Sleep had become unfamiliar to Alexi Shard. Since witnessing Maxx DeSilva transform from his human form into an ancient, lupine entity, restless half-dreams and abrupt awakenings had troubled her nights. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw images of sinew reshaping, light warping, and raw power taking shape.

  Even during daylight hours, she found herself drifting—losing focus mid-conversation, revisiting the same reports, and hearing distant echoes of his growl in the silence of her apartment. The world she believed she knew had expanded, deepened, and shifted, with the weight of that realization pressing down on every breath she took.

  Alexi was about to leave her apartment, slipping into her blazer with keys in hand, when her phone vibrated. She checked the screen, expecting a call from Lang or maybe her captain.

  PRIVATE CALLER.

  She nearly let it ring out but hesitated, then answered in a brisk tone, “Shard.”

  “Detective,” the voice drifted through the line like dark velvet. Alexi froze.

  “Mr. DeSilva?”

  “Maxx,” he corrected, as if they were old friends rather than uneasy allies caught between two worlds.

  “How—how did you get this number?” she asked, pausing. She could almost hear him raise an eyebrow.

  “A mutual acquaintance,” he said. “And a favor owed.”

  “That’s not—” she paused and rubbed her forehead. “Why are you calling Mr. DeSilva?”

  “I’d like to speak with you,” Maxx said. “Today, if possible. I have information regarding the subway killings.”

  She blinked, annoyed and suddenly fully awake; her body reacting to the weight of the words. “You do?”

  “Yes.” After a brief pause, “More of that truth you seem to crave.”

  “What… right now?”

  “Yes,” he said, “since I’d rather not talk about this over the phone.”

  Her pulse quickened as she sensed something in his calm, serious tone — this was no ordinary update. Nothing Maxx ever did was ordinary. “Where?” she asked.

  “My penthouse,” he said, then provided an address she only knew by reputation—located on the top floor, highly secure, and home to a man who operated at the crossroads of influence and secrecy.

  “I would appreciate your discretion and hope to see you soon.”

  She paused.

  “Detective,” Maxx said, voice softening, “you asked for answers, and I’ve found some.”

  Before she could argue, the call ended with a soft click. She stared at her screen. Then exhaled sharply. “Fine,” she muttered. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  ——————————————————————————————————————————————————————

  The city felt different—sharper, edgier, more restless. Traffic lights blurred across her windshield as she navigated the busy streets. Every block she passed seemed to hum with tension, as if New York itself sensed something stirring beneath the surface.

  Alexi kept replaying the sound of his voice—information on the subway killings. After nearly a week of dead ends, impossible contradictions, and supernatural fingerprints on a mortal crime, could this be the breakthrough she needed? Or was it a trap?

  She tightened her grip on the wheel.

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  When she finally reached the building, she exhaled slowly. It was one of those Manhattan towers that understated its wealth—whispering rather than shouting. Featuring classic stonework, tall bronze doors, and security that looked more like retired special forces than typical doormen.

  Alexi checked in with the concierge, showing her badge for quick access. They led her into a private elevator. As the doors closed, her reflection stared back—neatly styled hair, a tense expression, and a heartbeat that pounded more than she would admit. The elevator ascended silently, as if the building itself had been designed to keep secrets.

  When the doors opened, piano music filled the air. Notes drifted through the long hall like smoke, weaving between shadows and silver-lit corners.

  She stepped into a spacious area with floor-to-ceiling glass walls, illuminated by soft gold light and accented by dark stone details, with a skyline stretching below like a jeweled map. Luxurious. More of a fortress than a penthouse, more of a sanctuary than a home.

  Alexi followed the melody almost automatically. Her footsteps became quieter as the music grew clearer, warmer, and fuller—someone playing with the grace of a concert pianist, but with something more profound.

  Maxx DeSilva sat at a black Steinway grand piano, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his fingers moving across the keys with slow, deliberate mastery. He played effortlessly without sheet music, as if the instrument were an extension of himself. The melody shifted as she approached—subtle, as though acknowledging her presence.

