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RAY

T wo phone calls. That’s all it takes for Helena to land a meeting with Jason Conley.

The first one goes nowhere. His secretary puts her on hold before she can even spin her lie. On the second call, Helena's voice slips into a perfect mix of grief and wealth.

“I’m the widow of a North African diamond merchant,” she purrs—and suddenly, she’s through.

The name, the accent, the promise of millions in rare gems—it works like a charm. Literally. By the time the call ends, she has the appointment, and the plan is in motion.

Thirty-six hours later, we arrive in North Haven.

Raul’s behind the wheel of a sleek Mercedes S-Class, leased for the occasion.

Helena sits beside him, resplendent in a sky-blue Dior dress Monica managed to source at the last minute.

She looks like she belongs in a fashion magazine spread on power widows.

My brothers and I ride in the back, stiff in black suits and sharp red ties. None of us are comfortable in this kind of attire. Hell, the only time I wear a tie is if someone’s died or getting married —but tonight, we’re playing the part of a high-end widow’s bodyguards.

The drive is smooth. The car is filled with the scent of leather and Helena’s perfume.

It’s strangely calming. Despite the danger of our mission, I don’t feel anxious.

There should be no need to fight and we don’t have plans to kill.

All I have to do is watch over Helena. It’s the first time in my life that I’m not a fighter, I’m only here for presence.

Just another part of the theater Helena’s conjured.

Conley’s estate rises like a fortress. A fifteen-foot high stone wall stretches around the property. The wall glitters oddly—embedded with glass shards sharp enough to tear flesh. It’s a deterrent to anyone attempting to climb the wall.

The gate is designed to intimidate. It’s tall, reinforced wrought-iron with thick bars topped with wicked looking points. Two armed guards in matching uniforms watch our approach. Raul eases to a stop as one of the guards approaches, his glare sharp and assessing.

“Identification,” he says.

Helena hands over her ID, a flawless forgery bearing her assumed name: Mrs. Van Zant. The guard studies it, scans it then nods.

“Welcome, Mrs. Van Zant. You may proceed, ma’am.”

As Raul drives through the gate, I lean over.

“That fake ID…you pull that out of thin air?”

“I’m a witch, Ray,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips. “I could’ve set them on fire if I wanted to.” She grimaces. “Remind me never to do this again. This much luxury is… obscene.”

Raul snorts. “This is your plan, Helena. The widow of a diamond merchant doesn’t roll up in a rusted-out pickup. Gotta sell the fantasy.”

She sighs like someone drowning in silk. “Yes. Let’s get this over with.”

A butler opens the door, dressed in tailored black, his smile carved from politeness.

“Good evening, Mrs. Van Zant. Mr. Conley is expecting you. Please, follow me.”

Stepping into the mansion feels like being swallowed by excess. Everywhere there is polished wood, marble, and deliberately curated art. It’s a sickening display of materialism over humanity. It feels as if the entire space is designed to make you feel somehow less.

“Thank you,” Helena says, soft but clipped. Every word lands with rehearsed precision.

She walks with her head held high, but I see the tension coiling in her spine. This isn’t her world. She doesn’t like being watched, and here, every one of the dozens of paintings feels like a pair of eyes.

“Try to relax,” I whisper, falling into step beside her. “You look like you’re walking into a courtroom.”

“I feel like I’m walking onto a stage naked,” she mutters.

The butler leads us to a wide staircase.

A four-foot-tall Buddha squats at the base of the stairs, silent and serene.

I want to knock its smug head off. The walls are decorated with oil paintings that probably cost more than my entire neighborhood.

At the top he leads us down a long hallway.

Every six feet there is another statue—silver, bronze, and ivory.

At last we reach a double set of mahogany doors. The butler knocks, waits for a moment, then opens the doors and motions for us to enter. Helena leads the way with Raul and me on her flanks.

“Mrs. Van Zant!” Jason Conley stands behind a heavy oak desk. He has a wide, perfect smile and is dressed in a suit that is clearly custom tailored. “Welcome to my humble home. It’s a real pleasure.”

Helena glides forward extending her delicate hand. Her smile is flawless—sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Conley.”

“Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the high-backed chair across from his desk. He doesn’t even glance at Raul or me. We’re invisible—just the help, not worth noticing “How’s your stay been? Enjoying New York?”

