“Roberto Vega said to send a message,” the youth confirmed, sweat beading his upper lip despite the cool night air. “Just to scare you, not to kill. I swear we were just supposed to shoot near the car.”
A lie born of desperation. The bullet hole in my shoulder testified to more lethal intentions. Young and stupid, this boy had allowed himself to become a pawn in a game whose rules he clearly didn't understand. In different circumstances, I might have considered mercy—youth and ignorance sometimes warranted a second chance.
But not tonight. Not with my blood already spilled. Not with the memory of Thomas's betrayal still fresh.
My response was a single bullet. The body crumpled beside its companion's, his expression frozen in eternal surprise that death had come so swiftly. “Message received,” I murmured.
As I returned to the car, pain finally registered properly, my injured shoulder protesting the night's exertions. Blood had soaked through my shirt and jacket, the expensive fabric ruined beyond salvation. Like so much in my world, damage couldn't be undone, only managed and repurposed.
“Destination?” Dominic asked as I settled back into the car, his expression betraying no reaction to the executions he'd just witnessed.
“The hospital is out of the question,” I replied, examining the wound with clinical detachment. “Graze only, no major damage. Take me home. Alert Viktor to handle the scene cleanup. And inform Harrison I want every piece of leverage we have on the Vega organisation compiled before morning.”
As the Bentley pulled away, leaving the dead men behind us, I watched London's sleeping skyline with cold calculation. This attack had demonstrated how quickly the balance could shift, how constantly vigilance was required. The wound in my shoulder throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a physical reminder of vulnerability I could never afford to acknowledge publicly.
Soon, the chess pieces would be repositioned. Thomas's body discovered by Vega's people. The Caravaggio secured in my collection. Two more Vega soldiers dead. The pieces of my empire shifting in careful coordination, maintaining the delicate balance between shadow and light, between the legitimate businessman I presented to the world and the scarred monster who ruled London's underworld with blood-soaked hands.
As always, I would present an immaculate facade to the world, hiding the night's violence beneath custom suits andcold control. No one would see the blood beneath my skin, the memories of flames that woke me screaming most nights, the emptiness that no amount of power or vengeance ever filled.
The game continued. And I played to win, regardless of the cost to others.
Or to myself.
2
CROWN OF THORNS
ADRIAN
Dawn found me in my private medical room at Ravenswood, inspecting the bullet graze in the mirror. Pale sunlight filtered through bulletproof windows, casting my scarred torso in harsh relief against the clinical white of the surroundings. The wound wasn't serious, but it had torn open delicate scar tissue along my shoulder that would require specialist attention. I prodded the ragged edges gently, feeling the familiar pull of damaged flesh that had never properly healed.
The medical suite occupied the east wing of my estate, a sanctuary few were permitted to enter. Gleaming surgical steel contrasted with antique wooden cabinetry, the blend of modern and traditional that characterised my ancestral home. I kept this room stocked better than most private clinics—a necessity when gunshot wounds couldn't be explained away at public hospitals without unwanted scrutiny.
Blood had seeped through the temporary dressing I'd applied after returning home. I peeled it away carefully, noting the inflamed tissue surrounding the wound. The bullet hadcarved a shallow valley through layers of pre-existing scar tissue, creating a topography of old and new pain across my shoulder. Pain was an old companion, one I'd learned to acknowledge without permitting it to control me.
“Dr. Montgomery can see you this afternoon,” Sophia announced, entering without knocking—the only person permitted such liberties in my private domain. My grandmother moved with the imperial grace that eighty years had failed to diminish, her silver hair swept into an immaculate chignon, her tailored suit a subtle demonstration of wealth that required no ostentatious display. Her eyes narrowed at my injury. “Though he'll lecture you about managing stress to prevent scar tissue inflammation. Again.”
I met her gaze in the mirror, noting the concern she masked with criticism. Sophia Calloway had raised me after the fire that claimed my parents, shaping me into the weapon I'd become with unflinching determination. She was the only living person who'd witnessed my most vulnerable moments, a knowledge that created a complicated alchemy of love, resentment, and respect between us.
“Montgomery's retiring,” I replied, buttoning my shirt over the temporary bandages, movement causing fresh blood to bloom against pristine white cotton. “Find me someone equally skilled who understands discretion. I don't have time for breaking in someone new.”
“The world doesn't bend to your schedule, Adrian,” she countered, moving closer to examine my handiwork with disapproval. “Proper medical care requires trust. Trust requires time to develop.”
Her fingers hovered near my injured shoulder without touching—she knew better than to make contact without permission. Even family adhered to the boundaries I'd established around my scarred body. The right side of my torsoremained a wasteland of rippled tissue and grafted skin, a permanent reminder of childhood's fiery end.
“Roberto has requested to move the meeting forward to noon,” Viktor reported from the doorway, his bulk filling the frame with contained menace. My head of security remained the perfect study in controlled violence, his accent betraying his Russian origins despite years in London. “Harrison thinks he's attempting to catch us unprepared after last night's encounter.”
I considered this development while selecting a tie from the adjoining dressing room—like every key location in the estate, the medical suite included a fully stocked wardrobe for immediate changes when blood or other complications required fresh clothing. The blood-red silk would draw attention away from my injury while sending a subtle message to Vega. Colour as communication, intimidation through aesthetics.
“Then we'll disappoint him,” I replied, fingers executing a perfect Windsor knot despite the protest from my injured shoulder. “Have Dominic prepare the contingency package. If Vega wants escalation, we'll oblige him thoroughly.”
Viktor nodded once, withdrawing to execute my instructions with his characteristic silent competence. The estate hummed with heightened activity beyond my sanctuary, security protocols shifting to accommodate the changed timeline. Ravenswood functioned like a living organism, responding to threat and opportunity with orchestrated movements that Sophia and I conducted from its heart.
“I've taken the liberty of researching potential replacements for Montgomery,” Sophia said, placing a folder on the marble countertop. “Three candidates with exceptional qualifications. All have experience with severe trauma cases, all can be brought under appropriate control through various pressure points.”
I glanced at the folder without opening it. “Financial leverage?”
“One with gambling debts, one with an expensive custody battle, one with a younger brother in legal trouble.” Sophia smiled thinly. “I prefer the third. Familial loyalty creates more reliable control than mere financial desperation.”
