The dingy neon sign of Milo's Bar & Grill flickered like it was debating whether to stay alive or just give up.
Much like Gabriella.
She slapped the register shut and tightened her apron, already feeling sweat forming on her forehead despite the weak ceiling fan that rotated like it was suffering from depression.
"Brooks!" Milo barked from the kitchen. "Three orders of wings! Table six! Move like you mean it!"
"I always move like I mean it," Gabriella muttered, grabbing the tray. "It's just that what I usually mean is I quit."
She walked onto the floor and immediately dodged a drunk man doing interpretive dancing to music that wasn't playing. Another customer tried slipping a dollar bill down her apron.
"Sir," she said sweetly, handing the bill back, "my dignity is worth at least ten."
The table of frat boys howled with laughter.
"Brooks!" Milo yelled again. "Focus!"
"I AM," she yelled back, flipping him off behind her tray.
She placed the wings on table six, shot a forced smile, then rushed back toward the counter—only to slam straight into a tall man carrying beer.
The drinks went flying.
She went flying.
The man shouted.
Someone cheered.
She lay sprawled on the floor, covered in beer foam.
The man gasped. "Holy crap, I'm so sorry—"
"It's okay!" she said, voice cracking. "It's just my career, my dignity, and my will to live!"
She got up, went behind the counter, soaked and sticky, and grabbed a towel.
That's when she felt it.
Eyes.
Watching her.
Heavy.
Intent.
Cold.
Her body stiffened.
Slowly, she looked around the bar.
Customers chatted, drank, laughed, ignored her… except for a man seated at the back.
He wasn't drinking.
Wasn't talking.
Wasn't moving.
Just… staring.
Dark clothes.
Muscular build.
Shadowed face.
Eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room.
Gabriella's heartbeat stumbled.
She blinked—he was gone.
A chill crept up her spine.
---
At exactly 10pm, she clocked out, changed into a clean shirt, and stepped outside into the cold night air.
Her breath puffed out in clouds. The street was quiet.
Too quiet.
She wrapped her arms around herself and started walking.
Halfway down the block, she heard a soft noise behind her.
A footstep.
She turned—
No one.
She took another step.
A hand shot out, clamping over her mouth.
Her scream died in her throat as arms wrapped around her, dragging her backward.
"No—! Mmph—!"
A black van door slid open.
She was shoved inside.
Everything happened in seconds.
Blindfold.
Rope around her wrists.
Hands gripping her ankles.
Gabriella thrashed wildly.
"LET ME GO! PLEASE! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!"
A deep voice above her whispered,
"You shouldn't have gone to the police."
Her blood froze.
Her lungs clawed for air.
Tears streamed beneath the blindfold.
She tried to scream…
But the van door slammed shut, and darkness swallowed her whole.
---
ADRIAN DIGGLE'S POV
Harper Wheeler strolled into Adrian's office like he was entering a spa, not a mafia headquarters.
Adrian didn't look up—he was reading over a list of suspicious transactions, steel-gray eyes focused and sharp.
Harper cleared his throat loudly.
Adrian still didn't look up.
So Harper tried again.
"Boss."
Nothing.
"Boss, I have news."
Adrian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Harper. If this news is about your fight with the mailman again—"
"He started it."
"Harper—"
"But this isn't about him."
That got Adrian's attention.
Harper stepped closer, face more serious than usual.
"We found the one who reported us."
Adrian's head lifted slowly.
"And?"
"She's been retrieved."
Adrian's expression didn't change, but a dark shadow flickered across his eyes.
"Retrieved," he repeated. "Meaning kidnapped."
Harper shrugged. "If we're being poetic."
Adrian leaned back in his chair, gaze icy.
"File."
Harper handed him a manila folder.
Adrian opened it… and froze.
Name: Gabriella Brooks.
Age: 24.
Occupation: Aspiring Actress.
Then his eyes moved to the next line.
Father: Don Curtis Brooks.
Adrian stilled.
Completely.
Harper watched the tension tighten every muscle in his boss's body.
Adrian's jaw clenched so hard Harper thought he'd break a tooth.
"Boss… are you okay?"
No answer.
Adrian's fingers dug into the paper until it crumpled.
His breaths came slow and sharp.
Then—
The file dropped from his hand.
His chair slammed back as he stood.
He swept his arm across the desk, sending everything crashing to the ground—papers, laptop, glass ornaments shattering against the floor.
Harper flinched.
Adrian grabbed the edge of the desk and flipped it with a roar so filled with rage it shook Harper's spine.
"Adrian—!"
Adrian punched the wall, cracking the plaster.
Blood dripped from his knuckles.
His voice was low and shaking.
"Curtis Brooks…"
Harper stayed silent.
Adrian's eyes burned—dark, haunted, murderous.
"You know what he did," he whispered. "You know what that man took from me."
Harper nodded slowly. "Your father."
Adrian closed his eyes.
Flashback burned behind them—
The sound of gunfire.
His father's body falling.
Blood pooling beneath him.
Adrian, a teenage boy, screaming as the world shattered.
Curtis Brooks had ordered the hit.
The hit that broke him.
The hit that turned Adrian Diggle into what he was now.
Adrian opened his eyes again—cold, dead, soulless except for the rage.
A dark smile curved his lips.
"Harper," he said softly, like a man savoring a long-awaited victory. "Do you know how many years I've waited for this moment?"
Harper swallowed. "I can imagine."
Adrian rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck.
"There are few things in this world," he said slowly, "that bring me joy."
His eyes darkened.
"But killing the daughter of the man who murdered my father…"
He exhaled.
"…sounds poetic."
Harper nodded once. "She's tied up in one of the gu
est rooms."
Adrian stepped forward, rolling his bloodied knuckles.
"Good."
He smiled.
A cold, terrifying smile.
"Let's go meet her."
And with that, Adrian walked toward the door—
Heading straight for the terrified girl who had no idea who he truly was.