Grand Amaranth Hotel
Ballroom Floor - 12:13 AM
The gala swirled around me—gloved hands, jeweled laughter, champagne fizzing over ice. I had just stepped off the dance floor, the last threads of Eleanor Vaughn's speech echoing in my head, when it happened.
Just as I turned to move through the crowd, a sharp jolt struck my side—glass shattered on the floor, cold liquid splashing against my velvet suit.
Crash.
A silver tray spun to the floor, champagne flutes shattered at my feet, and cold liquid soaked through my velvet suit.
"Oh my—sir! I'm—I'm terribly sorry—"
A waiter. No—a girl. Couldn't have been more than twenty, light brown curls pinned neatly beneath a crisp cap, her uniform flawless, but panic flushed her cheeks like a rookie's mistake. She dropped to her knees instantly, pulling a cloth from her apron, hand moving fast toward the stain.
Too fast. Too comfortable.
My instincts kicked in.
I caught her wrist mid-motion.
"Don't," I said, low and sharp.
She froze. Her eyes lifted slowly to meet mine—startled, but not quite afraid. And that's when I saw it. The flicker.
Training.
Panic on the outside, calculation underneath.
She masked it well. But I was born in a den of liars.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She blinked.
"Lucia. Lucia Carson."
Carl wasn't nearby. I was alone with her. So I let go of her wrist and stepped back, brushing off the stain with one gloved hand.
"Apologies again, sir," she said, rising gracefully. "Please, I'll get the staff manager to fix this—"
"Don't bother." I cut her off, brushing past her.
But I didn't walk away.
I paused, just behind her shoulder, and said without looking:
"Try not to trip over anyone important next time. Not all of them will be this forgiving."
She stood still for a beat. Then walked briskly away—perfect posture, controlled pace, vanishing behind the swinging doors that led to the service corridor.
---
Back on the kitchen – 12:21 AM
Lucia Moore , NYPD Detective, deep cover.
She leaned against the wall once she was out of sight, hand still trembling slightly from the grip he'd put on her wrist. Azrael Hawthorne was colder than she expected—more coiled spring than spoiled prince.
She pulled a small notebook from her apron and scribbled quick notes in shorthand.
"Initial contact: Hawthorne. Suit damage staged. Wrist control maneuver confirmed reflexive suspicion. Did not pursue background."
She'd expected him to dig—send someone, test her identity. But he hadn't. He didn't care enough.
That made him more dangerous.
Lucia had been built for this—years undercover, a dozen personas, three fake IDs in her bag. Her "Lucia Carson" background was airtight. Born in Ohio. Moved to New York. Family died in a fire. Trained by the department's Ghost Unit.
She used Vaughn's Outreach charity as cover right now. But none of that made facing Azrael any easier.
The man was a razor wrapped in velvet.
---
Later that night - Staffs Quarter, Hotel Basement
Lucia stepped inside a janitor's closet converted into an ops post. One bare lightbulb. One rotary phone. And a stack of files bound in brown twine.
She picked up the phone and turned the dial carefully.
"This is Carson. Initial contact made."
A voice crackled through the other end—sharp, controlled.
"Did he touch you?"
"Yes. Briefly. Wrist grab."
"Did he notice anything?"
"Not yet. He didn't press my name or role."
Silence.
Then:
"Proceed to Phase Two. Stay close. Get access. We need the ledger, Lucia. And we need to know if he killed those people… or if he's covering for someone who did."
She hesitated. Her eyes dropped to the photo on the desk: Azrael as a teenager, blood on his sleeve, standing over a body in shadow.
"Understood."
She hung up and stared at the mirror nailed to the door. A cracked reflection.
Lucia Carson. Officer. Orphan. Spy.
About to step into the heart of the empire.
---
Upstairs - Azrael's Suite
Meanwhile, I sat in my private room overlooking the city, bourbon in hand, staring at the faint outline of her face still in my memory.
Lucia Carson. I wouldn't bother investigating her. Not yet.
Because sometimes, the best way to find the
truth is to let the liar get comfortable.
And something about that girl told me—
She was going to lie beautifully.
----
Flashback - Two Weeks Earlier
Location: NYPD Ghost Unit, Off-Record Division
Time: 3:47 AM
They say the city's never quiet, but the basement of the 14th Precinct? That place could make a funeral home feel chatty.
I sat on the cold steel chair, staring at the corkboard wall covered in blurry surveillance photos. Everything smelled like bad coffee, disinfectant, and the stale breath of half-buried secrets. My fingers tapped the file in front of me—Case 327: "Whale's Spine"—while the lieutenant paced behind me, chain-smoking like nerves came in cigarette form.
"You're not going after Azrael," he said finally, dropping a manila folder on the table. "You're going after the old man."
I flipped it open.
Ronald Hawthorne.
Even in a static black-and-white photo, his eyes looked like they could make bank vaults confess.
"We have intel he ordered the killing of a businessman last year. Gareth Lorne."
The name made my gut tense. "Energy mogul. High-level investor. Found dead in a car fire upstate."
I nodded. "I remember. Body was so burned we couldn't confirm cause."
"Exactly." He tapped the folder. "But we did confirm one thing. Lorne was set to testify about corporate laundering—money tied to the Hawthorne shell companies."
I leaned back. "So why not go at Ronald directly?"
He exhaled smoke into the dead air. "Because Ronald Hawthorne doesn't leave fingerprints. He leaves sons."
He pulled another file out—thinner. Slicker. A face I'd only seen in tabloid blurbs and classified intel.
Azrael Hawthorne.
"You get close to him. You find the cracks. The bribes. The accounts. The connection to Lorne's death. Whatever leads us to the king, we get it through the prince."
"And if the prince is clean?"
He stared at me for a long time. Then he said something I still haven't stopped hearing:
"There's no such thing as a clean Hawthorne ."
---
We went over the cover story six times. Lucia Carson, 24. Former orphan. Hired through Vaughn's charity trust. Quiet. Obedient. Pretty enough to blend in, not enough to stand out. The kind of girl who refills glasses and hears things men shouldn't say in public.
I memorized every detail. Fake siblings. A fake scar on my lower ribs. A coffee allergy that doesn't exist. Hell, I even changed the way I walked—softer, more hesitant.
But the weight on my shoulders stayed the same.
I wasn't sent in to seduce him. I was sent in to survive him.
---
"What's the cost?" I asked before I left.
The lieutenant didn't blink. "If you're caught, we disavow."
Of course they would.
He pushed a sealed envelope across the table. Inside was my ID. The uniform. A forged charity badge.
"Get him to trust you. And if you can't… make him underestimate you."
He walked away, leaving the lights buzzing overhead. I held the envelope like it had blood on it.
---
Present Day - Grand Amaranth Hotel, Staff Quarters
Time - 1:08 AM
I blinked. The memory passed. Just a ripple in still water.
The velvet on Azrael's suit was still damp where I'd spilled the drink. He'd held my wrist like he already knew I wasn't just another girl with a tray.
But he didn't look afraid. He looked… amused.
And that's what terrified me most.
Because the deeper I go, the more I realize something
.
.
.
Azrael Hawthorne doesn't just walk in his father's shadow. He casts his own.