The morning sun over Brooklyn was grey and unwilling. It filtered through the barred windows of the safe house, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the freezing air.
Aria woke up with a crick in her neck. She had slept on the wooden floor, using her arm as a pillow for Mia.
The children were still asleep. Leo was curled up in a tight ball, his glasses askew on his nose. Mia was sucking her thumb, clutching the headless bear. Her breathing sounded slightly heavy, a little raspy.
They looked like fallen angels thrown into a dumpster.
Aria felt her stomach twist. Not just from hunger, but from a sharp, toxic guilt. The pickles and crackers were gone. They had no food. No money. No heat.
She looked at the platinum bracelet lying on the dusty floorboards. It was studded with small but flawless diamonds. A vintage Cartier piece from her grandmother. It was her lifeline.
Wait for me, she whispered, kissing each of them on the cold forehead. She scribbled a note on a scrap of paper—Mommy went to get breakfast. Lock the door. Do not open for ANYONE.—and slipped out.
The streets of Brooklyn near the docks were rough. Men with oil-stained clothes walked with purpose; others, with nothing to do, watched her with hungry, predatory eyes.
Aria pulled her hoodie up. She kept her head down, her hand clutching the bracelet in her pocket like a weapon.
She found a pawn shop three blocks away. Big Al's Gold and Loans. The neon sign buzzed ominously, flickering like a dying heartbeat.
Aria pushed the heavy door open. A bell jingled. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and desperation hit her instantly.
Behind the glass counter sat a man who looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp. He was bald, heavy-set, and was cleaning his fingernails with a hunting knife.
We ain't buying electronics, the man grunted without looking up. Got too many stolen iPhones.
It is not a phone, Aria said. Her voice was raspy from the cold. She approached the counter and pulled out the bracelet. It is jewelry. Platinum. Vintage Cartier.
The man, Big Al, looked up. His eyes narrowed as they landed on the glittering piece of metal in Aria's dirty hand.
He took it. He pulled out a jeweler's loupe and examined it.
Aria held her breath. Twenty thousand, she prayed silently. Even ten thousand. Just enough to buy fake IDs and train tickets to Canada.
Big Al whistled low. Nice. Real nice. Where did you steal it from, sweetheart?
Aria stiffened, her wolf bristling under her skin. It is mine. It was a gift.
Uh-huh. A girl dressed like a hobo walking in with a twenty-grand rock on her wrist. Sure. Big Al dropped the bracelet on the counter. It made a heavy, expensive sound.
How much? Aria asked, her patience thinning.
Big Al leaned back, a greasy smile spreading across his face. Five hundred.
Five hundred? Aria's voice cracked. That is platinum! The diamonds alone are worth five thousand! It is Cartier!
I don't see no papers, Al shrugged. Without papers, it is scrap metal. Five hundred. Take it or leave it.
You are a thief, Aria hissed. She reached for the bracelet. Give it back. I will go somewhere else.
Big Al's hand slammed down on top of hers, pinning the bracelet and her fingers to the glass.
I would not do that if I were you, Al said. His smile was gone. See, I just got an alert this morning. From the police wire. Said to look out for suspicious luxury goods being moved by a woman matching your description.
Aria felt her blood run cold.
I could call the cops, Al continued, his voice oily. Or... I can give you two hundred bucks, and you walk out of here before I change my mind.
Aria stared at him. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shift into her wolf and tear his throat out. But she couldn't. Shifting would alert every Alpha in the city.
Damien.
Damien had done this. He hadn't just frozen her accounts. He had poisoned the water. He had turned the whole city into a cage.
Three hundred, Aria whispered, her eyes burning with unshed tears of rage.
Two fifty, Al countered. And I am doing you a favor.
Aria's hand trembled. She looked at the bracelet—her last link to her past life. Then she thought of Mia shivering on the floor. She thought of Leo's hungry eyes.
Fine, she choked out.
Al opened the register. He counted out five fifty-dollar bills. Dirty, crumpled bills that smelled of beer.
He slid them across the counter.
Aria snatched the money. She didn't look back. She turned and ran out of the shop, the bell jingling cheerfully behind her like a mockery.