  He looked up as she entered. “Detective.” He stood from the piano bench, moving as if he were much younger. He wore a charcoal vest, unbuttoned at the collar, and dark slacks, appearing formal but effortless. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  Alexi stood frozen, one hand gripping her bag’s strap. The room, the man, the music—they all failed to meet the hardened expectations she had built up during the drive.

  “I… wasn’t expecting this,” she said.

  Maxx offered a polite smile. “Few people ever do.”

  Alexi swallowed. “I’m here as you requested…not that I had much of a choice.”

  “You always have a choice,” Maxx replied. “That’s why you’re here.”

  Her pulse quickened. His words always seemed carefully chosen. She shifted into professionalism. “You said you had information?”

  “I do.” He gestured toward a wide archway leading deeper into the penthouse. “But there’s someone you should meet first…before we talk.”

  They moved together along a short corridor. Alexi’s heightened senses and alert instincts still wrestled with reconciling his humanity and the hidden truth beneath his calm exterior.

  As they rounded a corner, two figures approached from the opposite direction.

  The first was a woman of breathtaking elegance and ageless beauty. Her presence hit Alexi like cool perfume and ancient marble. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders in polished waves, eyes sharp and luminous. She wore a deep burgundy blouse with sleeves that shimmered when the light touched them. Her movements carried an old-world elegance—deliberate, smooth, and dangerously composed.

  Beside her walked a girl in her late teens. Youthful and stunning, she possessed a sharper beauty that seemed to blend Maxx’s commanding presence with the woman’s otherworldly poise. Her hair shimmered like black silk, and her eyes, a striking pale blue-green, appeared almost radiant. She exuded an aura that made Alexi’s intuitive senses tingle.

  Sofia spoke first. “You must be Detective Shard.”

  Alexi nodded. “And you’re Mrs. DeSilva?”

  A faint smile flickered on the woman’s lips—polite, but with sharp edges. “Sofia is fine.”

  The young girl moved forward, curiosity shining in her eyes. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “That concerns me,” Alexi replied dryly.

  She smiled. “It shouldn’t.”

  Maxx cleared his throat. “Detective, this is my wife, Sofia. And my daughter, Seraphine.”

  Alexi had known diplomats and killers, but this moment made her skin crawl with the sensation of being caught between two realms she shouldn’t fully understand. Being near them was like standing between two tuning forks, each resonating at a different frequency. She felt it—whatever ‘it’ was—in her bones.

  Sofia’s gaze drifted over her, as if assessing not just the woman but the aura surrounding her. “You’re… unusual,” she murmured.

  “Story of my life,” Alexi replied with a shrug.

  Maxx placed a gentle hand on his wife’s arm. “We won’t keep her. She and I have something important to discuss.”

  Sofia nodded once and moved aside. Seraphine offered Alexi a quiet smile before following her mother down the hall.

  Maxx turned back to the detective. “This way,” he said.

  Maxx led Alexi to a heavy white door that led into a quiet bedroom filled with soft lamplight. The room was warm and peaceful, but a subtle crackle of electricity hinted at underlying energy. A gentle breeze from a cracked window stirred the edges of the sheets.

  Alexi stopped short.

  A young woman lay in the bed. Long, dark hair spread like ink across the pillow. Her skin was pale, but beneath it lay strength. Bandages wrapped around her midsection, a faint sheen of fever on her brow. She looked fragile and lethal all at once.

  Alexi’s voice dropped. “Who is she?”

  Maxx’s voice stayed soft and haunted, “Her name is Aiyana Sachi Lin.” Then he looked straight at Alexi. “She is my daughter. My Blood. And she bears a burden she never asked to carry.”

  Maxx stood by the bed, watching the girl with a steady, solemn gaze. An air of centuries’ weight seemed to settle over him. “She’s the one you’ve been searching for,” he said. “She is the subway killer.”