Chapter 1 - The Shadow on the Glass
The phone pressed against Jasmine’s ear felt as cold as ice, even though the call had already ended. The low, gravelly timbre of Jackson Ford's voice echoed in her mind, a stark contrast to the furious rhythmic drumming of the storm outside.
“You should lock your windows tonight.”
Jasmine froze, her breath catching in her throat as her gaze slowly, reluctantly drifted toward the fire escape outside her third-floor apartment window. The glass was blurred by sheets of torrential water, but through the distortion, she could clearly see the outline of a towering, broad-shouldered figure standing motionless in the dark.
Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. She dropped the cream-colored envelope, letting the crisp stack of hundred-dollar bills scatter across her worn rug. Shaking, she took a step backward, her hand reaching blindly behind her for the heavy cast-iron skillet left on her small kitchenette counter.
The silhouette didn't move to break the glass. Instead, the figure raised a hand, casually tapping a single, heavy ring against the windowpane. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Who's there?" Jasmine called out, her voice cracking, swallowed instantly by a sudden boom of thunder that shook the apartment walls.
The figure stepped closer to the glass, allowing the flickering neon light from the pawnshop across the street to illuminate his face. It wasn't Jackson. It was a man with a jagged scar splitting his left eyebrow, his face entirely devoid of emotion. He wore a dark, military-grade raincoat and held a heavy industrial lock-pin in his hand. He pointed down at the window latch, then pointed down the street, indicating he was there under orders.
Realization hit Jasmine like a physical blow. He wasn't there to break in. He was a sentry. Jackson hadn't just warned her to lock her windows; he had placed an armed guard on her fire escape to ensure she did.
Trembling, Jasmine approached the window, slid the old wooden frame down with a heavy thud, and flipped the rusted iron lock into place. The scarred man gave a single, curt nod, turned around, and vanished into the shadows of the rain-slicked alleyway.
May you like
Jasmine collapsed against the wall, sliding down until her knees hit the floor. She looked at the gold business card resting among the scattered thousands on the floor.
Jackson Ford wasn't a man who offered protection out of courtesy. He was a king who commanded territory, and without her consent, Jasmine had just been pulled entirely into his domain.
