Chapter 1

The moment the ink dried on the divorce papers, Larkin Shaw leaned over the dark mahogany table and slapped me hard across the face.

My head snapped back. A sharp, metallic taste flooded my mouth.

Larkin wiped her knuckles with a silk handkerchief, her tone dripping with sweet, fake sympathy. "Oh, sweetheart... Sullivan is just too soft-hearted, letting a girl from the docks drag down the Family name for three years."

Around the room, nobody moved. Silence settled over the table.

Sullivan's consigliere, Old Man Aldric, sat at the far end, heavy hands resting on his silver cane. Beside him, a young associate shifted in his chair, leaning forward to speak—until Aldric quietly tapped his cane once against the floorboards.

The associate froze. His mouth snapped shut as he stared down at his knees. Aldric didn't say a word.

Across the room, the lawyers kept their eyes glued to their leather folders. Sullivan's sister, Maren, picked up her glass of water, took a slow sip, and set it down without a sound. Her thumb flicked past messages on her screen.

Nobody intervened. Sullivan didn't shift his weight or move his arm from around Larkin's waist. His gaze met mine. Blank. Empty.

"It's done, Iris," he said. "Sign it. Don't drag this out."

He didn't slide the second binder across the table himself. Aldric picked up the leather file first, scanning the final page with a slow, practiced eye before offering a brief nod.

Only then did the lawyer slide the document across the marble, placing a heavy gold pen beside my hand.

Banishment.

I pulled the pages closer, my fingers trembling as I scanned the black text.

Clause One: Absolute ban from entering the Miller estate, setting foot on any Family property, or using the Miller name. Clause Two: Prohibition from contacting Family associates or disclosing Family business to the child.

"Is this Larkin's idea?" I whispered. "Or yours?"

Sullivan adjusted the silver signet ring on his pinky. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

His jaw tightened, his face turning back to stone. "Then pretend it's mine."

Memory pulled me back eight years—sitting beside his hospital bed when he took a bullet during the waterfront war. I knew every secret. Every back room. Every debt this Family owed.

"Keep reading," Sullivan said, his voice flat. "Sign it."

The pen felt heavy.

"It belongs to the Family, Iris," he added. "You don't."

I picked up the pen and signed my name on the line.

The moment the ink settled, Larkin called toward the hallway. "Tolliver? Clear out the master wing before dinner. My trunks are in the car."

A guard pushed open the heavy oak doors, holding them wide for Larkin. Outside in the corridor, staff members who used to bow their heads as I passed suddenly turned their faces away. A secretary stared fixedly at her monitor. Two young soldiers stepped quickly into a side office, shutting the door behind them.

Erased.

I walked down the long corridor alone, surrounded by the heavy scent of cedar, bourbon, and aged leather. Past painted portraits of old Miller bosses. Past the bullet hole near the lobby archway—a scar I had helped plaster over when the Family was barely surviving.

At the elevator, my hand drifted to my left ring finger. I slid off the simple platinum band Sullivan had given me in a back-alley chapel eight years ago.

No dramatic gesture. I just slipped it into my coat pocket.

Out in the garage, the air smelled of damp concrete and exhaust. Sullivan's legal handler stepped out from behind a black SUV, holding a white bank envelope. "Your exit money, Iris. Fifty thousand."

Fifty thousand dollars for eight years of blood and silence.

I took the envelope and slid it straight back into his jacket pocket. "Keep it. Tell Sullivan he'll need every dollar when the Blackwood debt comes due."

Turning my back, I walked out into the pouring rain.