CHAPTER 1 – THE CONTRACT NIGHT
That night, Blackhaven looked like a long gash in the sea.
From the 88th floor of the Eclipse Tower, the city was reduced to lights and smoke. The north glowed red from the Vorak Consortium's arsenal and chemical plant. The south gleamed with the signs of the beachside clubs where the Serrano Syndicate auctioned off human bodies.
In the center, the penthouse conference room.
A black glass table twelve meters long, so shiny it reflected the men sitting around it. On either side of the table were opposing factions, the Voraks in their buttonedup black suits, and the Serranos in their dark gray suits and loose ties. Twenty men, spread out on either side of the North and South, were so quiet that the faint whistling of the breeze could be heard.
At the head of the table, Viktor Vorak leaned back in his chair.
The chair he sat in was too small for him. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing white scar that ran diagonally across his collarbone. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the table, slowly, as if the entire negotiation was just one long entertainment.
Across from him, Diego Serrano swirled his whiskey glass, the warm liquid coating his tanned fingers in a thin layer of gold.
The ceiling light shone down, splitting Diego's face in two, one half bright, the other half hidden in shadow. He had a beautiful smile, the kind that usually appeared only on perfume posters on the streets, but here, it was just a line of fangs covered in diamonds.
In the center of the table, under the focused light, was Evelyn Sinclair.
She knelt on the glass like an object placed on fisplay counter.
The white silk dress hugged her body tightly, so thin that every time she breathed, people could clearly see her chest rising and falling deep into the thin dress. The straps were thin as threads, slipping loosely over her shoulders. Bare feet touched the cold floor.
A smear of dried blood had congealed where the collar of her dress had fallen.
Her blood.
"We can sign on paper," Diego said in a low voice, his English and Spanish mingling like smoke and alcohol. "Or on her. I don't care."
"Paper can burn," Viktor replied, his eyes still on Evelyn. "Skin is harder."
Evelyn kept her back straight. She felt the eyes of twenty men on her like a heavy fabric, pulling her down.
They looked at her like they were looking at their new toy.
She wasn't a princess. She wasn't a kidnapped rich girl. She wasn't a spy disguised as a bar girl like in some chap movie. Evelyn Sinclair was just a woman who had gone too far in a game at the table, and found her body was the only thing on the table worth carrying.
"Are you scared?" Diego's voice interrupted his thoughts. He put down his glass, leaned forward, elbows on the table, and propped his chin up to look at her. "You have the right to tremble."
Evelyn raised her head to look straight at him.
Her blue eyes were thrown into the clear red wine glass, and slowly shattered.
"If I tremble, can you change any conditions?" she asked, her voice dry. "If I cry, will you let me go?"
A small laugh broke the silence. Diego's men laughed first, like dogs with permission from their masters. Viktor's men merely curled their lips, but no one seemed to sympathize with the remark.
Viktor firmly raised his hand. The laughter died down immediately.
"No," he said. "But I will acknowledge your efforts."
Evelyn wanted to say that she hated the way he called her "little sister," hated the soft, low voice he used to comfort a wounded animal.
But she kept quiet.
In Blackhaven, words were a luxury. Every word had to be paid for with something. Blood or Money, and self respect.
She had paid for all three.
"All right," Diego leaned back in his chair. "Let's finish it. Both the North and the South are tired of fighting with blood. Six years of street fighting, is that enough?"
Six long years...
The number hung in the air between the two men, the two factions.
Six years between the port. Catching the red light district by the sea. Trucks disappearing from the highway. Six years of bodies washing up every morning. Six years of the news talking about "gang violence" in a tone of indifference.
And everything, all of it, revolved around a name.
Evelyn knew. Because she was that name.
"We agreed on the terms one last time." Viktor stopped typing, his fingers began to lace together, resting them on the table. On each of his fingertips were white scars. "From tonight, she is public property. No one is allowed to touch or kill her.."
