Trevor
The pain in my side is a dull, insistent fire. A familiar sensation. I stand at the floor-to-ceiling window of my penthouse, the lights of the city spread below me like a carpet of shattered diamonds. It’s a kingdom I control. A world of shadows, loyalty bought with blood, and power that crushes anything in its path.
None of it matters.
My thoughts are consumed by a small, failing veterinary clinic in a forgotten alley. By the scent of antiseptic and rain. By the memory of gentle hands, surprisingly strong, working with a focused calm that defied the blood and the horror of the situation.
Clara.
Her name is a foreign sound in my world. It’s soft. Clean. I turn from the window and look at the object on my marble desk. The deformed piece of lead she pulled from my body. I picked it out of the basin myself before I left her clinic, a grim souvenir.
I had to leave. Staying would have brought my world crashing down on her. The men who put this bullet in me would not have hesitated to use her as leverage. The thought sends a fresh wave of ice through my veins, colder and sharper than the pain in my ribs.
“You’re awake.”
Marco’s voice is low, respectful. He stands in the doorway of my study, a shadow in a perfect suit. He is my right hand, my most trusted man. He sees everything and says little.
“I didn’t sleep,” I say, my voice a gravelly rasp. I run a thumb over the misshapen bullet.
“The doctor said you need rest. The stitches are holding, but you lost a lot of blood.”
“The woman who patched me up did good work.”
Marco steps into the room, his expression unreadable. “She is a veterinarian.”
“I am aware.”
“It was a risk, Trevor. Going to her. Staying there.”
“It was a necessity,” I correct him, my voice flat. I finally look at him. “You have it?”
He doesn’t have to ask what I mean. He nods once and places a thick, unmarked file on the desk beside the bullet.
“Everything we could find in the last six hours,” Marco says.
I sit down in the leather chair, the movement pulling at my stitches. I ignore the pain and open the file. The first page is a photograph. A driver’s license picture. Clara Hayes. Even in the flat, sterile lighting of the DMV, her eyes hold a warmth that seems impossible. Her blonde hair is tied back. Her smile is small, genuine.
“Tell me,” I command, flipping to the next page.
“Clara Hayes. Twenty-eight years old. Graduated top of her class from Cornell University College of Veterinary Medicine. Opened her own clinic, ‘Hayes Animal Care,’ two years ago. The business is failing.”
My jaw tightens. “Why?”
“She’s a good vet. Too good. Too compassionate,” Marco states, his tone factual. “She takes on cases other vets won’t. She works with local shelters pro bono. Most of her clients are on payment plans she never collects on. The clinic is three months behind on its mortgage payments and four of her suppliers have her on a cash-only basis.”
I stare at a picture of her, smiling, as she holds a scruffy-looking terrier with a cast on its leg. She is pouring her heart into a dream that is bleeding her dry. An angel in a world of sharks.
“And her family?” I ask, turning the page.
“Parents are retired. Living comfortably in Florida. Her father was a surgeon. She has no siblings. No significant debt in her own name, aside from the business loans.”
I stop on a new set of photos. Candid shots taken from a distance. Clara is walking out of her clinic. She looks tired. Defeated. And she’s not alone.
A man has his arm slung around her shoulder, a possessive, casual gesture that makes my fist clench. He’s smiling, but it’s the smile of a salesman, all teeth and no warmth. He looks like a mannequin. Perfect, polished, and completely empty.
“Who is he?” I ask. The words are cold. Hard.
“Mark Thompson,” Marco says. “Boyfriend of two years. A junior broker at a downtown firm. Lives an expensive lifestyle on a modest salary.”
“He’s a leech,” I say. It’s not a question.
“His finances support that assessment,” Marco confirms. “Credit cards maxed out. He has gambling debts with some low-level sharks across town. Nothing we can’t handle.”
I stare at the photo, at the way Mark’s hand rests on her shoulder. The way she leans away from him, almost imperceptibly.
“He went to her clinic this morning,” Marco continues. “We had eyes on the place, as you instructed.”
My head snaps up. “What happened?”
“They argued. He was trying to pressure her into asking her parents for a hundred thousand dollars.”
I feel a fury so cold it almost burns. This insect wants her to beg for money so he can continue his pathetic little charade.
“For what?” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet.
“A new business venture. Something about cryptocurrency and luxury influencers. It’s a scam. He’s looking for a quick score to cover his debts.”
“What did she say?”
“She refused.”
Of course she did. She has more honor in her little finger than that parasite has in his entire body. She would rather watch her dream die than compromise her integrity.
“He was dismissive of her work,” Marco adds. “Called her clinic a hobby.”
The file in my hands creaks as my grip tightens. I look at the picture of Mark Thompson’s smiling face. I want to erase it. I want to peel it from the planet.
I close the file with a soft thud.
“The bank that holds her mortgage,” I say, looking out the window again. “Which one is it?”
“First City Financial.”
“Buy it.”
Marco doesn’t blink. He’s used to my orders, no matter how extreme. “It will take a few days to arrange the shell corporations.”
“I want it done by the end of the week. Once we own it, the mortgage on her clinic is to be marked ‘paid in full.’ Anonymously. An error in her favor. A clerical miracle.”
“Understood,” Marco says.
“Her suppliers. The ones putting her on cash-only. Pay them off. Give them a line of credit in her clinic’s name. Tell them it’s from an anonymous grant for small businesses.”
“I’ll have it done by noon.”
“Good.”
I stand up and walk back to the desk. I pick up the photo of Mark and Clara. With my thumb, I cover his face, leaving only her. Her tired eyes. The slight frown on her lips. She deserves a kingdom, not a cage of debt and disrespect.
“And him,” I say, my voice dropping. “The boyfriend.”
“What about him?” Marco asks.
“I want to know everything. Every skeleton. Every secret. Every single dirty thing he’s ever done. I want enough dirt to bury him so deep no one will ever find the body.”
“We’ve already started. He’s not a complicated man.”
“I want him ruined, Marco. But I want it to be a slow, surgical process. He belittled her. He tried to bleed her dry. He stands next to her and casts a shadow.”
I look at Clara’s face in the photo. An angel who patched up a devil in an alley without asking questions. She didn’t see a monster. She saw a man who was hurt. That kind of purity is a treasure. It does not belong to a leech like Mark Thompson.
It belongs to me.
“He is a problem,” I say softly, my gaze fixed on her image.
“A problem we can eliminate,” Marco offers.
I shake my head. “No. His death would hurt her. His humiliation, however… that’s a different story. She needs to see him for what he is. She needs to be the one to cast him aside.”
I will give her the strength to do it. I will clear the path. I will remove the obstacles she can’t see.
“I want her protected,” I say. “Constant surveillance. But stay in the shadows. She can’t know. Not yet.”
“Of course, Trevor.”
Marco gives a slight bow of his head and turns to leave, the perfect soldier receiving his orders.
“Marco,” I call out before he reaches the door.
He stops and turns back to me.
“Find out her favorite flower.”
He hesitates for just a second, the slightest crack in his professional facade. It’s the only sign of his surprise. Then it’s gone.
“I’ll add it to the file,” he says, and then he is gone, leaving me alone with the silence, the pain in my side, and the face of the woman who now owns my every waking thought.
