KANE
"Young man, what have you gotten yourself into." Kane murmured to himself. That woman, his boss, was rather too beautiful and sharp-witted for his liking.
"God help me."
His office was shown to him by the slender lady with the tablet, Danielle.
"What an odd voice she had." He thought. But aside from that, Danielle was perfect– organised, composed and almost too agreeable. Unlike her boss that looked like she would have gladly punched him in the face if he gave her even half a reason.
His retorts had clearly gotten under her skin.
Kane smiled, "I'll count that as a win."
He knew deep down, she would be difficult to work with – brilliant yes, but the kind that never lost control. He was used to being the one calling the shots.
This firm itself was enormous, the offices spacious and impeccable. Sofia had built something immaculate, and though Kane hated to admit it, he was impressed.
His office, though two times smaller than Sofia's, was still bigger than any he'd had before. It had a single desk and two chairs. A sleek glass wall overlooking Century City. Every piece of furniture bore the same engraved insignia: A.M.C.C in smooth italics.
As he sat, something caught his eye. A faint inscription on the left edge of the desk, something most people would have missed. Kane was not most people, he was a man who paid attention to details. The scent of polished mahogany wafted through his nostrils as he bent to inspect the table.
The inscription wasn't perfect, it was a far cry from an artist's work. It seemed to have been written with a sharp‐toothed tool. A screwdriver maybe.
"Sapere di chi sei figlio." It read.
He frowned, he didn't know much Italian, so he reached for his phone and translated it.
"Know whose son you are."
He stared at it for a moment, silent.
Who had used this office before him?
A young man maybe, who was trying to make his parents proud. Someone reminding himself of who he was – so he wouldn't forget.
Kane sat back and exhaled. "Yeah," he muttered almost to the empty room. "That makes the two of us."
He brushed the thought aside and focused on the day's work.
Danielle came in later, arms full of files, explaining how things were run and what Sofia expected of her staff. He listened quietly to the instructions given, and got to work.
His job had officially begun.
SOFIA
Usually in the U.S. of A, each of the fifty states had two senators who served a six-year term. In every state, senators were elected from specific geographical areas known as senatorial districts.
In California, however, the map looked different. Forty districts. Forty men and women holding forty slices of power—each guarding their turf like wolves.
And lately, those wolves had begun to tear at one another.
There had been friction between the state legislature and the governor's office for months. What started as a quiet disagreement over appointments to state boards had escalated into a full-blown power struggle. With the gubernatorial election fast approaching, lines were drawn, loyalties tested.
Then two senators turned up dead.
One in his Tesla, parked outside a restaurant in downtown Sacramento.
The other, two days later, in his pool.
The police called it coincidence.
The press called it conspiracy.
The Governor called her.
Sofia Russo rarely took on political clients. Too messy. Too loud. Too many egos and skeletons to juggle at once. But when the Governor of California personally called her office at dawn, his voice low and desperate, she decided to at least hear him out.
Now, sitting in her office, she tapped her fingers lightly against her desk. The smart-glass walls were transparent again, sunlight spilling through.
A folder lay open before her — photos, transcripts, and internal memos. The words "unexplained deaths" and "media suppression" appeared again and again.
Danielle's voice came through the intercom. "Governor's assistant on line two, ma'am."
"Patch him through."
The line clicked, and a woman's voice spoke — calm, clipped, efficient. "Ms. Russo, thank you for taking the Governor's call earlier. He appreciates your discretion."
Sofia leaned back in her chair. "Discretion is expensive. Make sure he appreciates it enough."
A pause, then a quiet chuckle. "Understood. The Governor would like to meet with you tonight. Privately."
Sofia's gaze drifted toward the skyline. "Send me the address."
As she ended the call, she noticed movement beyond the frosted glass. A tall figure passing by—broad-shouldered, deliberate. Kane.
He hadn't been in her space five hours and already moved like he'd worked there for years. Silent, unbothered, annoyingly composed.
She sighed, closing the file.
Politics, murder, and now a shadow for a bodyguard.
What a week.
She picked up her phone and spoke softly, "Danielle, clear my evening. And tell Mr. Kane to be ready by seven. He's coming with me."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sofia ended the call and stood, crossing to the window. Below, LA shimmered under the noon sun — loud, lawless, alive.
Somewhere out there, someone was killing senators.
And now, she was stepping right into the middle of it.