Fated Mate, Mafia Target

"Please, Rowan. Not the kit."

The plea was out of my mouth before I could choke it back. Mistake number one. In the Iron Moon Syndicate, a plea wasn't a request; it was an appetizer.

Rowan Hastings didn’t just trip me; he lunged, his heavy boot hooking my ankle with calculated precision. I hit the pavement hard. The impact vibrated through my teeth, and the sharp scent of wet asphalt filled my lungs.

My medical kit—the one my mother had used until the day the Syndicate took her—skidded across the stones. The latch broke. Bandages, vials of wolfsbane suppressant, and glass syringes scattered into the black sludge of a nearby puddle.

"Look at that," Rowan sneered, his voice a jagged edge of delight. "The healer’s brat is already on her knees. Suits you, Favor. It’s the only position your bloodline is good for."

Laughter erupted from the circle of elite shifters. It was a rhythmic, cruel sound, like the snapping of dry bone. I didn’t look up. I knew these faces—heirs to cartels, daughters of enforcers, the predators of the Iron Moon. To them, I was a debt in a dress.

I crawled toward a vial of liquid silver nitrate before a designer heel crushed it. Glass crunched. A girl in a silk blazer smirked down at me, her eyes flashing a predatory yellow.

"Don't touch that, Omega," she hissed. "You’ll get your filth on the sidewalk."

My palms burned, scraped raw by the grit, but I forced my fingers into a fist. Deep beneath my thin cotton shirt, the silver locket pressed against my sternum—a cold, hard reminder of why I was here. Pay the blood-debt. Survive the year. Don't let them see you bleed. In this world, an Omega’s tears were just lubricant for a True Blood’s cruelty.

The air suddenly turned heavy. The laughter didn't just fade; it died.

The low, guttural thrum of a high-performance engine cut through the silence. A black, armored SUV pulled into the courtyard, the tires screaming against the stone. The door opened, and the atmosphere shifted from cruel to lethal.

Cain Nightfang stepped out.

He wasn't just a student; he was the Syndicate’s crown prince. He wore a charcoal suit that looked like armor, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light. His face was a masterpiece of violence—sharp jaw, straight nose, and eyes the color of an obsidian blade.

He didn't walk; he stalked. The crowd parted like a sea of cowards.

He stopped inches from my head. I could see the polish on his Italian leather boots, untouched by the mud. He looked down, his lip curling in a way that made my skin crawl.

"Four-eyes," he said. The nickname was a slur, a reminder of the glasses I wore to hide my dilated pupils during shifts. "You’re blocking the path, you pitiful puppy."

"I'm sorry, My Lord," I whispered, the words tasting like copper. I reached for my broken kit, my fingers trembling.

"You're