REON
My rcedes-Maybach had just pulled away from the curb, the powerful V12 engine humming softly as we eased into the late afternoon traffic on Fifth Avenue. The city moved around us in a familiar dance of luxury sedans and town cars, all ferrying their occupants toward evening destinations. I was already ntally reviewing the points I would make at the upcoming eting at the Four Seasons with the Singapore investors when a flash of movent caught my eye.
Her. Paige.
She was stepping out of the Office building, that familiar set to her shoulders even after what must have been a difficult first day. There was that defiant tilt to her chin that I rembered from our childhood, the one that said she wouldn’t be pushed around no matter what. A faint, involuntary smirk touched my lips at the sight. My little Black Cat, still fighting even when she was down.
The smirk vanished a second later, wiped clean from my face as if it had never been there.
Two uniford NYPD officers moved in from either side, their postures rigid and official. Their movents were efficient, practiced. My driver, sensing my sudden shift in attention, eased the car to a halt without having to say a word.
I watched, my blood going cold in my veins, as the scene unfolded with a horrifying, efficient clarity. The words were muffled by the soundproof glass of my car window, but the language was universal, needing no translation.
The stern faces of the officers. The way they positioned themselves around her. The question they must have asked. I saw the way her spine stiffened at their approach, then seed to falter just slightly as understanding dawned.
I saw the exact mont she realized what was happening. The color drained from her face, leaving her pale and shockingly vulnerable against the gray concrete of the sidewalk. In that instant, she looked younger than her years, more like the girl I rembered than the woman she had beco.
No.
The thought was a silent, furious command in my head. This wasn’t so minor inconvenience or embarrassnt. This was a public takedown. An arrest. Right in front of my building, in front of employees who might be watching from the windows above.
My fingers tightened around the Hermès leather strap of the seat, the material groaning in protest under my grip. This had Barbara Ristone’s fingerprints all over it. Paige’s mother always did prefer these surgical, public humiliations. But the sheer boldness of this move, the stupidity of it—that reeked of the sister’s petty spite, given real teeth by the mother’s resources and cold calculation.
They were making an example of her. Using her as a ssage to anyone who might think of crossing the Ristone family. And they were doing it right in front of my building, as if to remind that they considered her still theirs to control.
A cold, familiar rage began to uncoil deep within , spreading through my body like ice water. They thought they could touch what was mine? They thought they could pluck her from my orbit, from the ga I had only just begun? The ga that was just becoming interesting?
The officer produced handcuffs. The cold steel glinted in the afternoon sun, sending little reflected daggers of light across the scene. My jaw clenched so tight I felt the ache in my teeth.
I saw her flinch as the cuffs were snapped into place, her head bowing for a single, devastating mont before she forced it back up, that Ristone pride flickering back to life even in her defeat. Even now, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her break completely.
They led her to the squad car, a pathetic and infuriatingly small figure between the two uniford officers. She didn’t fight. She didn’t struggle. She just went, her world visibly shattering with every step she took toward that waiting Ford Crown Victoria.
The car door slamd shut behind her, a final, ugly sound that echoed in the sudden quiet of my own car. The flashing lights on top of the police car continued to spin, painting the surrounding buildings with alternating flashes of red and blue.
"Sir?" my driver asked, his voice cautious. "The eting at the Four Seasons?"
I didn’t answer him. My eyes were fixed on the retreating police car as it began to pull away from the curb, my mind already moving, calculating, discarding options, and seizing upon the only viable path forward. The Singapore investors would have to wait. Denki could handle them. This was more important.
They had no idea who they were dealing with. They had no idea what they had just unleashed.
"Follow that car," I said, my voice low and devoid of all emotion.
The ga had just changed. And I had no intention of losing.
The Maybach cut through traffic, a silent predator keeping a careful distance from the flashing lights ahead. My phone was in my hand, the cool glass of its screen a stark contrast to the heat simring under my skin. I hit the speed dial, not taking my eyes off the police car for a second.
It picked up on the second ring. "Reon. You on your way to the Four Seasons?"
