The rain fell in perfect rhythm against the glass panels of the Blackthorn Tower—King's Claw's newly "legitimate" headquarters, masked under the empire of Blackthorn Global Holdings. Thirty-seven floors of sleek, obsidian glass and cold steel, nestled in the heart of Westdentia's financial district like a serpent in silk. On the surface, it was an investment firm. Real estate, global logistics, trade. On paper, it glittered. But in its veins? Pure blood and crime.
The press called it a miracle of post-war economy rebuilding.
The truth? It was an empire of corpses with a penthouse view.
Reginald Smith stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, hands tucked neatly behind his back, suit immaculate—ash-blond hair speckled with silver now, but not from weakness. No, time had sharpened him. Hardened him. Like a blade that had learned to enjoy the whetstone.
Behind him, voices buzzed from the long obsidian conference table.
"Vitali says the Naples port is secured," said Rocco Navarro, the new liaison from the European branch. Built like a bull in a tailored suit, his voice was low, thick with Sicilian vowels. "Customs look the other way, but he wants a bigger cut. Says the Latvians are sniffing around."
Reginald didn't turn. "Then make the Latvians disappear."
Rocco chuckled darkly. "Already on it."
It had been four years since the Gala. Four years since the first polished invitation slid into the elite society of Westdentia, inviting billionaires and politicians to sip champagne while brushing shoulders with devils in tuxedos.
And every year since, Michelle Smith had catered the event.
Flawlessly.
Caviar, gold-dusted canapés, and blood-soaked contracts written in invisible ink. She didn't ask questions. She never had. Her loyalty was a quiet, exquisite blade—a perfect match for her husband's empire.
From caterer to confidante, Michelle had carved a role for herself. She ran the social front of Blackthorn like a queen with a gilded fork. No one ever suspected the soft-spoken woman serving crostinis had once stitched bullet wounds closed with her own hands.
Reginald finally turned, eyes cold as glass.
"Update me on Southeast Asia."
Elira Vance, the new head of operations in that region, stood up. Lean, calculating, with violet eyes like oil spills and scars she didn't bother to hide.
"We've absorbed the Jade Gulls and the Nine Wires. Bangkok's quiet. Manila's ours. The only holdout is Kuala Lumpur. A syndicate called Red Coral—they're trying to unionize."
"Unionize?" Reginald arched a brow.
Elira smirked. "Cute, isn't it?"
A low ripple of laughter moved through the room.
This wasn't just a gang anymore. It was a machine. With legal fronts, shell companies, smuggler fleets, and assassins with clean passports.
Dominic Smith's legacy had become something else entirely under his son.
But Reginald hadn't done it alone.
At the far end of the room sat Vivienne Hale-Smith—his late brother Alan Smith's widow. She wore a pinstriped charcoal dress and diamond cuffs, black lipstick framing a mouth that never smiled.A socialite in disguise. Her son, Marcus Smith, Reginald's nephew, stood beside her. Twenty-two, all arrogance and ambition, with his father's ruthlessness and his mother's venom.
"Marcus will take over the New York expansion," Vivienne said smoothly. "The docks, the clubs, the offshore accounts. He's ready."
Reginald studied the boy—no, the man—with a hawk's stare.
"You have one chance," he said. "Don't make me clean up after you."
Marcus didn't flinch. "If I fail, I won't need cleaning up."
The room fell into silence. Reginald nodded once. Approval, or warning, it was hard to tell.
The last four years had done more than expand the Claw's reach. It had bred a new generation of wolves—educated, strategic, merciless. They didn't shoot from rooftops anymore; they closed million-dollar contracts in skyscrapers, walked red carpets, and dined with senators.
But the brutality hadn't gone anywhere. It had just been dressed better.
Just last month, the body of a Japanese arms dealer was found in a luxury suite at the Lotus Pearl Hotel. No signs of struggle. Just a silver ring in his mouth—the Claw's calling card. Silent. Surgical. Untraceable.
"We have one more order of business," Reginald said, motioning to Rocco.
Rocco nodded and opened a sleek case, revealing a stack of black files. One for each country flagged for new branch openings: Morocco, Ukraine, Dubai, Argentina.
Each file had a list of targets. Each name had a red stamp beside it—ELIMINATE.
Vivienne leafed through the Argentina file with a predator's calm.
"They've gotten sloppy," she murmured. "Good."
Reginald walked slowly around the table, his presence a gravity the room couldn't escape.
"You've done well," he said. "But don't get comfortable. We're not gods. We're shadows. Kings die when they step into the light."
He reached the head of the table again.
"We move quiet. We move fast. And we leave no trace."
The door creaked open just then, and
Maeve, still clad in her usual matte-black trench and boots, entered with a flicker of irritation on her face.
"There's been a breach," she said flatly. "Someone broke into the lower archives. Security feed was wiped. No signatures."
A beat of silence.
"Internal or external?" Reginald asked.
Maeve's lips thinned. "Too clean for amateurs. Too familiar for strangers."
A chill ran through the room like frost on glass.
Rocco leaned forward. "Someone who knew where to look?"
Maeve nodded once.
Reginald didn't react—except for the quiet clench of his jaw.
"Shut it down," he said. "No one in. No one out."
Elira reached for her phone. "Want me to prep an extraction team?"
"No," Reginald said. "We don't chase shadows."
He looked back out the window, where the rain now fell in violent streaks across the glass.
"They come to us."
A beat passed.
Then another.
And somewhere, deep in the belly of Blackthorn Tower, a tiny red light blinked to life on an unmarked console—recording.