PROLOGUE
She was going to die tonight.
Drenched in blood, Vera Greene scurried into a deserted alley, surrounded by dilapidated buildings on one of Worton City’s least busy streets. It had been over ten minutes since she managed to escape her captors, but the Russian mob was relentless, hunting her as if she were a traitor on the run.
Gasping for air, she limped toward the dingy walls of an old shop called Burton Boutique. She clenched her jaw and bit her lip to stifle her whimpers—too afraid that even the slightest sound would lead her hunters right to her.
She had been punched, kicked, shot, and tossed around like a rag doll, leaving her with broken ribs, bruised limbs, and a gunshot wound. If not for the carelessness of the man guarding her, Vera would have already been fed to the sharks—and no one would have ever known.
How did they find me?
A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the memories of the massacre she had accidentally witnessed when she was only eighteen—broken glass windows, tables and chairs overturned, blood splattered on the floor, and lifeless bodies.
Gruesome. Terrible. Traumatic.
Those were the only words she could come up with as the past flashed before her—the screaming, the gunshots, and the helpless look on her best friend’s face, mouthing the words: RUN. NOW.
The incident changed the course of her life, forcing her into hiding under a new identity—cut off from her family, her friends, and everything she loved. For the past three years, she had been nothing but careful and discreet.
Yet here she was, back where it all began—all because of one simple mistake.
She never should have taken the night shift at the convenience store to earn a little extra cash. She never should have left her apartment. And she never should have hung up on Benji—the officer in charge of her protection.
Goddamn. I’ve been so stubborn.
The isolation in a foreign place had made her believe she could finally live a normal life. Lonely, yes, but at least in peace.
She should have listened when Benji reminded her that morning that safety wouldn't be guaranteed until the hooligans from the crime she had witnessed were apprehended.
Vera blinked away the tears pooling in her eyes, struggling to stay conscious as she cursed the universe for constantly keeping her one step ahead of death.
How did she end up in such a wretched state?
She had been just an ordinary college student, getting through each day, believing that as long as she followed the law and lived with integrity, life would at least be bearable. Like any girl her age, she had dreams and goals—and her biggest worries should have been nothing more than schoolwork and finding enough food and money to get by.
But here she was, barely clinging to life.
No friends. No family. No Benji.
She had no one.
No one was coming to save her.
The thought sent her into an emotional spiral. She hadn't heard a word from her mother and sister, as if they had never questioned her sudden disappearance—like her existence meant nothing to them. Would they even mourn if they found out she died in such a pitiful state?
Vera shook her head. Of course not.
Because they wouldn’t have to grieve.
She was going to make it out of this. She promised herself she would step back into the light without the fear of a gun at her back, and without running from those who wanted her dead.
She was innocent.
And she would survive long enough to take the witness stand.
With renewed determination, Vera pressed a trembling hand against her gunshot wound, struggling to stem the bleeding. She clenched the fabric of her shirt between her teeth, tearing at it with the last of her strength, and ripped off a strip long enough to bind her injury.
“Here. Let me,” said a soothing baritone voice.
Vera’s hands paused mid-air. If only she still had the energy, she would have looked around to see who was talking. But she had used every bit of her remaining strength to hold on to that scrap of cloth. For a moment, she thought she was starting to have auditory hallucinations from the blood loss. But as soon as she felt the gentle caress of an icy, cold palm on the back of her hand, she finally snapped out of her daze.
She flinched. The blurry sight of a pale, veiny arm reaching out to check her injury sent the alarms blaring in her head. Yet deep down, she hoped that whoever it was would understand her situation.
“I-I…” she rasped, her breathing ragged from pain and exhaustion.
“Relax. I’m not here to hurt you,” the man whispered, his voice light.
“P-Please…” she begged, “h-help m-me.”
“Close your eyes, dear. Don’t worry. I got you.”
Weakly, Vera let out another hum in an attempt to speak, but the stranger remained silent. He drew a long, exasperated sigh as he watched the woman’s pallid face, intrigued by how she had ended up in such a state. Worton City was relatively safe, and guns were illegal, after all.
He lifted her weary, petite frame into his arms, his face hidden in the darkness. Yet in the faint glow of the streetlamps, the brief shift in the color of his eyes—from hazel to a deep, dark red—did not go unnoticed.
And in the shadows, he lowered his face closer to her neck, inhaling the scent of her blood, listening to the ones still flowing through her veins.
“Ah… it had been so long,” he groaned.
