I made it three blocks from the courthouse before I realized someone was following me.
Kane's words echoed in my head—Be careful going home tonight. Vary your route—as I caught sight of the black sedan in my rearview mirror for the third time. Professional paranoia or legitimate threat, I wasn't taking chances.
I took a sharp right onto Fifth Street, then another quick left into a parking garage. The sedan didn't follow, but that didn't mean anything. If these people were connected to Marcus Blackthorn and underground racing circuits worth killing for, they wouldn't be amateurs.
For what I'm about to do to you.
Kane's cryptic warning sent heat spiraling through my core despite the very real danger I might be in. The way he'd looked at me in that final moment—like a predator who'd finally decided to stop pretending to be tame—had left me shaken in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
I needed answers. About Marcus Blackthorn, about the racing circuit, about what Kane was really involved in. Because whatever this was, it was bigger than Victoria's revenge fantasy, and I was walking blind into something that had already gotten my mother killed.
The thought sent ice through my veins. My mother's death hadn't been random. Someone had murdered a cop to keep their secrets buried, and now I was digging in the same dirt.
Good. Let them try to scare me off. Elena Reyes had raised a daughter who didn't back down from fights.
Back in my apartment, I spread everything across my dining table—case files, legal pads, my laptop open to search engines that would help me disappear into the digital underground. If Kane wouldn't tell me everything, I'd find it myself.
Marcus Blackthorn. The name yielded surprisingly little through official channels—a few minor arrests in his twenties, some business licenses for auto repair shops that had closed years ago. But when I dug deeper, following threads through racing forums and underground blogs, a different picture emerged.
The Blood Fangs weren't just Kane's rivals. They were a criminal organization masquerading as a motorcycle club, with fingers in everything from drug trafficking to illegal gambling. And at the center of it all were the races—high-stakes, underground events where the city's elite bet millions while criminals laundered money through fake betting pools.
I found grainy photos from racing websites, images of motorcycles blurring past abandoned warehouses while crowds of suited businessmen and leather-clad bikers cheered from the sidelines. The money changing hands in these pictures wasn't pocket change—it was the kind of cash that bought politicians and buried inconvenient investigations.
Including investigations into cop murders.
My hands shook as I printed everything, building a case file that was starting to look less like simple assault defense and more like organized crime prosecution. But the deeper I dug, the more questions arose.
Why was Kane involved in this world? What made him different from Marcus Blackthorn? And why did every instinct I'd honed over years of legal training tell me that Kane was the victim here, not the perpetrator?
You have no idea what I want to do to you.
The memory of Kane's rough voice sent unwanted heat through my body. Even now, surrounded by evidence of the criminal world he inhabited, I couldn't shake the way he'd looked at me—like I was something precious he wasn't allowed to touch.
I needed to see one of these locations for myself.
The warehouse district felt like a different city after dark. Empty lots stretched between abandoned buildings, broken streetlights creating pools of shadow that could hide anything. I parked two blocks away from the address I'd found on a racing forum—an old auto plant where someone had posted pictures from a recent event.
The building was massive, concrete and steel that spoke of Ravenwood's industrial past. By day, it probably looked like any other abandoned factory. But walking the perimeter, I could see signs of recent activity—fresh tire marks in the dirt, cigarette butts that hadn't been rained on, the kind of wear patterns that came from crowds gathering regularly.
"You lost, sweetheart?"
I spun around, heart hammering. A man stepped out of the shadows near a loading dock—tall, thin, with the kind of predatory smile that made my skin crawl. Not the refined voice from my threatening phone call, but definitely not someone I wanted to meet in a dark alley.
"Just out for a walk," I managed, trying to sound casual while calculating the distance to my car.
"Funny place for a walk. Especially for someone asking questions about things that aren't her business."