"Change of plans," I said, my voice flat, my attention never wavering from the taillights of the squad car. "I need you to be my stand-in at the eting with the Singapore investors."
A beat of silence on the other end. Denki was rarely caught off guard. "Okay... why? What’s going on?"
"They just arrested Paige." The words were clinical, stripped of emotion, but the rage behind them was a living thing, pulsing just beneath the surface. "In front of my building. They’re taking her to the precinct now."
"Shit," Denki breathed, the sound sharp with genuine surprise. He knew what she ant to , even if I never said it out loud. He knew the ga we were playing, the history that stretched between us. "The family?"
"Obviously. It’s their opening move." The squad car ahead of us signaled a turn, and my driver smoothly followed, maintaining our discreet distance. "I’m handling this personally. You handle them. You know the numbers better than anyone. Don’t let them sll blood."
"Understood." His voice shifted, all business now. The best friend was gone; the head of security, the ruthless strategist, was on the line. "I’ll smooth it over. Call when you have her."
The line went dead. I slipped the phone back into the pocket of my Brioni suit, my gaze fixed ahead. We followed the police car through the increasingly grimy streets as we moved away from the financial district, until it finally turned into the bay of the 10th Precinct station. The building was exactly what I expected—gray, imposing, radiating institutional indifference.
"Wait here," I told the driver, my voice leaving no room for argunt.
I didn’t wait for a reply. I was out of the car the second it stopped, my long strides eating up the pavent between the car and the precinct entrance. The air inside was thick with the sll of stale coffee, sweat, and despair—a particular odor that seems to exist only in places like this.
It didn’t take long to find her. Through a window in a heavy door, I saw her. Sitting on a hard bench in a holding cell, alone. She looked small, diminished. Her arms were wrapped around herself as if trying to hold herself together, her head bowed. The defiant woman from my office was gone, replaced by a scared girl who’d been pushed too far, too fast.
She hadn’t seen yet. Good.
I turned toward the front desk, my expression settling into a mask of cold, impenetrable authority. The ga was indeed changing. And I was about to rewrite the rules.
The sergeant at the front desk didn’t even look up from his computer. "Bail for the Ristone assault hasn’t been set yet. You’ll have to wait for the judge."
"I’m not waiting for a judge," I said, my voice low and leaving no room for argunt. "How much to make this go away? Right now."
That got his attention. He looked up, his eyes narrowing, assessing the cut of my suit, the Patek Philippe on my wrist, the John Lobb shoes that cost more than he made in a month. He nad a figure. It was obscene, clearly designed to make even a wealthy man balk and reconsider.
I didn’t blink. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled out my phone, dialed my accountant, and instructed him to wire the exact amount to the precinct’s account imdiately. The entire call took less than thirty seconds. I slid the phone back into my pocket. "It’s done. Check your ledger."
The sergeant’s eyes widened slightly as a notification undoubtedly dinged on his computer. He looked from the screen to , a new kind of respect and wariness in his gaze. He gave a sharp nod to an officer standing nearby. "Process the release."
Keys jangled against a heavy ring as the officer moved to comply. I followed the sound, my footsteps echoing on the worn linoleum floor until I reached the holding cell.
There she was. My brilliant, ferocious Black Cat, curled in on herself on a hard tal bench that was bolted to the floor. She looked defeated, broken in a way I hadn’t seen before. The sight sent a fresh wave of cold fury through —not at her, but at the people who had put her here.
She looked up as my shadow fell over her. Her eyes were red-rimd but dry, wide with a mixture of shock, sha, and a dawning, terrifying hope that I might actually be there to help her.
The cell door clanged open, the sound harsh and tallic in the small space.
I leaned against the doorfra, letting a slow, suprely smug smirk spread across my face. I let the silence hang between us, enjoying the absolute power of the mont, the reversal of fortunes that placed as her rescuer whether she wanted to be or not.
"Well, well," I said, my voice a low, sarcastic purr that echoed in the small, cold space. "It seems your little temper tantrum ca with a rather expensive price tag. Good thing your new boss has a generous... benefits package."
I gestured with my head toward the open door. "Let’s go. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day."
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