Diego tilted his head: "No one is allowed to take her away without warning. Whether it's your side or mine, it's best to respect the rules of the game, because we have a public toy."
The word "toy" stabbed Evelyn's ears like cold knife.
But she remained silent.
She wanted to speak up and say: Do you think you're playing fair?
One side produces weapons for half the city. The other side holds the upper class by the throat with secrets, stimulating games in VIP rooms without cameras. Where is the fairness?
Today is the day to decide whether she survives, or…
That requires something… more disgusting than death, agreeing to become what they call public property.
"Evelyn," Viktor said, calling her name for the first time that evening. He said it slowly, "Look at me."
She had been looking at him all this time, but she still managed to lift her head a little.
The light fell, sliding over his nose and gray eyes, like the calm before a storm, not sure if it was day or night.
"Conditions, you gave yourself," he said. "I want to hear them from you, not from a lawyer."
"Conditions?" Evelyn's mouth twitched. "I thought I was a consolation prize after six years of shooting. A prize doesn't have to have any conditions."
Diego laughed: "She has style."
"Style can't save a man who's standing in front of a gun," Viktor said, but his mouth twitched too. He leaned forward. "Say it."
Evelyn took a deep breath.
The air in the room smelled of alcohol, fine cigarettes… and something else, a metallic scent somewhere. This was where they had signed transport contracts, murder agreements, human trafficking deals.
Tonight, they would sign another contract. On her chest.
"First," Evelyn said, keeping her eyes from wandering away from them. "Do not touch my family at all costs."
Diego raised an eyebrow. "Do you have aafamily?"
"She did," Viktor answered for her. "A gambling father, hated by some poor, out-of-town relatives. But this is fine. At least I have no interest in rummaging through those musty, smelly cabins right now."
Evelyn kept silent. Despite the contemptuous answer, it was at least a real commitment to her.
"Second," she continued, "do not touch anyone who is not involved in this. Even if it's a casual passerby, a staff member, a servant, a cook, a driver. This is a war between you. I don't want anyone else to die because of it."
Viktor looked at Diego.
"Do you agree to this condition?"
Diego twisted the ring on his finger. "I never liked killing servants. It's a waste of my manpower, so I agree."
"Write it down in the contract." Viktor gestured. An old lawyer wearing glasses sitting in the corner of the room nodded slightly, a fountain pen in his hand.
"Third." Evelyn paused, the corner of her lips twitched slightly, as if trying to swallow something. "If one day... you get bored, or find me no longer valuable, you can't auction me off, or give me away. I'm not someone else's toy."
Silence filled the room.
The juniors looked at each other. Some chuckled softly, Some remained silent but their eyes said it all. Did she feel like she had a choice?
Diego took back his whiskey, raising it for an answer.
Viktor didn't smile. He looked straight at her, his eyes even darker.
"What do you want?" Viktor asked. "A bullet in the forehead, instead of ending your life at someone else's hands?"
"At least that's your choice," Evelyn replied, her voice so calm it surprised even her. "Not anyone else's. And my principles… If I'm destined to be in this hell, I don't want to be sold to another hell, even if it's brighter."
Viktor was wringing his hands, the veins standing out clearly. Then he exhaled, very slowly, as if he'd just blown out smoke.
"Okay," he said. "Not for sale, or for sale, or for auction."
Diego turned to him: "You don't care about the big profit in front of you, do you?"
"She's been keeping us at war for six years," Viktor said, his voice calm. "She owes us both a debt. That debt… isn't something that can be auctioned off."
That sent a chill down Evelyn's spine.
Someone inside her wanted to ask: What did I do to deserve those six years? But that question was buried long ago. Buried with the innocents who died at their hands.
"Then it's settled," Diego clapped his hands together, the sound sharp, like a starting gun. "Now for the… ceremony."
The eyes of the entire room were on Evelyn.
A man stepped forward and placed a steel tray on the table in front of her. On the tray was a small knife, a thick set of contracts, and a black fountain pen.
