PROLOGUE: The Debt of Blood
'THE NIGHT THE BIRD WAS CAGED'
—Ten Years Ago—
The floorboards were freezing, but I didnt move. I was squeezed into the tiny, dark space under my father’s massive oak desk. My heart was beating so hard against my ribs that I was sure the men in the hallway could hear it.
Then came the first scream. It was my mother.
It wasn't like the movies. It was short, sharp, and then—crack. The sound of the gunshot was so loud it felt like it split my head open. I pressed my hands over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut until I saw spots.
Please, please, please, I prayed. But God wasn't in our house tonight.
More gunshots followed. One. Two. Three. I heard heavy bodies hitting the floor. I heard the glass breaking in the dining room. I heard the silence that followed, which was a thousand times scarier than the noise.
Then, the door to the study kicked open.
I held my breath, turning blue in the face. From under the desk, I could only see his shoes. Black leather. Polished. Expensive. There wasn't a single drop of blood on them, even though my whole family was lying dead just a few feet away.
The room suddenly filled with a strange smell. It wasn’t smoke. It was expensive cologne—something like sandalwood and cold rain. It was the smell of wealth. It was the smell of a man who had never lost a fight in his life.
The chair creaked as he sat down. My father's chair.
"I know you're under there, Elena," a voice said. It was deep, smooth, and completely calm. Like he was just checking the weather.
I stayed frozen. Maybe if I didn't move, I would turn into stone and he wouldn't see me.
"Don't make me ask twice. I'm not a patient man."
I crawled out slowly, my legs shaking so much I almost fell. I looked up and saw him. He looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, not a crime scene. He was young—maybe in his late twenties—with dark hair pushed back and eyes that looked like pieces of broken ice.
He looked down at me, and for a second, I saw it. The gun resting on the desk. The same gun that had just silenced my mother’s voice forever.
I started to cry, fat tears rolling down my face, but I didn't make a sound. I was too terrified to even sob.
The man stood up and walked toward me. He didn't look angry. He looked... bored. He knelt down in front of me, ruining the crease of his expensive trousers. He reached out, and I flinched, but he just used his thumb to wipe a tear off my cheek. His skin was freezing.
"Your father was a thief, Elena. He stole from me, so I took what was mine," he said, staring right into my soul.
He leaned in closer, that sandalwood smell wrapping around me like a cage. Then, he reached out and lifted me off the floor, tucking me against his chest as if I were a doll he’d just bought at a store.
I looked over his shoulder and saw my fathers hand peeking out from the hallway. He wasn't moving.
The man turned away from the bodies and started walking toward the exit.
"From this second on, you don't have a name. You don't have a past," he whispered into my ear, his grip tightening. "You're mine now."
