Leverage

The moment the plane door opens, New York hits me like a slap.

Cold wind. Hot exhaust. Voices sharp as broken glass.

I drag my suitcase into the terminal and pretend my pulse isn’t thudding in my throat. I’ve been here ten minutes and already regret answering the letter folded in my jacket, creased now from how tightly I’ve held it.

AMELIA, COME TO NEW YORK. URGENT.

No apology. No explanation.

Signed only,

Edward.

My father.

Or the man who used to be.

A shoulder clips mine as the crowd surges, jolting me sideways.

For a split second, unwanted and uninvited, a memory flares:

My mother’s warm hand squeezing mine in busy places.

Stay close, baby girl. The world can’t swallow you if I’ve got you.

The ghost of that touch vanishes as fast as it came, leaving my fingers cold and empty.

I swallow the ache and keep moving.

I feel the eyes before I see the man; tall, shaven head, expression carved in stone. He’s leaning against a pillar like he’s been waiting for me.

He pushes off it when our eyes meet.

No.

Not today.

I angle my suitcase and walk fast. Fast enough to be obvious but not panicked.

The man matches my pace.

I duck into a crowd near baggage claim, weaving between families and businessmen. When I risk a glance over my shoulder, he’s closer now, expression unchanged.

I stop abruptly. Turn fully to face him.

“Do you need something?”

He stares at me… then looks past me, to something, or someone over my shoulder.

And walks away.

Just turns and melts into the airport current.

A faint ribbon of cigar smoke trails behind him. Something expensive, old, dangerous.

My breath rushes out, shaky. Not fear, adrenaline. I’m angry it shows at all.

You wanted me here, Edward. Fine. I’m here. But I won’t come crawling.

I shove the damn letter deeper into my pocket and leave the terminal.

Outside, the city roars. Yellow taxis. Honking horns. Cold air whipping at my coat as if trying to peel it off me. New York isn’t welcoming, it’s testing.

The club Edward told me to go to sits in Manhattan’s glittering veins, neon dripping off polished windows.

Vespera.

It looks like the kind of place where the drinks cost more than my rent back in London.

I step inside.

The noise hits first, bass vibrating through bone and blood. Then the dark gold, warm and dangerous. A chandelier sparkles overhead like a trap disguised as a promise.

Eyes track me the way predators track movement.

I lift my chin and walk like I belong here.

Even though I don’t.

Even though I’m here because a man who abandoned me summoned me like an asset returned from storage.

A bartender glances up as I pass—then quickly pulls her sleeve down over a black ink symbol on her wrist.

A half-second motion.

A warning disguised as nothing.

Something slides across the bar, a napkin someone left behind with a symbol scrawled in the corner. A circle split by a single slash.

I don’t know what it means.

But it feels like a door I’m not supposed to open.

The hostess moves toward me, but a guard with a crooked nose intercepts her, jerks his head.

“Harrington’s girl?”

The words sting.

“Yes.”

He leads me down a hallway lined with velvet curtains and people who look like they could buy nations. Every pair of eyes flicks toward me, sizing me up.

But one gaze hits harder.

Like a physical pressure against the back of my neck.

I don’t look. Not yet.

If I acknowledge it, I’ll give something away.

The guard opens the door to a private suite. My father sits inside, older than I remember but still wearing the same cold smile.

“Amelia.”

He says my name like it inconveniences him.

The suite smells like whiskey and old sins.

“We don’t have much time,” Edward says, standing. “I need you here. You’re… useful.”

Useful.

Of course.

“I’m not here to be used,” I snap before I can stop myself.

His eyes narrow. “You owe me after what your mother.....”

“Don’t,” I warn, voice low and sharp.

The blow lands anyway. He knows where the old wounds are and exactly how to dig at the scar tissue.

“I’ll be at my hotel,” I say tightly. “If you need something, email me. Like a normal estranged father.”

I reach for the door. A guard steps in my path.

Bad move.

I kick his knee sideways. Hard. He grunts, staggering, and I rip the room key out of his hand as I shove past him.

I don’t look back at Edward.

If I do, I’ll explode.

The hallway feels too narrow, like the walls are leaning in. I focus on the exit, breath controlled, steps sharp.

And then I slam into a wall.

A warm wall.

Hands catch my arms, large, strong, steadying but not restraining. My breath leaves my body in a startled gasp.

I look up.

And… God.

Tall. Broad shoulders beneath a black suit tailored like a second skin. Dark hair, eyes even darker. His face is sharp, masculine, carved from shadow and quiet danger.

But it’s the details that hit hardest:

A ring, black metal stamped with an old crest, glinting as he loosens his grip.

A faint scar slicing the knuckle of his thumb.

The way he adjusts his cuff with two fingers: practiced, controlled, ritualistic.

A man from a world where violence has a dress code.

He studies me like he’s trying to memorize my pulse from the outside.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice deep velvet. “You almost hurt yourself.”

Heat licks up my spine.

Fear.

Attraction.

Warning.

All braided together so tightly I can’t pull them apart.

I pull back from his hands. “Let go.”

He does. Slowly.

But he doesn’t stop watching me.

Not like the others.

Not hunger.

Not curiosity.

Something more… tactical.

Like he’s marking a point on a map and I’ve just become it.

“Who are you?” I demand.

His lips curve, just slightly. A hint of a smirk sharpened by danger.

“Someone who noticed you the moment you walked in.”

My heart stumbles. I hate that it does.

The guard with the crooked nose hurries down the hallway, face tightening when he sees who I’m talking to.

“Mr. Romano,” the guard mutters. “She… she’s Harrington’s....”

The man; Romano, cuts him off with a single cold look.

Romano.

The name hits me like a blow.

Romano. As in Romano syndicate.

Of course Edward would drag me into something like this.

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping to pass him.

But Romano shifts, not blocking, just close enough that the air around us sharpens. Heat radiates from him, something dangerous and alive.

“You shouldn’t walk around alone tonight.”

I laugh, sharp. “If you think I’m helpless....”

“Not helpless.”

His gaze drops to my hands, then back to my eyes.

“Just hunted.”

My breath freezes.

I don’t know how he knows about the man at the airport.

Or the eyes on me.

But he does.

“I don’t need your help,” I manage.

Romano leans in, not touching, but so close the heat of him slides beneath my skin, confusing and unwelcome and electric.

“You will,” he says softly.

“And when you do…”

His eyes flick to my pocket, where the letter burns like a brand.

“You’ll come find me.”

I push past him before he can see the shiver that runs down my spine.

I don’t look back.

But I feel his eyes on me all the way to the exit.

And long after I’m gone.