Viktor stood up.
As he walked around the table, Evelyn's heart pounded in her chest. The world shrank to the sound of leather hitting the stone floor.
Diego stood up too, slower than the whiskey still in his hand.
They stopped on either side of her.
From Evelyn's perspective, all she could see was two tall figures sandwiched between them, a light shining down at chest level. She smelled the alcohol on Diego's shirt, the gunpowder on Viktor's body.
Viktor picked up the knife, twirling it around in his hand as if he were used to its weight.
"We'll do it. Before the city gets tired of seeing blood every day."
The blade slid across his palm, a deep cut.
Drops of crimson blood flowed out.
Diego was not to be outdone. He reached out, grabbed the blade, and drew a line across his skin. His blood was a darker red, blending with the yellow light of the conference room.
The bloody hands were raised.
Evelyn swallowed, her throat dry.
"Look up," Viktor commanded.
She obeyed. Her chin tilted back, the blood from her neck had dried, sticking like a faint signature of fate.
Viktor placed his bloody hand right over her heart.
The feeling was surprisingly warm. The pressure of his palm penetrated the thin fabric, pressing so deeply that she thought her heart would drop right there.
Diego placed his hand on top of it, his blood mingling with Viktor's, spreading a dark streak.
"Repeat," Viktor said, his voice low in her ear. "From now on… I belong…"
Evelyn laughed softly, a short, dry, sharp sound. "Don't dream," she whispered. "I belong to no one. Not even the living hell."
A few people in the room shifted their chairs slightly.
That… was the kind of sentence that would kill someone in three seconds, on any corner of Blackhaven.
Viktor was silent for a moment. Then, instead of getting angry, he leaned lower, his lips close to her ear.
"Good," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "I like a bunny that can bite back."
Diego laughed, put his whiskey down on the tray, leaned in too, his lips almost touching her other cheek.
"Keep your pride a little longer, muñeca," he whispered. "From tomorrow on, you won't have many chances to say 'no'."
The bloody hands pressed harder.
Evelyn clenched her teeth, trying not to make a sound.
She could feel her heart pounding under the two layers of male skin and thin fabric, like a small canary caught in two giant hands. For a second, she could almost imagine the city below them, the entire Blackhaven, holding its breath, waiting for the outcome.
Viktor raised his head, looking at Diego.
"Two factions," he said. "Same city."
Diego smiled, the most dangerous smile of the night.
"A woman," he replied. "A contract."
The blood on their hands began to slide down the curve of her neck, slowly, persistently.
The old lawyer standing in the corner spoke, his voice dry as paper: "Noted. As of July 7, 2028, Evelyn Sinclair is the joint property of the Vorak Consortium and Serrano Syndicate. Any violation of the contract will be resolved by total war."
The sound of a pen scratching on paper. The sound of a camera flashing, capturing the moment when four eyes looked down at a woman kneeling in the middle of a glass table with blood dripping down her chest.
For a moment, Evelyn felt like she was dead.
But no. The hell she had entered tonight… had just opened its doors.
Viktor let go of her chest first. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away the blood that was still on his palm, but still leaving a faint line on her neck, as if on purpose.
Diego slowly stroked the remaining blood, not necessary, but enough to make her skin crawl. He stopped at the neckline of her dress, his fingers pressing against the fabric as a silent command.
"Take her to my apartment," Viktor said, returning to the head of the table. "Tonight is the first night of… peace."
"Blackhaven peace," Diego raised his glass and drank.
Evelyn was pulled to her feet.
Her legs were numb from kneeling for so long. Her eyes were still glued to the dried blood on her chest. Before the door to the conference room closed behind her, she turned her head once.
The two men still stood at opposite ends of the table, like t
he two poles of the city. Between them was the empty chair where she had knelt.
From tonight, Blackhaven would no longer have a war between North and South on the streets. Instead, the war would be concentrated on the body of a woman.