Rain hammered the city like it had a personal grudge, turning every sidewalk into a slick black mirror that reflected broken neon signs and the occasional flash of headlights. I huddled under the awning of a shuttered laundromat, collar turned up against the wet, my sneakers already soaked through to the point where every step squelched like a bad decision. Twenty-six years old, zero dollars in my account, and the only thing left in my pockets was lint and the ghost of a promise my parents had died keeping. The apartment was gone. The furniture. The little safety net they'd scraped together for me. All vanished the week after the funeral, signed away by Aunt Mara and her two vulture spawn with smiles sharp enough to cut glass.
I should have fought then. Should have screamed, hired a lawyer, done something besides stand in the hallway while they changed the locks and told me to "move on." But grief is a heavy bastard; it sits on your chest until thinking feels like lifting bricks. So I drifted. Slept in parks. Ate whatever the corner store would let me take on credit until the credit ran out. Tonight the hunger wasn't just in my stomach anymore. It clawed up my throat, hot and angry, whispering that I deserved better than this slow starvation.
I pushed off the wall and started walking again, hands shoved deep in the pockets of my only hoodie. The alley behind Le Ciel Noir looked promising—dim, quiet, the kind of place rich people cut through when they don't want to be seen leaving their overpriced dinners. I spotted him almost immediately. Tall, shoulders broad under a coat that probably cost more than my parents' car when it was new. Black suit, crisp white shirt, cufflinks catching the single sodium lamp like tiny stars. He stepped out of a matte-black SUV, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that made people listen whether they wanted to or not.
My heart kicked hard. Once. Twice. This was it. One chance to claw back something from the nothing they'd left me. I slipped the folding knife from my sleeve—the cheap one I'd bought at a gas station three towns back—and moved.
The rain covered my footsteps. He didn't turn until I was close enough to smell expensive cologne and cigar smoke. I lunged, blade aimed low, going for the wallet in his inside pocket. Stupid. Amateur. I knew it the second my wrist met his hand.
He caught me like I weighed nothing. Twisted. The knife clattered against brick and skittered into a puddle. Before I could curse or pull away, my cheek slammed into the wall, cold and gritty, his forearm pinning my shoulders, his body a solid wall of heat and control at my back. My breath punched out in a shocked huff.
"Interesting choice," he murmured, voice velvet over steel. Up close he smelled like danger wrapped in money. His free hand patted me down with clinical efficiency, fingers brushing my ribs, my hips, finding nothing but damp fabric and desperation. "No gun. No backup. Just you and a very dull blade. Bold. Or stupid. I'm still deciding."
I tried to twist, to see his face. He pressed harder, just enough to remind me how easily he could snap something vital. My pulse thundered in my ears, fear and adrenaline mixing into something dizzying. "Let me go," I rasped. "I'll disappear. You'll never see me again."
A soft laugh rolled through him, vibrating against my spine. "Oh, puppy. You already made sure I'd never forget you."
He eased off just enough to spin me around. I staggered, back hitting the wall, and finally looked up.
Lucien Varkis. I didn't know the name yet, but I knew the face from half-remembered news articles and whispered rumors that floated through the city's underbelly. Sharp jaw, ice-blue eyes that seemed to cut straight through skin, dark hair slicked back and perfect even in the rain. Thirty-something. Dangerous. The kind of man who owned things—people included—and never apologized for it.
He studied me like I was a stray cat that had wandered into his territory. Head tilted, mouth curved in faint amusement. Rain dripped from his coat onto the ground between us. "You're shaking," he observed. "Cold? Hungry? Or scared?"
"All three," I snapped before I could stop myself. Stupid again. But the hunger had stripped away whatever filter I used to have.
His smile sharpened. "Honest. I like that." He reached into his pocket. I flinched, expecting a gun. Instead he pulled out a crisp black card, embossed with nothing but a silver V. "You have two choices tonight. Walk away and keep starving. Or come with me and eat something that isn't dumpster leftovers. After that… we'll discuss terms."
I stared at the card. Then at him. The alley felt smaller, the rain louder, my heartbeat a frantic drumline. Every survival instinct screamed run. Every empty inch of my stomach screamed stay.
I took the card.
His fingers brushed mine when he handed it over—deliberate, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. "Good boy," he said softly.
The words hit like a slap and a caress at the same time. I hated how they settled in my chest, warm and wrong.
He turned toward the waiting SUV without another word. The door opened on silent hinges. I followed.
Because sometimes the devil doesn't need to drag you to hell.
Sometimes he just holds the door and waits for you to step through.