Coy kept his expression neutral but his pulse kicked up a notch. Velvet. The name alone made his blood simmer. Made old instincts wake up—fight or flight, threat assessment, survival mode. He'd heard stories. Everyone who worked private security in New York had heard stories. The Velvet gang wasn't the biggest or the loudest, but they were smart. Strategic. Vicious when they needed to be.
And apparently, they were active again.
Norah stared at her father. Processing. Connecting dots. "The Velvet gang. The same one that's been 'making moves' for three years? That's your reason for bringing me back?"
"That's one of them."
"And the others?"
"Are mine to know."
"Bullshit."
"Watch your language."
"I'm twenty-one, not twelve. You don't get to police my language anymore." She was getting angry again. Coy could see it building. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
"Everything about this concerns me! You're telling me I need a bodyguard, that I'm in danger, that the Velvet gang is—" She stopped. Shook her head. "I'm not a child. Tell me the truth."
"The truth," Hanrot said slowly, deliberately, "is that this city is more dangerous than you remember. The truth is that people know who you are. The truth is that I have enemies who would love nothing more than to use you against me. The truth is—" His voice went hard again. Cold. The voice that ended negotiations, that buried bodies, that made grown men flinch. "—this isn't a discussion, Norah. Coy stays. You cooperate. End of story."
For a long moment—five seconds, ten, fifteen—father and daughter stared at each other. Two wills colliding in the space between them. Two people who probably loved each other but didn't know how to show it anymore. Two people who'd spent three years apart and had forgotten how to communicate without fighting.
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut.
Then Norah smiled.
It was the scariest thing Coy had seen all day, and he'd watched a Russian mobster pull a gun on him six hours ago.
The smile didn't reach her eyes. Didn't touch any other part of her face. It was all teeth and rage and cold calculation.
"Fine," she said softly. Sweetly. The tone of voice that meant someone was about to do something terrible. "He can follow me around like a lost puppy. He can sit in my classes, breathe down my neck, play bodyguard to his heart's content." She stepped closer to Hanrot. Close enough that Coy could see the resemblance now—same jaw, same intensity, same refusal to back down. "But don't expect me to make it easy for him. And don't expect me to pretend this is normal, or that I'm okay with it, or that I've forgiven you for any of this." Her voice dropped lower. More dangerous. "You want obedience? You'll have to earn it."
She turned on her heel. Sharp. Military-precise. And walked toward the door with her spine straight and her head high and all the dignity of someone who knew they'd just lost a battle but hadn't conceded the war.
Coy straightened up as she approached. Stepped aside to let her pass.
She brushed past him without a word. Without a glance. Leaving only the sharp scent of her perfume—that expensive citrus-and-something-else that he still couldn't identify—and the echo of her footsteps on marble as she headed back toward the foyer.
The doors slammed behind her.
The sound reverberated through the study. Through the house. Through Coy's bones.
Silence filled the room in her absence. Heavy. Oppressive. The kind of silence that followed explosions.
Hanrot stood perfectly still for a moment. Staring at the closed doors. Then he turned back to the bar cart, picked up his scotch, and drained it in one long swallow. His hand shook slightly as he set the empty glass down.
"She hates me," he said quietly. More to himself than to Coy. The voice of a man stating a fact he'd known for a long time but still didn't want to accept.
Coy said nothing. It wasn't his place. This was family. Private. The kind of pain that had nothing to do with security or threats or protection details.
"Keep her safe," Hanrot continued, turning to face him. His eyes were tired—older than they'd seemed on the phone earlier. Older than they'd looked even five minutes ago. The eyes of a man who'd built an empire and discovered that empires couldn't protect the things that actually mattered. "I don't care if she makes your life hell. I don't care if she fights you every step of the way. I don't care if she hates you as much as she hates me. You keep her breathing, you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Coy?" Hanrot poured another scotch. His hand was steadier now. Control reasserting itself. "Watch her. Closely. She's..." He trailed off. Shook his head. Seemed to be weighing something—deciding how much to say, how much to keep locked away. "Just watch her."
"Something I should know?" Coy asked carefully.
Hanrot looked at him for a long moment. His expression was unreadable—calculation and concern and something else Coy couldn't quite identify.
"No," he finally said. But the way he said it made it clear there was something. Something important. Something Hanrot wasn't ready to share yet. "Just do your job."
Coy nodded. "Yes, sir."
He turned and left the study. Pulled the heavy doors closed behind him. The latch clicked softly. Final.
He stood in the hallway for a moment. Alone. Listening to the house breathe around him. Expensive silence. The kind that came from thick walls and sound insulation and rooms big enough that voices didn't carry unless someone wanted them to.
Somewhere above him, he heard footsteps. Fast. Angry. A door slamming.
Norah.
He found her luggage still in the foyer exactly where he'd left it. Both suitcases sitting on marble like abandoned soldiers. He grabbed them—still heavy, Christ, what did she pack—and carried them upstairs.
The staircase was wide and curved. Mahogany railing. More artwork on the walls. A window at the landing that looked out over the grounds. The suitcases were awkward on the stairs. Heavy and unbalanced. His left shoulder—the one he'd injured earlier running from the Russian mobster—protested. He ignored it.
At the top of the stairs, a maid appeared. Older woman. Filipino, maybe. Wearing a uniform that looked like it belonged in a different century—black dress, white apron, the whole formal service aesthetic that rich people seemed to love.
"Her room?" Coy asked.
The maid pointed down a hallway. "Third door on the left, sir. The one with the white door."
"Thank you."
She nodded and disappeared around a corner.
Coy followed her directions. Found the white door. It was closed. Solid wood. Expensive hardware. He could hear movement on the other side—footsteps, something being moved, the rustle of fabric.
He set the suitcases down outside the door. Carefully. Quietly.
Then he heard it. A sound that made him freeze.
Glass breaking. Or ceramic. Hard to tell. Something expensive shattering against something solid. The sharp crack of impact followed by the tinkle of fragments hitting the floor.
Coy stood there. Hand raised. About to knock.
Then he lowered it.
What would he say? Are you okay? Obviously not. *Do you need help?* She'd tell him to fuck off. Your father sent me to check on you? That would go over great.
Another sound. Softer this time. Muffled.
Was she crying? Screaming into a pillow? He couldn't tell.
He stood there for another ten seconds. Listening. Debating.
Then he turned and walked away. Down the hallway. Back toward the stairs. His footsteps were quiet on the carpet—thick, expensive, designed to absorb sound.
He needed to find his own room. Get his bearings. Figure out the layout of this place. Plan his security protocols. Check exits. Identify weak points. Do all the things he was supposed to do on a first night in a new location.
But mostly, he just needed some space to process what he'd gotten himself into.
First day on the job, and he was already exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. The kind of exhausted that came from dealing with people who were both incredibly powerful and incredibly broken.
Somewhere behind him, faint and distant, he heard another crash. Louder this time.
He kept walking.
"This is going to be a long year."