Due at Midnight

The elevator sighed open into a cathedral of glass and midnight. City lights bled through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the penthouse in shades of gold and shadow. You stepped out, duffel bag heavy on your shoulder, the gun's cold weight a familiar promise against your hip.

Marcus Blackwood stood at the wet bar, pouring amber liquid into two crystal glasses. He didn't turn at your arrival.

"Eleven o'clock sharp," he said, voice smooth as the whiskey he was pouring. "Your father was always late. I wondered if you'd inherited the habit."

"I'm not my father." You set the duffel down, letting it thud against the marble floor.

He turned then, and his eyes—dark, calculating, impossibly warm—swept over you with the precision of a scalpel. He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes.

"No," he agreed, crossing the room to hand you a glass. His fingers brushed yours, deliberate, electric. "You're the one who burned down the Vancourt estate and made it look like an accident."

Your blood went cold. That name hadn't surfaced in seven years.

"Relax." He raised his glass, a toast to some private victory. "I'm not here to expose you. I'm here to own you."

The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight, and you realized you'd already lost the first move.