“Of course,” she replies, voice warm and cultured. “New York is like a second home. I’ve visited many times.”

He chuckles. “A charmer, I see. Drink? You? Your boys?”

“No, thank you,” Helena replies, her voice cutting cool. “My men don’t drink on the job. Now—shall we get to the matter at hand?”

“Direct. I like that,” he says, leaning his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. “Very well, allow me to be direct as well.” Something flickers in his eyes, and the million-dollar smile vanishes like smoke. “Who are you?”

I stiffen, eye darting to Raul. He’s watching, but not acting, and I get it. Let it play out before we act. Trust Helena who is all cool calm. She leans forward, matching Conley.

“Excuse me?” she asks, sounding surprised.

“There is no diamond trader named Van Zant. Not in North Africa, not anywhere.”

“Yes,” Helena says, voice flat. “Easily explained, you see I am Dutch.”

Conley drums his fingers on the desk, smile still fixed on his face, but his other hand has moved out of sight. It’s either on a button to call for help or a gun. I inhale deeply, masking the sound, scenting for gun oil or metal. Anything to tell me what he’s reaching for.

“Who are you—really?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

Helena smiles, leans back in the chair, suddenly relaxed. She lifts her hand—and the door slams shut behind us with a thunderous boom.

“Fine,” Helena sighs. “Let’s skip the pleasantries. I have questions. And if you want to avoid an early ticket to the afterlife, I suggest you answer.”

He smirks, maintaining a cool facade, but beads of sweat form on his forehead and I smell the first tangy scent of fear.

“Neat trick. What else can you do? My guards are trained special forces and will be in here in a heartbeat. Explain yourself. Immediately.”

A low growl breaks loose from my throat. I step towards him.

“Stay where you are,” Helena snaps, her eyes on Conley. “I’ve got this.”

She stands, calm and in control.

“Roman Security’s reputation has taken a hit hasn’t it? What, with the incident outside of Dawson. How many guards killed? And the facility you were guarding burned to the ground? That cannot be good for your reputation. Tell me, how does something like that happen?”

“A freak accident,” he says, not moving a muscle.

“A weak excuse,” she says. “Pathetic, really. The press may eat it up, but I don’t. A burned building. Lives lost. And yet, no one says a word about the facility’s owners. Why is that?”

Conley’s face tightens. “The people I work with prefer to keep their names out of the news cycle.”

“Names,” she demands. His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow, flicking to the door. “Believe me, they won’t make it through that door in time to save you.”

He hesitates and she flicks her wrist. His chair launches backward and crashes into the wall. He gasps, limbs flailing, fingers clawing at empty air. His neck jerks like it’s caught in an invisible vise.

“I said, names!” she hisses, stalking around the desk like a panther. “Give them to me, or I’ll snap your neck like a twig.”

“Peterson!” he chokes. “Ivan Peterson! Eco Med!”

Helena pauses, staring at him. She takes a deep breath then slowly exhales.

“Thank you,” she says, stepping back. “We’re going to leave now. No one will stop us. Not one of your rent-a-thugs will get in our way. ”

Conley coughs, clutching his throat. “Okay! Okay! Just go.”

“Good.” Her tone is final. “Goodnight, Mr. Conley. Boys—let’s go.”

I open the door. That was brutal, but efficient and cleaner than we would have done it. Had it been up to us, there’d have been chaos, blood, and alarms. Helena kept it cool and controlled. We step back into the car and the smell of leather is oddly comforting.

“That was incredible,” I say as we settle in. “You scared the shit out of him.”

“Drive,” she tells Raul, voice flat. “I’m not done with him yet.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, but turns and stares out the window.

We clear the gates, leaving the estate behind us. Helena lifts her hand to the rear window, palm pressed flat. Her eyes flash and then she yanks.

In the distance glass shatters. A scream pierces the night. Conley’s body arcs through the air like a ragdoll. Flying through his office window, a glittering storm of broken glass raining down around him. The form drops out of my line of sight.

Guards are yelling and rushing, but I’m sure it’s too late. Their boss is dead. Helena exhales slowly and sinks into the seat like a queen reclaiming her throne. None of us speak. There’s nothing to say.