Ice formed in my veins. They'd been watching me, tracking my research. "I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you don't." The man stepped closer, and I caught a glimpse of ink on his neck—a serpent wrapped around a dagger. Blood Fang colors. "Pretty little lawyer poking around where she doesn't belong. Makes people nervous."
I backed toward the street, but two more men emerged from between parked cars. No coincidence. They'd been waiting for me.
"Marcus wants to meet you," the first man said conversationally. "Have a chat about your client. Explain why it'd be better for everyone if you found a new job."
"I'm not interested in meeting Marcus Blackthorn."
"That's too bad. Because he's real interested in meeting you." The man's smile turned ugly. "Especially since you're Elena's little girl. He's got stories about your mama you might find… educational."
Rage flared bright and clean through my fear. "Don't you dare—"
"Easy, sweetheart. No need to get worked up. Yet." The man gestured to his companions. "Why don't you come take a ride with us? Nice and peaceful-like."
They were going to take me. Whatever Marcus Blackthorn wanted—information, leverage, or just to silence another threat—I wouldn't be walking away from that conversation.
But I wasn't Elena Reyes' daughter for nothing.
I'd taken self-defense classes religiously since law school, and being underestimated was an advantage I'd learned to use. When the nearest man reached for my arm, I grabbed his wrist and twisted, using his momentum to send him stumbling into his friend.
Then I ran.
Behind me, shouts erupted as they gave chase. My heels clicked against asphalt as I sprinted toward my car, fumbling for my keys while adrenaline turned everything crystal clear. Three blocks. I just had to make it three blocks.
A motorcycle engine roared to life somewhere behind me.
They were faster than I was, and they knew these streets. I wasn't going to make it to my car. But there—a 24-hour diner blazing with fluorescent light and potential witnesses. I veered toward the entrance just as the motorcycle swept around the corner, headlight cutting through the darkness like a predator's eye.
I burst through the diner's door, gasping and disheveled, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might explode. As I stumbled toward the counter, one thought cut through the adrenaline and terror with startling clarity:
I could have died just now. Could have been dragged into that warehouse and never seen again. My life could have ended in some anonymous building where my body might never be found.
And all I could think about was Kane's promise.
For what I'm about to do to you.
Even with my hands shaking and my breath coming in ragged gasps, those words sent heat spiraling through my core. What kind of person was I that facing death only made me more desperate to know what Kane Drax had planned for me?
The waitress was asking if I was okay, if I needed help, but her voice seemed to come from very far away.
"Call the police," I managed between breaths. "Someone's following me."
Through the window, I watched the motorcycle idle at the curb for a long moment. Then the rider revved the engine twice—a sound like a challenge or a promise—and disappeared into the night.
I was still shaking when the cops arrived twenty minutes later.
The police report was useless, of course. No license plate, no clear description of the men, nothing but my word that I'd been threatened by unknown individuals in an abandoned warehouse district. The responding officers were professional but skeptical—what was a lawyer doing in that neighborhood after dark anyway?
I didn't mention Marcus Blackthorn or the racing circuit. Somehow I doubted that conversation would end well for anyone.
But as I finally made it home, triple-checking my locks and closing every curtain, I couldn't shake what the man had said about my mother. Marcus had stories about Elena Reyes. Stories that might explain why a decorated cop had died in what everyone assumed was a random traffic accident.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Stop digging or the next conversation won't be so polite. - M
Marcus Blackthorn himself this time. The fact that he was contacting me directly meant I was getting close to something he wanted buried.
Good.
I poured myself three fingers of bourbon and settled back at my dining table, surrounded by printouts and evidence that painted a picture of corruption reaching into every level of city government. Tomorrow, I'd have to face Kane again, and I'd have questions he couldn't deflect with cryptic warnings.
Because whatever he was protecting me from, it was already coming for me.
And I'd rather face it with him than run from it alone.
For what I'm about to do to you.
His words echoed in my mind as I studied the photos from the racing circuit, images of Kane's world that I was about to enter whether he wanted me there or not.