CHAPTER 1 — THE SONG THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE MATTERED
What were you singing?”
Clary stared at him.
For a moment she forgot how to breathe.
Declan Knox stood only a few feet away.
The most feared man in Rhode Island.
A man whose name traveled through dockyards, courtrooms, police stations, and back rooms whispered like a warning.
And he was asking about a song.
Not yelling.
Not threatening.
Just asking.
Clary tightened her grip on the spray bottle.
“It was nothing.”
Declan didn't move.
“It didn't sound like nothing.”
She lowered her eyes.
“My mother used to sing it.”
“What's it called?”
“I don't know.”
A slight frown crossed his face.
“You don't know?”
“My mother made up parts of it.”
Silence settled between them.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Far away, music from the birthday gala drifted through the walls.
Declan continued studying her.
Most women spent hours trying to attract his attention.
This woman looked desperate to escape it.
Interesting.
“Sing it again.”
Clary looked up sharply.
“What?”
“The song.”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Without hesitation.
Nobody told Declan Knox no.
Not politicians.
Not judges.
Not rival bosses.
Certainly not maids.
Yet somehow this exhausted woman had done it without even realizing the danger.
His eyebrow lifted.
“No?”
She swallowed.
“I mean... I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because you're standing here.”
For the first time that night, something resembling amusement touched his face.
“Does my presence affect singing?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“People usually don't sing well when they're terrified.”
The honesty surprised him.
So much that he laughed.
Actually laughed.
A short sound.
Rough and unexpected.
Clary blinked.
She wasn't sure what shocked her more.
The fact that she had said it.
Or the fact that he seemed entertained.
Declan folded his arms.
“Fair enough.”
Another silence.
Then he noticed something.
Her hands.
Red.
Cracked.
Bleeding in places.
Not fresh wounds.
Work wounds.
The kind created by long hours and cheap chemicals.
“You should wear better gloves.”
Clary looked confused.
“What?”
“Your hands.”
Instinctively she hid them behind her back.
“It's fine.”
“It doesn't look fine.”
She shrugged.
“Being poor rarely looks fine.”
Again.
Honesty.
No performance.
No attempt to impress him.
No fear-driven agreement.
Just truth.
Raw and uncomfortable.
Declan found himself staring.
And that annoyed him.
Because he didn't stare at people.
People stared at him.
A voice suddenly echoed from the hallway.
“Clary!”
Both turned.
A supervisor appeared.
Denise Walker.
Tall.
Sharp-faced.
Permanent irritation.
The moment she saw Declan Knox standing beside one of her employees, her expression changed completely.
Panic.
Pure panic.
“Mr. Knox!”
She hurried forward.
“I'm so sorry if she's caused any problems.”
Clary immediately stiffened.
Denise pointed at her.
“She's new.”
“I've worked here seven months.”
“Quiet.”
Denise forced a smile toward Declan.
“We'll remove her immediately.”
Declan's expression darkened.
“Remove her?”
“She shouldn't be bothering you.”
“Nobody is bothering me.”
Denise blinked.
“Oh.”
Declan looked at Clary.
Then back at Denise.
“She was cleaning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She was doing her job.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why are you acting like she committed a crime?”
Denise's face turned pale.
Because there was no correct answer.
Meanwhile, Clary looked equally confused.
Nobody defended workers in places like this.
Especially not billionaires.
Especially not mafia bosses.
Declan finally stepped aside.
“Leave her alone.”
The words were simple.
But Denise heard the warning underneath.
She nodded quickly.
“Of course.”
Declan turned and walked away.
Within seconds he disappeared down the corridor.
Silence remained.
Then Denise slowly faced Clary.
Her eyes wide.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing.”
“Why was he talking to you?”
“I don't know.”
Denise stared at her.
Clary stared back.
Neither had answers.
By one o'clock in the morning, the birthday gala finally ended.
Guests departed in luxury cars.
Private drivers.
Limousines.
Security convoys.
The mansion slowly emptied.
Clary finished her shift shortly after two.
Exhausted.
Hungry.
Ready to sleep for twelve hours.
Unfortunately life had other plans.
As she stepped off the bus near her apartment building, she immediately sensed something wrong.
Three men stood outside.
