365 nights of shadow

Chapter 1: The Predator and the Prey

SEBASTIAN

The air in the Monte Carlo underground was thick with the scent of overpriced cigars, vintage scotch, and the metallic tang of desperation. It was a smell I'd inhaled since I was old enough to hold a Beretta. From my vantage point on the mezzanine, the world below looked like an elaborate chessboard, and I was the only player who knew the rules had been rigged from the start.

"Everything is in place, Boss," Cassius said, his voice a low rumble behind my shoulder. He was a shadow in a bespoke suit, his eyes never stopping, scanning the exits, the dealers, the high-rollers. "The shipment is moving through the docks. The Russians are quiet. For now."

"Quiet is just another word for planning, Cassius," I replied, not turning around. I adjusted the cufflink on my left wrist-solid platinum, heavy like the weight of the empire I'd inherited and expanded with blood. "Keep them quiet permanently by the end of the week."

I didn't care about the money. I had more than most small nations. I cared about the control. My life was a series of calculated moves designed to eliminate variables. People were variables. Emotions were vulnerabilities. I had purged mine years ago, leaving nothing but a cold, efficient machine that wore a face the tabloids called 'breathtaking.' I knew what I was-a monster in a Tom Ford suit.

I took a sip of the Macallan 1926, the liquid burning a familiar path down my throat. My gaze swept over the baccarat table, and then, the world stopped.

The glass froze against my lips.

Down on the floor, tucked away near the far pillar, was a woman. She was petite, her frame almost swallowed by the chaos around her, but she stood with a spine made of steel. Her hair-long, dark, and shimmering like silk under the crystal chandeliers-fell down her back in waves I suddenly wanted to wrap around my fist.

My heart, a dormant organ I thought had turned to stone a decade ago, gave a violent, painful thud.

It was her.

The girl from the rainy night in London. The one who had looked at me not with fear, but with a strange, fleeting pity before she disappeared into the fog. I had spent years telling myself she was a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and a fresh bullet wound. But there she was. Real. Living. Breathing.

"Who is she?" I rasped, my voice sounding like gravel.

Cassius stepped forward, squinting. "The girl in the emerald dress? I'll find out."

"Don't just find out," I said, my grip tightening until the crystal glass began to groan under the pressure. I didn't look away. I couldn't. She was laughing at something her friend-a blonde with a sharp, guarded face-was saying. She looked happy. Untouched by the filth of my world.

I felt a dark, possessive hunger claw at my gut. It was a sick, twisted desire to rip that happiness