The scream ripped through the mansion at 2:13 a.m.

Ivy shot upright in bed so fast the blankets tangled around her legs. For one confused second, darkness and silence pressed around her thick enough to feel underwater.

Then another scream echoed faintly through the walls.

Male.

Raw.

Cut off halfway.

The silence afterward crawled across her skin.

She swung her feet onto the floor and listened hard.

Nothing.

No alarms.

No running footsteps.

No panic.

That somehow made it worse.

A low voice drifted somewhere beneath her room.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lucien.

Ivy stood immediately.

“This is how white women die in documentaries,” she muttered to herself.

Still—

she opened the bedroom door.

Cold air moved quietly through the hallway. Wall sconces cast soft gold light across dark wood floors. Snow drifted beyond the tall windows at the end of the corridor.

The mansion looked asleep.

Too asleep.

Another sound floated upward.

A sharp crack.

Then a muffled groan.

Ivy’s stomach tightened.

The west wing.

Of course.

She should’ve gone back inside.

Instead, she walked toward the staircase barefoot.

Terrible survival instincts.

Absolutely terrible.

The deeper she moved into the mansion, the quieter everything became. Her steps disappeared into thick runners lining the halls. The grandfather clock downstairs ticked softly somewhere in the dark.

Then she saw them.

Two guards standing outside the west corridor entrance.

Both turned immediately.

One of them stiffened.

“Miss Bennett.”

“Why does everyone here say my name like I’m already in trouble?”

“Go back upstairs.”

“Yeah, see, that wording actually makes me more curious.”

The older guard stepped forward slightly.

“There’s business happening.”

“That sentence has murdered at least three people.”

Neither man smiled.

Another groan echoed faintly down the corridor.

Ivy looked past them.

The west wing lights glowed low against the walls.

The older guard followed her gaze instantly.

“You shouldn’t see this.”

Too late.

The phrase hooked into her curiosity like a fishhook.

Ivy slipped sideways before either man fully reacted.

“Miss Bennett—”

She ignored them and moved fast down the hallway.

The guards cursed behind her.

One reached for her arm—

too slow.

Ivy reached the half-open door first.

And stopped cold.

The room beyond looked elegant enough for a magazine spread.

Dark leather couches.

Black marble floors.

Low jazz drifting softly through hidden speakers.

Crystal whiskey glasses glowing amber beneath fireplace light.

And blood.

A man knelt near the center of the room with his hands zip-tied behind his back. Blood covered the front of his white dress shirt and dripped steadily onto the marble beneath him.

Another man stood behind him holding his shoulders down.

Lucien stood directly in front of them.

Black dress shirt.

Sleeves rolled above his forearms.

One hand resting loosely in his pocket.

The other wrapped calmly around a whiskey glass.

The kneeling man shook violently.

Lucien didn’t.

“You stole from Dante Russo,” the kneeling man gasped. “I swear to God, I didn’t know—”

Lucien crouched slowly in front of him.

The movement looked almost relaxed.

“I dislike two things,” he said quietly.

His voice barely rose above the music.

“Lying.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“And incompetence.”

The kneeling man started crying.

Actual tears.

“I can get the money back.”

Lucien watched him for one long second.

Then—

without warning—

he smashed the whiskey glass across the man’s face.

The crack exploded through the room.

Ivy flinched violently.

Glass shattered across marble.

Blood splattered Lucien’s sleeve.

The kneeling man screamed.

Lucien grabbed him by the throat instantly and slammed him backward against the chair.

“Lower your voice.”

The softness in his tone turned Ivy’s blood cold.

The man choked desperately beneath Lucien’s grip.

“Please—”

“You had one job.”

Lucien’s face never changed.

No rage.

No shouting.

Only that terrifying stillness.

Like violence belonged naturally inside him.

The guard behind Ivy finally caught up.

“Sir—”

Too late.

Lucien looked toward the doorway.

And saw her.

Everything stopped.

The bleeding man gasped weakly beneath Lucien’s hand.

Jazz continued quietly in the background.

Nobody moved.

Lucien released the man slowly and straightened to full height.

Blood streaked one side of his hand.

His gray eyes locked directly onto Ivy’s face.

And Ivy—

for the first time since entering this mansion—

felt genuine fear crawl through her chest.

Not fear of the debt.

Not fear of the guards.

Fear of him.

Lucien saw it immediately.

