Chapter 2 - THE GLASS COLLECTION
The antiseptic was rubbing alcohol, cheap and sharp enough to make Dominic’s vision swim, but he didn’t make a sound. Men who scream when they are hurt usually don't live long enough to become bosses. He watched the girl—her hair tangled, dried mud caked into the cuffs of her sleeves—stitch his side with a curved needle and fishing line that had been sterilized over the flame of a single candle.
"You're very calm for an orphan living in a smuggler's bilge," Dominic said, his voice a gravelly rasp.
"I'm not an orphan," she replied, her hands never shaking as she pulled the thread tight. "My name is Maren. And I'm not living here. I'm waiting."
"For what?"
She finished the knot, snipped the line with a pair of rusted wire cutters, and pointed a dirty finger at the shelf lined with smooth gray river stones. "For someone to help me finish a list. There are thirty-two stones in that jar, Dominic. Each one is a debt. Your cousin Ronan holds twenty-eight of them. My father held the others until Ronan put him in the river three years ago."
Dominic froze. The name hit him harder than the bullet. Three years ago, his best accountant, a quiet man named Thomas Vance—Ronan’s own brother who had tried to clean the syndicate’s books—had disappeared. Ronan had sworn Thomas skipped town with a suitcase of offshore bearer bonds. Dominic had believed it because he wanted to believe it. It was easier than admitting his own family were butchers.
"Thomas was your father," Dominic said slowly.
"He told me stories about you before he died," Maren said, her amber eyes—the exact same shade as the scarred dog keeping watch at the door—locking onto his. "He said Dominic Shaw was a ruthless bastard, but he had a code. He said if anyone ever took the empire apart from the inside, it wouldn't be the cops. It would be an accountant's kid with a long memory."
Outside, the rain beat a frantic rhythm against the corrugated iron roof of the underground shed. The dog lifted its head, letting out a low, vibrating rumble that meant trouble was sniffing around the vents.
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"They'll track the blood," Dominic muttered, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself upright off the cot, testing his stitched-up side. "Drake Vance isn't smart, but he has dogs of his own."
"They won't track anything," Maren said, walking over to a wooden crate and pulling out a heavy, oil-slicked submachine gun that looked like it had been salvaged from a World War II bunker. She tossed it effortlessly to a startled Dominic. "Because by dawn, my father's ledger isn't the only thing Ronan is going to lose."
