Chapter 1 - THE MAN IN THE BLACK CAR
Fifty-nine. Sixty.
Her palms were numb. The air entering her lungs felt like frozen needles, but she didn't stop.
"Come on," she whispered, her breath blooming in white clouds against the dark alley asphalt. "Come on, don't do this. Stay here."
A gasp tore through the old woman’s throat—a wet, rattling sound that shook her frail frame. Her chest hitched once, twice, and then her pulse fluttered beneath the girl's cold fingers. It was weak, erratic, but it was there.
"She's breathing!" the neighbor panted, sprinting back down the alley carrying the yellow AED box from the gas station. "I called them! The ambulance is coming!"
Before the neighbor could open the yellow box, a low, guttural roar echoed off the brick walls of the narrow street.
Three black SUVs turned the corner at high speed, tires screeching against the damp pavement. They swung around into a tactical formation, blocking both ends of the alley with terrifying precision.
The neighbor gasped, dropping the AED, and backed away with his hands raised.
Heavy car doors slammed in unison. A dozen men in dark coats stepped into the alley, their hands tucked inside their jackets, eyes scanning every window and rooftop. The air instantly turned thick with danger.
Then, the rear door of the center sedan opened.
A man stepped out. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a dark charcoal trench coat over a tailored suit, his silver hair slicked back. His face was carved from granite, devoid of emotion, except for his eyes—dark, icy, and lethal.
This was Victor Vance. In this city, politicians didn't make decisions without his tacit approval, and the police didn't enter certain zip codes without calling his office first.
"Boss," one of his men whispered, sweeping a flashlight across the ground. "Over here."
Victor moved with a cold, terrifying calm until his eyes fell on the gray-haired woman lying on the ground. For a fraction of a second, the lethal mob boss vanished, replaced by a son staring at his mother.
"Elena," Victor breathed, dropping to his knees beside the girl.
He didn't care about the dirt on his five-thousand-dollar suit. He reached out with trembling, leather-gloved hands, touching his mother’s pale cheek.
"She... she was hit," the girl rasped, her voice completely ruined from screaming and the chemical powder from the fire extinguisher. She was shivering violently, her knees bleeding through her torn jeans. "Her heart stopped. I... I did CPR. Her pulse is back, but she needs a doctor now."
Victor’s dark eyes shifted from his mother to the girl.
He saw a child—no older than nineteen—clad in a thin, threadbare oversized hoodie, soaked in sweat and rain, her fingers white from frostbite, her face smudged with soot and white chemical residue.
"Who are you?" Victor asked, his voice a low rumble.
Before she could answer, two private ambulances—not city vehicles, but fully equipped mobile ICU units bearing the Vance crest—screeched to a halt behind the SUVs. Paramedics in dark blue uniforms rushed out with a gurney, equipment bags in hand.
"Mr. Vance, we have her," the lead medic said quickly, hooking up a portable monitor. "Pulse is weak but rhythm is sinus! The immediate CPR saved her brain function!"
"Get her to the private wing at Saint Jude’s," Victor ordered, standing up.
As the medics lifted Elena Vance onto the gurney, Victor turned back to the girl. She was still sitting on the icy pavement, her arms shaking so badly she couldn't push herself up.
"You saved my mother," Victor said, looking down at her.
"I... I just didn't want her to die," the girl muttered, her vision blurring at the edges. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, freezing cold, and the sudden realization that she was surrounded by armed men.
She reached for her pocket, checking for her four dollars and fifteen cents. Her fingers found the crumpled bills and coins.
Victor noticed the gesture. He noticed everything.
"What is your name?" Victor asked.
"Maya," she whispered.
Victor looked at one of his chief lieutenants, a broad-shouldered man named Marcus who stood like an iron wall beside him.
"Bring her," Victor said quietly. "She doesn't stay in this alley another second."
"Wait—no," Maya gasped, trying to crawl backward away from Marcus. "I have my stuff... my car—"
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"Marcus, carry her," Victor commanded softly, turning toward his car. "She’s freezing to death."
Before Maya could protest further, darkness swallowed her completely, and she collapsed against the cold asphalt.
