Chapter 1 — Ambush at the Port

Verity

The air at the Industrial Port was thick with salt, oil, and the faint tang of impending violence. Verity Callen crouched low behind a stack of rust-streaked shipping containers, her piercing grey eyes scanning the shifting shadows under the flickering floodlights. The acrid smell of pollution mixed with the distant clang of machinery, a sharp reminder of the port’s cartel-controlled operations. Somewhere nearby, dockworkers barked orders over the thunder of moving cargo, their voices blending with the hum of engines and the intermittent hiss of the ocean. The chaotic noise masked her team’s movements, but Verity remained focused, her breathing steady and controlled.

Her chain knife rested in her hands, the black leather grip molded perfectly to her palm. The faint weight of the titanium chain trailing from its base was both familiar and comforting. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was hers, a symbol of her precision and adaptability, and of the life she had never chosen but mastered. For a brief moment, she felt the phantom weight of its sheath at her hip and the hollow echo of what it signified: control, loyalty, and the chains she had yet to break.

“Position secured,” Lyle’s voice whispered through the tiny comm link tucked in her ear. Her second-in-command sounded calm, but Verity picked up the subtle edge beneath his words. “Twelve guards, heavy ordnance. Shipment’s confirmed. ETA on your signal.”

Twelve. Too many. Verity pressed her lips into a thin line, her instincts bristling like an animal sensing a trap. The faint coppery taste of apprehension lingered at the back of her throat, but she shoved it aside. Her movements were deliberate and measured as she leaned slightly to peer around the edge of the container. Across the dock, two De Donté guards lounged beside a truck, rifles slung over their shoulders. Their body language was sloppy, but it reeked of confidence—the kind that came from knowing backup was close.

“Hold,” Verity ordered, her clipped tone cutting through the comm. “No movement until my mark.”

She didn’t believe in luck. She believed in timing, in patterns, in the inevitability of human error. All she needed was a moment of carelessness, a crack in the armor. With the floodlights stuttering and casting erratic shadows across the dock, the guards’ forms merged with the darkness. She adjusted her position, her boots silent against the damp concrete as she catalogued every detail of the scene: the layout of the containers, the rhythm of the guards’ pacing, the faint vibrations beneath her feet as machinery rumbled nearby.

“Boss,” Lyle’s voice cut in again, slipping into the edge of her focus. “This shipment’s not worth it if there’s backup. We could be walking into something we’re not ready for.”

Verity didn’t respond immediately. To move without clarity was to invite failure. Her mind worked through the possibilities, each one sharpening and narrowing until all that remained was certainty. Still, unease crept beneath her skin, a quiet whisper she couldn’t quite silence. Why twelve guards? Why here, why tonight? The shipment wasn’t supposed to be critical—just another step in the Callen-De Donté tug-of-war over smuggling routes. A distraction? A misstep? The floodlights flickered again, casting sharp, jagged beams over the dock.

“Stay sharp,” she murmured, more to herself than her team.

The shadows shifted unnaturally. Not wind. Movement. Several figures slipped through the periphery, visible only in the brief flashes of light. Verity’s eyes narrowed, her breath hitching for just an instant before her control returned.

“Axel,” she muttered under her breath. The name coiled in her chest like a snake, cold and sharp. Hector De Donté’s son. His games were infamous—cat-and-mouse theatrics designed to rattle even the most disciplined opponents. But Verity loathed him for more than his reputation. She hated the subtle hesitations she’d noticed in his movements, the flickers of doubt that betrayed his weakness. Weakness was a liability, one she couldn’t afford to tolerate.

Still, doubt itched at the edges of her resolve. Why would Axel be here? What did Hector hope to gain by sending his son into the field? The shipment wasn’t worth this much firepower.

Her hand rose, slicing the air in a silent signal. Her team moved as one, emerging from the shadows with practiced efficiency. The first guard didn’t have time to scream. Verity’s chain knife unfurled in an arc of silver and black, the blade sinking into his throat with surgical precision. A flick of her wrist sent the chain retracting, the faint metallic whisper nearly lost in the chaos as his body crumpled to the ground. Blood darkened the concrete beneath him, glistening like oil under the fractured light.

The second guard turned, wide-eyed and fumbling for his rifle, but Verity was faster. Her blade slashed through the tendons in his wrist before burying itself in his chest. She felt the resistance of bone as she twisted the knife free, her movements fluid and mechanical. Efficiency over brutality, always.

Gunshots shattered the air. Her team engaged the remaining guards, the clash of bodies and weapons a violent symphony of precision and chaos. Shipping containers provided cover as blood pooled and the metallic scent of death mingled with the acrid stench of the port.

“Perimeter clear!” Lyle’s voice rang out, triumphant.

“Too easy,” Verity muttered, her grey eyes scanning the scene. The air was too still, too heavy. This wasn’t victory. It was bait. Her instincts screamed at her, every muscle tensing as she stepped toward the fallen guards.

A sound—low, guttural—rose above the din. The shadows surged.

“Fall back!” Verity barked, but the words were swallowed by the roar of an explosion. The container nearest her erupted in a fireball of heat and smoke, the force slamming her backward. Her body hit the ground hard, her breath stolen as the impact jarred her ribs. Pain flared sharp and immediate, her ears ringing as she forced herself upright.

“Verity Callen,” a voice drawled through the smoke. Smooth. Mocking. Laced with venom.

Axel.

He emerged like a specter, the flickering light catching the sharp lines of his face. His dark clothing, clean and casual, contrasted with the chaos around him, but it was his eyes—haunted green, glinting with cruel amusement—that held her attention. He moved with a predator’s ease, his disheveled hair sticking damply to his forehead. Two dozen armed men followed in his wake, their guns trained on her team.

“Drop your weapons,” Axel commanded, his tone bored, almost lazy. “Or do you want to watch your men die first?”

Verity’s jaw tightened, her gaze darting to Lyle, who was bleeding from his arm but still standing. Her team hesitated, glancing between her and the overwhelming force surrounding them. She considered the odds, calculated every escape route, every potential delay. No chance. Not here. Not now. Her chest burned with frustration as she opened her hand, letting the chain knife clatter to the ground. Its absence was immediate and jarring, an emptiness she felt in her gut.

Axel’s smile widened as he stepped closer, kicking the knife away with a casual flick of his boot. “Loyal to a fault,” he murmured, crouching to meet her glare. His voice dipped lower, meant only for her. “I wonder how long that’ll last.”

“You talk too much,” Verity spat, her voice sharp and controlled, though every nerve in her body screamed to fight. She catalogued the angles, the distances, the weaknesses in Axel’s formation. There would be a moment—a crack. She just had to wait.

Axel chuckled, rising to his full height. “Bind her—and the rest of them. We’re taking her to my father. He’s been dying to meet you.”

The cuffs were cold against her wrists, biting into her skin as they locked into place. Verity didn’t resist. Not yet. Instead, she met Axel’s gaze with an unflinching stare, her spine straight and unyielding. His amusement flickered for a moment, replaced by something else. Uncertainty? Curiosity? It didn’t matter. She would find his weakness soon enough.

The truck roared to life, its engine drowning out the quiet groans of her injured teammates. As the port faded into the distance, the lingering scent of smoke and blood filled the air, mingling with the oppressive weight of defeat. Verity’s mind churned, her thoughts sharp and relentless. Her knife was gone. Her freedom was gone. But the game wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.