The room changed.

Subtle.

Still there.

His jaw tightened once.

The silence stretched too long.

Ivy should’ve said something.

A joke.

Anything.

Nothing came out.

Lucien stepped toward her.

The guards moved aside instantly.

He crossed the room slowly while blood dripped quietly from his knuckles onto the marble floor.

Ivy backed up without realizing it.

One step.

Then another.

Her shoulder hit the hallway wall.

Lucien stopped directly in front of her.

Too close.

The scent of smoke and whiskey clung faintly to him beneath the sharp metallic smell of blood.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

The exact same sentence.

Snowstorm.

Convenience store.

Sad wolf.

The memory slammed into her so suddenly it stole her breath for half a second.

Lucien noticed that too.

Of course he did.

The kneeling man whimpered behind him.

Lucien didn’t look away from Ivy.

“You hurt him,” she said softly.

Lucien’s expression remained unreadable.

“He betrayed me.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It answers enough.”

Ivy stared at the blood on his hand.

Still fresh.

Still dripping slowly beside his wristwatch.

“You could’ve killed him.”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

No apology.

Just truth.

The answer landed heavier than shouting would have.

The man behind Lucien started sobbing again.

One of the guards hauled him upright roughly.

Lucien finally glanced back toward him.

Coldness slid over his face instantly.

Like whatever existed between him and Ivy vanished the second he looked away.

“Take him downstairs,” he said calmly.

The bleeding man nearly collapsed while the guards dragged him toward another hallway.

“I can fix this,” he cried desperately. “Lucien, please—”

Lucien didn’t even turn around.

“Dante Russo warned you already.”

The name echoed softly through the room.

Dante Russo.

Another monster.

Another king.

The guards disappeared with the man.

Silence settled again.

Ivy looked back at Lucien slowly.

He stood alone now beside the fireplace with blood across one hand and shattered glass near his shoes.

The elegant room suddenly looked grotesque.

Like someone dressed violence in expensive suits and soft lighting to make it easier to swallow.

Lucien took one step closer.

Ivy flinched.

Tiny movement.

Still there.

His entire body went still.

Not angry.

Something else.

Something sharper.

The distance between them suddenly felt dangerous in a completely different way.

Lucien lowered his eyes briefly.

Then looked back at her.

“You’re shaking.”

Ivy crossed her arms tightly.

“I watched you beat someone with a whiskey glass.”

“He stole from me.”

“You keep saying that like it explains everything.”

“It explains enough.”

The same answer.

Controlled.

Cold.

Ivy laughed once under her breath.

Not humor.

More disbelief.

“Jesus Christ.”

Lucien looked at her for a long moment.

Then quietly:

“You should go back upstairs.”

The words sounded different now.

Not an order.

A dismissal.

Like he suddenly wanted distance between them.

Ivy noticed.

That hurt unexpectedly.

Which irritated her immediately.

“You don’t get to act protective after…” She gestured vaguely toward the blood on the floor. “Whatever the hell this is.”

Lucien’s gaze darkened slightly.

“You saw one part of my world.”

“I saw enough.”

The words landed hard.

For the first time since she met him, Lucien looked genuinely tired.

Not physically.

Something deeper.

The exhaustion sat briefly in his face before he buried it again beneath control.

“You think I enjoy this?”

Ivy looked around the room.

At the shattered glass.

The blood.

The jazz music still playing softly.

“You seem very practiced.”

That one hit.

She saw it instantly.

Lucien turned away before she could take it back.

He crossed toward the bar cart near the fireplace and poured fresh whiskey with steady hands.

Too steady.

Ivy watched the glass stop briefly against the bottle neck.

One second.

Tiny.

Still there.

Then his control returned completely.

“Go upstairs, Ivy.”

No softness left now.

Only distance.

The cold version of him.

The one the guards feared.

Ivy swallowed once.

Then looked down at the blood smeared across marble floors again.

Her stomach twisted hard.

Without another word, she turned and walked out.

The hallway suddenly felt freezing against her bare feet.

Behind her, the room stayed silent except for jazz music and the quiet sound of ice settling inside Lucien Moretti’s whiskey glass.

Halfway down the corridor, Ivy glanced back once.

Big mistake.

Lucien stood alone beside the fireplace watching her leave.

Blood still stained one hand.

But his eyes—

his eyes looked like she had just seen something he never wanted her to see.