The stairwell smelled of damp concrete and cigarette smoke. Elliot Dorian leaned heavily against the railing, his side burning with every step. Blood had already dried on his shirt beneath the coat, sticky and pulling at his skin. The fight in the alley had been fast, brutal—two men who moved like professionals, their blades flashing in the dark. He’d left one groaning in the gutter and the other unconscious, but not before they carved him up good. The moment they had hissed her family name in his ear, everything changed.

The woman who had hired him wasn’t just some grieving friend trying to avenge the dead. She was the daughter of the most dangerous crime lord in the city, perhaps in the country. And now, because he’d taken her money, Elliot was in the middle of a war he never wanted.

He reached her apartment door and knocked once. He needed answers, and he needed them now.

The lock clicked. The door opened, and she stood framed in the soft golden glow of her apartment.

She was even more striking in person than she had been across the table when she first hired him. Her hair, a cascade of fiery red, spilled over one shoulder like molten copper catching the light. Freckles dusted her pale skin, delicate but impossible to miss. Her eyes were wide, luminous, a shade between green and hazel that seemed to shift with her expression. Lips the color of wine curved into something caught between welcome and worry.

She wore a black dress, simple but elegant, its neckline hinting at softness without vanity. A silver chain rested at her collarbone, a tiny charm swaying as she moved. She looked fragile, too fragile to be tied to the brutal shadows Elliot had brushed against tonight. But looks were masks.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered, voice low but clear.

“I’ve been better,” Elliot muttered, brushing past her into the warmth of the apartment. His boots left faint marks on the polished wooden floor. The place was immaculate, tastefully furnished—expensive rugs, soft amber lamps, and shelves lined with books that looked more like props than anything well-read.

She closed the door and locked it, her hands lingering on the bolt. “You shouldn’t have come here like this. They’ll be watching you.”

“Yeah, I figured that out about twenty minutes ago.” He lowered himself onto the arm of a chair, wincing. His trench coat was heavy with rain and blood, and he peeled it back, exposing the crimson stain on his shirt. “You left out a few important details when you hired me.”

Her gaze flickered to the wound, then back to his face. For a heartbeat, guilt passed through her eyes, quickly masked by resolve. “If I had told you the truth, would you have helped me?”

Elliot let out a humorless laugh. “Depends which part of the truth. That your friend was murdered, or that your father runs half the criminal underworld?”

Silence stretched between them. She folded her arms across her chest, but the gesture was more protective than defensive. “I didn’t lie,” she said finally, her voice quieter. “I just… didn’t tell you everything.”

“You don’t say.” Elliot pressed a hand against his side, the warmth of blood seeping through his fingers. He leaned forward, studying her. “Listen, lady, I don’t care about your father or his empire. What I care about is why men with knives tried to cut me open tonight and dropped his name while doing it.”

Her eyes softened, though fear flickered there too. She walked closer, each step measured, deliberate, until she was standing right before him. The scent of her hair—something floral, something warm—cut through the acrid tang of blood on his skin.

“You’re in this now, whether you want to be or not,” she said. “They came after you because you’re close to me. And they’ll come again.”

Elliot met her gaze, steady and unflinching, though inside he felt the weight of her words pressing down on him. “So tell me, Miss… whatever your real last name is—why don’t we start with the truth? All of it. Because if I’m going to bleed for this case, I want to know exactly who I’m bleeding for.”