving the estate again. You are not going to class. You are not stepping foot outside without protection."

"Father, you're scaring me," I said, trying to pull back. "Who was he?"

"An old enemy," Clifford spat out, his teeth clenched. "Someone who should be six feet under the earth. Someone who won't stop until he tears down everything I've built, starting with you."

Clifford turned to his chief security officer. "Get the car ready. We're going straight to the residence."

"And the event downstairs, sir?"

"Cancel it!" Clifford shouted. He pulled out his encrypted phone, his fingers trembling as he searched through a private directory. He scrolled past names of senators, judges, and generals, stopping at an unlisted number with no name attached to it.

He pressed call and raised the phone to his ear.

I watched my father, my heart sinking. I had spent my entire life under his suffocating control, but this was different. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, and dangerous.

On the third ring, the line picked up.

Clifford took a shaky breath. "It's Mandell. He's back. He was in my gallery tonight. He reached her."

A long silence stretched over the receiver. I couldn't hear the voice on the other end, but I felt the temperature in the room plunge even further.

"I don't care what your f*e is," Clifford said, his voice cracking. "I don't care about your reputation or your methods. I need the best weapon you have. I need someone who doesn't have a soul."

Clifford paused, listening to the quiet reply.

"Send him," Clifford whispered, closing his eyes. "Send Klaus Dominic."