The room smelled faintly of old leather and burned coffee—Davin’s preferred atmosphere for intimidation. Maya knew that the moment she stepped inside, something would be taken from her. Not money. Not loyalty.

Something older.

Something buried.

Davin stood by the window, his back to her, city lights fracturing across the glass like a broken constellation. He didn’t turn when the door closed. He never did. Power, to him, was letting silence do the cutting first.

“You’re late,” he said calmly.

“I wasn’t invited,” Maya replied. Her voice didn’t shake. She had trained herself well. Fear was a currency Davin spent lavishly on others—but she refused to enrich him.

He smiled...