Waiting.
Her stomach dropped.
She recognized them instantly.
Frankie Russo's crew.
Debt collectors.
Trouble.
The largest man stepped forward.
“Evening, sweetheart.”
Clary's pulse accelerated.
“What do you want?”
“Friendly conversation.”
Nobody believed that.
The second man smiled.
“Tommy missed another payment.”
Of course he had.
Her younger brother never changed.
Never learned.
Never stopped making terrible decisions.
“I paid last week.”
“Not enough.”
The first man shrugged.
“Interest grows.”
Clary clenched her fists.
“How much now?”
“Sixty-eight thousand.”
Her heart sank.
Two months earlier the debt had been fifty-two.
Now sixty-eight.
At this rate she would be eighty years old before escaping it.
“You people are insane.”
The man smiled.
“Maybe.”
Then his expression hardened.
“Payment due Friday.”
“That's impossible.”
“Not our problem.”
The men began walking away.
Then the largest stopped.
“One more thing.”
Clary froze.
“Mr. Russo heard you met Mr. Knox tonight.”
Her blood ran cold.
“How do you know that?”
The man smiled.
“People talk.”
Fear crept into her chest.
Dangerous fear.
Because men like Russo only cared about information when they planned to use it.
“Stay away from him,” the collector said.
Then he left.
Across town, Declan Knox sat alone in his office overlooking the Atlantic.
Everyone else had gone home.
Only Arthur remained.
Arthur entered carrying a folder.
“You should sleep.”
Declan ignored him.
Arthur sighed.
“Still thinking about the maid?”
Declan finally looked up.
“I don't think about maids.”
“Apparently you do.”
Silence.
Arthur sat down.
“I've known you fifteen years.”
“So?”
“You haven't laughed in three.”
Declan frowned.
Arthur continued.
“Tonight you laughed.”
“Amazing observation.”
“You looked alive.”
That irritated him more than it should have.
Declan stood and walked toward the windows.
Black waves crashed against rocks below.
Violent.
Restless.
Much like his thoughts.
“Find something for me.”
Arthur immediately became suspicious.
“What?”
“The woman.”
Arthur groaned.
“No.”
“Her name is Clary Davies.”
“Declan.”
“Find out who she is.”
Arthur rubbed his face.
“This is exactly how terrible ideas begin.”
“Just do it.”
“Why?”
Declan remained silent.
Because he didn't know.
Not completely.
He only knew one thing.
The sound of her voice refused to leave his head.
The broken song.
The cracked note on the word home.
The sadness.
The honesty.
It haunted him.
And Declan Knox was not a man accustomed to being haunted.
The next morning Arthur returned.
Earlier than expected.
Much earlier.
That alone worried Declan.
Arthur entered carrying a thick file.
His expression looked grim.
Very grim.
“Problem.”
Declan straightened.
“What kind?”
“The dangerous kind.”
Arthur tossed the file onto the desk.
Declan opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Financial records.
Employment history.
Medical bills.
Debt records.
Everything about Clary Davies.
The deeper he read, the darker his expression became.
By the final page, the room felt colder.
Much colder.
Arthur sat down slowly.
“She inherited her brother's debt.”
Declan nodded.
“I see that.”
“Russo owns it.”
Silence.
A dangerous silence.
Arthur continued carefully.
“There's more.”
“What?”
Arthur slid one final photograph across the desk.
Declan looked down.
And froze.
The image showed Clary entering a warehouse three nights earlier.
A warehouse belonging to Declan's organization.
But she wasn't alone.
Standing beside her was a man Declan recognized immediately.
One of his captains.
A trusted lieutenant.
Someone with access to sensitive information.
Declan's eyes narrowed.
“What is this?”
Arthur looked uneasy.
“We don't know.”
The room became silent.
Because suddenly Clary Davies wasn't just a maid.
And she wasn't just a woman with a beautiful broken voice.
Somehow...
She was connected to something much larger.
Something hidden.
Something dangerous.
And neither man realized that at that exact moment, three miles away, Clary was opening a letter that would change everything.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
No signature.
No explanation.
Only six words.
YOUR FATHER WAS MURDERED BY KNOX.
And beneath those words...
May you like
A photograph.
One capable of starting a war.
