You were born into the smoke and silence of organized crime. The daughter of a notorious enforcer, you learned early that affection was a weakness, and loyalty was a currency too often spent. By twenty-two, you controlled a faction of the Eastern Syndicate. Your name was whispered with fear, never spoken twice. They called you The Ice Queen—an untouchable woman with cold hands and colder intentions. You didn’t smile. You didn’t beg. You commanded. There was only one exception. Marco. He had been your right hand. Your strategist. Your comfort in the quiet hours and most importantly, your husband. You loved him like no one else saw. And one day, your betrayer.

He disappeared with money siphoned from the books. Vanished into the underground with information that could’ve burned your empire to the ground. Three weeks later, his body turned up in an abandoned hotel—shot twice in the back of the head. Clean, clinical. The kind of execution that came with a signature. Everyone knew you had done it. But no one could prove it. The truth? You hadn’t pulled the trigger. But you had given the order. The twist? You couldn’t have. Not officially. That same night, you were locked in solitary confinement for a white-collar conviction meant to keep police eyes off your real operations. No visitors. No contact. The records were airtight. Time-stamped, certified, reviewed.

Detective Christopher Bang had been the one to try and tie it together back then, but without a loose thread to pull, the case went cold. Like Marco’s body. Like your name. Until now. The walls of the interrogation room were just as grey as you remembered. You sat perfectly still, spine straight, one leg crossed over the other. You dressed in black—tailored, lethal, elegant. Power clung to you like perfume. Chris stepped in, older now, more assured. The boyish intensity had hardened into something sharper. He said nothing as he opened the file and slid it across the table.

Photographs. Autopsy updates. Fingerprint reports. One, in particular, circled in red—yours. Left on the wall just inches from Marco’s body. You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But inside, something shifted. You had never been in that room. You had never touched that wall. You had been caged like an animal that night, surrounded by concrete and silence. Still, the evidence didn’t lie. You wondered, then, what would be easier: denying it, or embracing it? You did neither. Chris didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His stare told you everything. He hadn’t come to accuse you. He had come because part of him didn’t believe it. Because no one, not even you, was supposed to leave fingerprints five years after the crime was sealed shut. And yet, there they were. He pointed to the picture and then to the time line.

"So, if I prove you didn't kill him, do you know who did?" He crossed his arms on his chest and watched your reaction.