Maxx descended the back staircase and pushed open the steel door leading to the estate’s underground garage. The expansive space beneath the manor featured clean lines, polished concrete floors, and soft industrial lighting that reflected off several spotless vehicles. The air carried a faint scent of motor oil, leather, and cold metal.

  In the distant corner, a radio hummed. A wrench clinked. From somewhere in the garage, a female voice, her tone warm and husky, broke the silence. “You’re up early.”

  He scanned the area, his senses sharpening as he tried to pinpoint the woman’s exact location. “Good morning, Charlie,” he called out.

  Wiping her hands on a microfiber cloth, Charlene Maddox straightened up from where she’d been working under the open hood of an SUV. She pushed her goggles up onto her forehead and gave Maxx an easy smile.

  Even in grease-stained coveralls, the woman radiated a rugged beauty—prominent cheekbones, warm yet steely dark eyes, and long black hair tied back in a practical braid. Her face carried a timeless charm, blending elegance with toughness and confidence. In her late forties, but with a physique that suggested she could drag an engine block across uneven ground if needed, Charlene was strength wrapped in grace, and Maxx trusted her more than almost anyone.

  “What can I do for you, boss?” she asked, swinging the SUV’s hood closed with a satisfying thud.

  “I’m heading into the city, and I need something fast.”

  Charlene’s smile grew wider. “Funny you mention that.” She jerked her thumb toward the far end of the garage.

  The Jaguar F-Type 575 sat there like a sleeping panther—black paint gleaming under the overhead lights, all smooth curves and coiled danger. Even parked, the car radiated anticipation — power waiting for permission.

  “I finished her tune-up at four this morning,” Charlene said, pride evident in her voice. “Fresh fuel, fluids checked, tires rotated, filters replaced, and I tuned her growl to perfection. She’s ready to run.”

  Maxx felt a brief surge of exhilaration. “Excellent.”

  She tossed the keys in a smooth arc. “Don’t make her wait too long, sir. She hates sitting around.”

  He caught them easily. “You spoil her.”

  “I spoil all my girls,” Charlie shot back. “But that one?” She winked. “She’s your favorite. And she knows it.”

  Maxx approached the Jaguar, the soft click of his shoes echoing on the concrete. He pressed the key fob, the doors unlocking with a quiet electronic purr. As he slid into the leather driver’s seat, his hands came to rest on the wheel, and his eyes examined the interior.

  The Jaguar’s dashboard was a sleek, crafted display of luxury and precision. Every stitch and surface seemed designed with one goal—to make the driver feel as if the machine wasn’t just a car, but an extension of instinct and will. He slipped on a pair of black driving gloves and ran his hand over the leather-encased steering wheel before pressing the start button. The Jag roared to life, its engine a deep rumble that vibrated through the garage’s vast expanse.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  With arms crossed, Charlene relaxed against her workbench, a warm smile gracing her lips. “Drive safe,” she said.

  “Only if I don’t want to have a good time,” he responded, giving a small, half-hearted salute.

  The garage doors opened, and Maxx eased the Jaguar onto the long, serpentine driveway of the Connecticut estate, its polished surface like an obsidian spear, all sharp angles and predatory intent. Dawn light slid across its sculpted hood, catching the burnished chrome accents and the narrow, feline headlights that gave the car its name.

  The quad exhausts growled with a deep, throaty resonance — more creature than machine — as Maxx eased onto the private drive that cut through the estate’s forested perimeter. The car’s 575 horsepower responded instantly, its supercharged V8 thrumming beneath him like a beast straining at the leash.

  Behind him, the mansion disappeared into mist and morning frost as he made his way toward the open road and the city waiting beyond the trees. Maxx drove with the smooth confidence of someone who understood speed at its core. He tapped the button on the steering wheel.

  “Call Barbara.”

  The line rang once.

  “DeSilva offices, Barbara speaking,” a crisp, composed voice answered.

  “It’s me, Barbara. Good Morning.” He heard the typing stop and the faint creak of her chair.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Just checking in. Anything to report from last night?”

  Barbara paused. “Yes, sir. Two things. First, they doubled security at the Armonk HQ. Armand supervised the adjustments himself.”

  “Good. Any external movements?”

  “A few anomalies, but nothing breaching the perimeter. The Wardens you activated the previous evening seem to have discouraged curiosity.

  Maxx allowed himself a short exhale. “And at the penthouse?”

  “Quiet. Almost too quiet. But all systems are locked and secured.

  He shifted lanes, the Jag humming in approval.

  “Shall I expect you today, sir?” she inquired.

  “Later, perhaps, assuming everything goes as planned.”

  Another brief pause. Barbara rarely questioned him, but she was always thinking ahead. “You’re going into New York, then?”

  “Yes. I don’t expect to be there long, though.” He checked the time on the dashboard console. “Plan on two of our associates arriving at headquarters sometime within the next few hours. They’ll be coming in by helicopter.”

  “Should I have anything prepared for you here?”

  “Yes. Ensure ‘the room’ is ready. This is business, but of a sensitive nature.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Maxx could picture her nodding behind those thin gunmetal glasses, assessing the implications. She was loyal, but more importantly, she was perceptive. Sometimes too perceptive.

  “I’ll update you later.”

  “Of course.” A gentle click, and the line went dead.

  Maxx let silence fill the car. He sped up a little—the engine answered with a deep, contented growl as the Jag tore across the asphalt. The forest thinned. The highways widened. The scent of steel, concrete, and human noise grew heavier in the air. His thoughts sharpened with each mile.

  His next move would ripple through the city’s supernatural network—impacting vampire clans, werewolf packs, and both councils. If successful, this could ease the pressure, reduce suspicion, and steer the subway killings away from the DeSilva family and toward safer, more manageable stories.

  If his plan worked.

  He made two more brief calls. His strategy depended on the outcome of this meeting. If it failed, he had several options, but believed its result would be successful.

  Maxx’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He pressed the accelerator harder, and the Jaguar surged forward. Today would initiate irreversible changes, much like a typhoon hurtling towards the coast.

  And Maxx DeSilva, a lone wolf from an old and fractured lineage, intended to face this storm head-on.