Chapter 2 - The Debt of Blood
The penthouse on the sixty-fifth floor was a stark contrast to the chaotic warmth of my family’s tiny Queens apartment. It was a fortress of glass, black granite, and brushed steel, floating above the glittering Manhattan skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Central Park, but the vast space felt cold, stripped of human touch.
Alexander removed his tuxedo jacket, tossing it onto a leather sofa. He poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass, then paused, looking at me.
"Water? Tea?" he asked.
"Water is fine, Mr. Ashford."
"Alexander," he corrected quietly, pouring cold water from a silver pitcher into a tumbler and handing it to me. "After tonight, you do not call me Mr. Ashford."
I took the glass, my fingers still humming with the residue of tension. "My father never told us who he saved that night. He stumbled through the door at 2:00 a.m. covered in blood. He told my mother it was a robbery gone wrong at the bodega. Two days later, an infection set in... and he was gone."
A muscle jumped in Alexander’s sharp jaw. He stared out the glass, into the night.
"It wasn’t a robbery," Alexander said, his voice stripped of the cold authority he showed the ballroom. "It was an ambush. Six years ago, my uncle staged a coup to take over the Ashford syndicate. He hired four professional hitmen to corner me at the Astoria station. They caught me unarmed. They shot twice, hitting my shoulder and thigh."
He turned around, his dark eyes burning into mine.
"I was on the pavement, bleeding out. The gunman had his pistol leveled at my forehead. Then, out of the rain, a man carrying a toolbag appeared. He didn't shout. He didn't hesitate. In three seconds, two armed men were disarmed and unconscious on the concrete. But the third man fired wildly into the dark."
My chest tightened. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. "He was shot."
"He took two rounds to the abdomen and one to the flank," Alexander said quietly. "He looked at me, pulled me to my feet, and told me, *'Run, boy. Live your life.'* By the time my reinforcements arrived two minutes later, he had vanished into the subway tunnels. I spent six months in a private ICU. When I recovered, I tore this city apart looking for him. But he used no hospital records. He died quietly, didn't he?"
"He didn't have insurance," I choked out, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "We couldn't afford an emergency room. He treated himself with herbal salves and needlework, the way his father taught him in the province. He died in his own bed holding my hand."
Alexander set his glass down on the marble bar with a sharp click. "And you have been carrying his burden ever since."
"I work to keep a roof over my mother’s head and medicine in my brother’s lungs," I said, setting my water glass down. "I didn't tell you this for pity, Alexander. I don't want a handout. My father believed that saving a life is its own reward. He made me promise never to use the Current for money or revenge."
"It wouldn't be a handout," Alexander said, stepping closer. He was tall, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over me, but he moved with deliberate slowness, ensuring I never felt cornered. "It is an overdue balance. Your father gave me my life. In the world I live in, blood can only be repaid with blood, or with absolute protection."
Before I could reply, the heavy oak doors of the penthouse burst open.
Marcus rushed in, his usually stoic face tight with alarm. "Boss. We have a problem."
Alexander didn't break eye contact with me, but his posture shifted instantly into that of a predator ready to strike. "Speak, Marcus."
"Victor Lane just pulled his entire fleet from our southern docks. And worse—his enforcers were spotted crossing the Queensboro Bridge thirty minutes ago. They aren't going after our warehouses, Alexander."
Marcus glanced at me with grim eyes.
"They pulled the personnel files from the hotel HR database before we wiped them. They have Sophia’s home address."
The blood drained from my face. My breath caught in my throat.
May you like
"Mateo," I whispered, panic clawing at my chest. "My mother."
***