High above, in the Sinclair Tower.
Damien watched the live feed from the pawn shop's security camera.
He saw Aria take the pitiful stack of cash. He saw the humiliation in her posture. He saw the way she wiped her eyes as she ran out the door.
Sir, Marcus said quietly. Big Al just logged the transaction. He listed it as costume jewelry. He is going to melt it down.
Let him, Damien said, his voice flat. But send someone to buy it from him before he does. Pay him double. I want that bracelet back.
And the woman? She has two hundred and fifty dollars now.
Two hundred and fifty dollars, Damien repeated. He swirled his whiskey. That will not buy fake IDs. It will not buy train tickets. It will buy food for maybe three days. Diapers. Medicine.
He zoomed in on Aria's fleeing figure on the screen.
She is realizing it now, Damien murmured. Money is power. And without me, she has neither.
She tried to call a number earlier, Marcus reported, looking at a data pad. From a payphone on the corner. Before she went into the shop.
Damien turned, his eyes sharpening. What number?
It was a burner number. Registered to the West Coast Pack.
Damien's glass shattered in his hand. Whiskey and blood dripped onto the expensive carpet.
The West Coast. Zane.
His rival. The Alpha who had been trying to steal Sinclair territory for a decade. And the man who had once tried to court Aria before she met Damien.
She tried to call HIM? Damien's voice was a low growl that shook the room. The air grew heavy with his killing intent.
Yes, Sir. But the call failed. We disconnected the line as per Protocol Grey. The payphone ate her quarter.
Damien stared at the blood dripping from his hand. He didn't feel the pain.
He felt betrayal.
She wasn't just running away. She was running to the enemy.
Good, Damien hissed. Isolate her completely. If she tries to call a pizza delivery, I want to know. If she tries to pray to God, I want to be the one answering.
He walked to the window, the storm reflecting his inner chaos.
You want to play war, Aria? You want to bring enemies into our bed?
He pressed his bleeding palm against the glass, leaving a red smear.
I will burn the world down before I let another male touch what is mine.
Back in the safe house.
Aria burst through the door, chest heaving. She locked it instantly, engaging all three bolts. She leaned against the wood, gasping for air.
Mom? Leo looked up from the floor. He had taken apart the old radio and was trying to wire it to a battery using a rusty fork. Did you get breakfast?
Aria looked at the crumpled bills in her hand. Two hundred and fifty dollars.
It was nothing. It was an insult.
But it was survival.
Yes, Aria said, forcing her voice to be steady. I got... I got money. We can buy hot dogs. And milk.
Did you call Uncle Zane? Leo asked hopefully.
Aria slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor. She buried her face in her hands.
I tried, she whispered. The phone... it would not connect. It just kept clicking. And then the line went dead.
She lifted her head. Her eyes were red, but dry.
She realized the truth now. The pawn shop. The phone. The police car yesterday.
It was not random.
It was HIM.
He was watching. He was pulling strings. He was blocking every exit, closing every door, until there was only one door left open.
The front door of Sinclair Tower.
He wants us to crawl back, Aria said, her voice hardening into steel. He thinks we will starve. He thinks we will beg.
She looked at Leo. Then at Mia.
Mia was awake now. But she wasn't asking for food. She was curled up tight, her face flushed.
Mommy, Mia whimpered. My head hurts. And I feel hot.
Aria rushed over. She touched Mia's forehead. It was burning.
Panic, sharp and cold, pierced through Aria's anger. It wasn't just a cold. A fever in a werewolf child could mean two things: sickness, or the beginning of a Shift.
And without medicine, without proper food, both were dangerous.
Leo, fix that radio, Aria ordered, her voice trembling.
But Mom, I need wire...
Rip it out of the wall, Aria snapped. Rip it out of the lamp. I do not care.
She pulled Mia into her arms, rocking her back and forth. She looked up at the ceiling, staring through the plaster and the rain, as if she could see the golden eyes watching her from the tower across the river.
You want a war, Damien? Aria whispered into the darkness.
Then come and get us. Because I would rather die in this hole than let you win.