The silver pin caught the light as Lucius adjusted his collar.
It felt heavier than steel, heavier than medals. The mark of the Shield, pressed against his chest, where everyone could see it. A badge of belonging. A target painted in silver.
The car hummed through the city night, carrying him toward the Senator's gala.
Red Shield rode with him—two men silent in the back, one in the passenger seat, all of them armed beneath perfect suits. They didn't look at him, didn't speak to him. But their eyes flicked to the pin. Watching. Measuring.
The Shield accepted him. But trust? Trust had to be bought with blood.
The Vitale Estate rose at the edge of the city like an empire in marble and glass. Tonight, it glowed with chandeliers, laughter, and the hum of violins.
Senator Harold Grieves's fundraiser had drawn the city's elite: businessmen in tuxedos, heirs in gowns that gleamed like molten jewels, and guards in the shadows, scanning with unseen precision.
Lucius stepped from the car, his eyes cutting through the glamor. Every guest was a name. Every name carried enemies. Every enemy carried bullets.
And Red Shield stood at the walls.
Calder was already at the gate, his presence as solid as stone. He nodded once at Lucius, nothing more.
Inside, Lucius moved like a shadow through light.
He spotted Marco almost instantly.
The Vitale heir was dressed in black silk, tie loose, arrogance already back on his face like a mask he'd never lost. A glass of champagne swirled lazily in his hand, his other hand gesturing as he laughed too loud at some socialite's joke.
But his eyes flicked to Lucius. And for the briefest second, the mask cracked.
Recognition. Relief.
Lucius moved closer, but before he could speak, a ripple cut through the room.
Senator Grieves had entered.
The man's smile was perfect, polished, his handshake firm as he greeted donors one by one. But behind his eyes was calculation, sharp and constant.
Lucius watched him carefully. Protecting a senator was different from protecting a mafia heir. One fought with speeches. The other with knives. But both were worth bullets.
And both were here tonight.
As Lucius scanned the room, Damien Corso appeared at his shoulder, drink in hand as always.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Damien murmured. "Power dressed as elegance. Deals signed with laughter instead of ink."
Lucius didn't answer. His eyes tracked the exits, the balconies above, the guards whose eyes lingered too long.
Damien smirked. "Don't worry, Vale. If anything goes wrong tonight, you'll get to prove yourself all over again."
His words were still hanging in the air when Lucius noticed it.
A glint.
High above, in the shadows of the mezzanine.
A rifle's scope catching the chandelier's light.
Lucius didn't think.
He moved, slamming into Senator Grieves just as the shot cracked through the hall.
Glass shattered. Guests screamed. Champagne spilled like blood across marble.
The bullet missed the Senator's skull by inches, tearing instead through the wine decanter behind him.
"Down!" Lucius roared, dragging the Senator behind a table.
Panic erupted. Men in tuxedos tripped over each other, women in gowns scrambled for cover, guards surged toward the sound of the shot.
Lucius's eyes darted upward. The shooter was already moving, retreating into the shadows above.
He pushed the Senator into Calder's hands. "Keep him breathing."
Then Lucius ran.
He took the stairs two at a time, pistol drawn beneath his suit jacket. The music had stopped. Only screams and the pounding of his own heartbeat filled the air.
The mezzanine stretched ahead—dark, lined with curtains and statues. Perfect for ghosts.
Lucius moved low, scanning corners, the weight of the pin heavy against his chest.
A flicker of motion.
He fired. The muzzle flash lit stone, catching the edge of a man's shoulder as he vanished behind a pillar.
Lucius sprinted.
The assassin turned, firing back. Sparks leapt from marble as bullets screamed past. Lucius slid behind cover, returning fire.
Closer. Closer.
He rounded the pillar—and met a blade.
Steel slashed across his sleeve, hot against skin.
The assassin lunged, mask covering his face, knife in one hand, pistol in the other.
Lucius blocked, slammed his forearm into the man's wrist, twisted the blade free. The struggle was fast, brutal, silent but for ragged breaths and the thud of fists.
Lucius slammed the man's head into stone. The mask cracked.
And for a heartbeat, he froze.
Because beneath the mask was a face he knew.
Not well. Not personally.
But Lucius had seen him.
Two nights ago.
In the Hall of the Shield.
A man in a suit. Laughing with Damien.
His pulse thundered.
The assassin wasn't an outsider.
He was one of them.
The man snarled, shoving Lucius back, disappearing into the chaos beyond the mezzanine.
Lucius lunged after him, but the assassin was fast, vanishing into the night through a shattered window. By the time Lucius reached the frame, all that remained was the echo of his footsteps fading into the city.
Lucius gripped the sill, breath burning, the realization clawing into him.
The shot hadn't come from enemies outside.
The Shield had turned its own rifle inward.
Downstairs, the chaos was still unraveling.
Senator Grieves was shaken but alive, surrounded by Red Shield agents forming a wall of black suits. Marco was near the bar, pale now, his champagne forgotten, his eyes locked on Lucius.
When Lucius descended, Calder's gaze found him first. A single nod, subtle, as if to say: You saw it too.
But Damien was smiling. Too calm. Too amused. His glass lifted in silent toast.
Lucius's fists tightened.
The Shield was fracturing in front of him.
And now, he was caught in the break.
Later that night, in the silence of his dormitory wing, Lucius found another slip of paper under his door.
No handwriting this time. Only three words.
We know. Choose.
His pulse pounded as he stared at the message.
The factions within the Shield were no longer shadows.
They were reaching for him.
And whichever hand he took might drag him into war.