Chapter 3

The Charity Gala was a shark tank draped in velvet and dripping in diamonds.

Every major crime family in the city had descended upon the ballroom. The air didn't just buzz; it hummed with the static of illicit deals being struck and human lives being bartered over crystal flutes of champagne.

I stood in the shadows of the corner, clad in a dress the color of midnight. My mother had begged me to stay home, citing my "instability" after the pool incident, but I had refused.

Tonight was the auction.

Tonight, the "Ocean Heart" sapphire was on the block.

It was a massive, abyssal blue stone set in platinum. My father had gifted it to my mother on their tenth anniversary. It was more than jewelry; it symbolized the legitimacy of the Kidd leadership.

Alexander had stolen it from my mother's safe under the guise of "safekeeping," only to put it up for auction to liquidate assets for his new drug routes.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the auctioneer's voice boomed through the speakers. "Lot 45. The Ocean Heart."

The bidding began.

I raised my paddle, my hand trembling slightly. "Fifty thousand."

Alexander, standing across the room with Isolde clinging to his arm like a decorative parasite, let out a low, mocking laugh.

He lazily raised his paddle. "One hundred thousand."

He was bidding on his own stolen property just to humiliate me. To demonstrate to the Commission that he possessed both the capital and the power, while I held nothing.

"One hundred and fifty," I countered, my voice tight.

"Two hundred," Alexander drawled, sounding bored.

The room fell into a heavy silence.

Everyone was watching.

They knew the history. They knew he was stripping me of my inheritance, piece by agonizing piece.

"Five hundred thousand," I choked out.

It was every cent of liquid cash I could access without his signature.

Alexander smiled.

It was a cruel, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes.

He strolled toward the stage, whispered something to the auctioneer, and produced a checkbook.

"One million," he announced, turning to face the crowd. "Sold."

The gavel banged down like a gunshot.

Alexander took the necklace from the velvet cushion.

He held it up to the light. The sapphire caught the chandelier's glow, radiating light like a captured star.

Then, he dropped it.

He lifted his heavy, Italian leather oxford and brought it down hard.

The platinum setting crunched.

The stone didn't shatter-corundum is tough-but the setting was annihilated, the metal twisted and ruined beyond repair.

He kicked the debris across the parquet floor toward me.

"It was old-fashioned anyway," he declared, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "Time for new leadership. New symbols."

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a bone; it was the chain of my restraint.

I crossed the distance between us in three long strides.

Before his guards could react, before he could even raise a hand, I swung.

*Crack.*

My palm connected with his cheek with the force of a whip.

The sound echoed through the ballroom, sharper than breaking glass.

His head snapped to the side.

A red handprint instantly bloomed on his pale skin.

Silence.

Absolute, terrified silence.

No one struck a Capo in public.

It was a death sentence.

Alexander turned back to me, his eyes black with murder.

He raised his hand to strike me back.

Suddenly, a scream pierced the air.

"No! I can't take it anymore!"

Isolde.

She stood on the balcony overlooking the ballroom, a dramatic spotlight seemingly finding her by design.

She held a small fruit knife from the buffet table to her wrist.

"If you hurt him, I'll die! I'll kill myself!"

She slashed.

A shallow cut, barely a scratch, but blood welled up against her skin.

She swooned, collapsing theatrically into the arms of a waiting waiter.

"Isolde!" Alexander roared, forgetting me instantly. "Get the car! Get the doctor!"

He whipped around to his men. "Grab Azalea. She's coming with us. Isolde has a rare blood type. O-negative. Azalea matches her."

"What?" I stepped back, horror dawning. "I'm not giving her my blood."

"You don't have a choice," Alexander snarled. "Grab her."

Alaric and Darrius seized my arms.

I fought.

I kicked and screamed.

But they were soldiers, and I was just a girl in a gown.

They dragged me out the back exit, my heels scraping uselessly against the marble floor.

An hour later, I was strapped to a hospital bed in a private clinic owned by the family.

A thick needle was jammed into my arm.

I watched my dark red blood flow through the tube, filling a plastic bag.

Across the room, Isolde lay in a bed, playing on her phone, looking perfectly fine.

She winked at me.

I felt the room spin.

They were draining me.

Literally draining the life out of me to feed his whore.

My vision blurred.

Darkness crept in at the edges of my consciousness.

"Darrian..." I whispered into the sterile air.

It was a desperate prayer to a monster.

"Burn them all."