Chapter 2
The iron gates of the Miller headquarters creaked as they shut behind me.
Outside, rain fell in a thick, freezing sheet. I stood on the sidewalk, watching black sedans idle in the driveway, their dark windows hiding soldiers stationed along the perimeter.
Eight years of protection, locked away behind iron bars.
A passing truck kicked up a wave of dirty water against my coat. I didn't flinch. Turning my collar up against the wind, I headed toward the subway.
Two junior soldiers under an awning across the street spotted me. One reached into his coat for an umbrella—until the senior guard beside him gripped his shoulder. The younger guard lowered his head, stepping back into the shadows.
No umbrella. No escort.
The subway platform smelled of rust and wet wool. Sitting on a cold metal bench, I stared down at my soaked shoes, my hand wrapped around the ring in my pocket.
Eight years ago, Sullivan and I lived in a one-bedroom basement four stops down this exact train line. No consigliere. No legal team. Just a blood-stained jacket and his dream of taking back his father's streets.
I had given up my name and my family to stand in that basement beside him. Now, he sat in a high-rise conference room, tossing out fifty-thousand-dollar checks like trash.
A train screeched to a halt, yellow headlights cutting through the dark. The doors slid open, and I stepped inside.
By the time I reached St. Jude's Academy, the rain had settled into a steady drizzle.
The academy stood like a fortress—grey stone, iron fences, heavy oak doors. It was an elite private institution maintained under a quiet, legally binding board agreement between the city's prominent foundations and political figures to ensure neutral ground.
Inside the quiet lobby, the security guard behind the marble desk didn't reach for a visitor badge. His face paled the moment I walked through the door, his hands staying flat on the counter.
"Mrs. Reed," he stammered. "Ms. Shaw is already in the main office. She brought a certified court order citing revised trust filings."
Word in the underground—and the boardrooms—traveled faster than official paper.
Outside the director's office, the headmaster stood beside Larkin, his posture stiff, forehead slick with sweat as he held a legal injunction.
"Of course, Ms. Shaw," he murmured, verifying the corporate seal. "We must comply with the estate's updated legal custodianship."
Looking up, his gaze caught mine, and his smile vanished.
"Miss Blackwood," he said, using my maiden name. "We are simply carrying out the updated administrative mandate."
The administrator beside him slid a thick blue file straight across the desk to Larkin. Bypassing my hands completely.