Two years after the murder, one year before the betrayal
Mirelle learned fast: in the underworld, the dumb ones die quick, and the loud ones die slower—but messier.
She chose to be neither.
The club was called Veritas, an ironic name for a place built entirely on lies. It smelled of perfume, sweat, and fear. Women walked like currency, and the men acted like they owned time.
Mirelle was twenty now. She wore red that night—not for attention, but for contrast. Among all the glitter and gloss, she needed to look like something you remembered after closing your eyes.
She'd been working for Silas Roy for six months—his barmaid, his messenger, his scapegoat when deals went sideways.
But she had a plan.
She approached Viktor Leon, the man Silas feared behind closed doors. He ran the docks and half the cops. Everyone called him "The Locksmith"—because he could open or close any fate in the city.
He was laughing with two women when she appeared.
"Mr. Leon," she said, quiet but firm, "may I have a moment?"
He glanced at her. "Do I know you?"
She smiled. "You know Silas Roy."
He raised a brow. "And what about him?"
"I think he's planning to rob you," she said. "And I think you're going to let me stop him."
She had his attention now.
In five minutes, she told him everything: the coded messages she'd delivered, the strange late-night warehouse meetings, the shipment reroutes. She made sure to sound reluctant—not eager.
Men like Leon distrusted eagerness.
By the end, he stared at her like she was a puzzle missing just one piece.
"Why tell me this?"
"Because," she said, "I'm tired of being invisible. I'm smarter than him. More loyal. And I have nothing to lose."
He sipped his drink, amused.
"You want me to give you his spot."
She shook her head. "No. I want to earn it."
That night, Silas was arrested for trafficking counterfeit bonds—bonds he didn't know were fake, planted by Mirelle three nights prior.
He screamed betrayal all the way to prison.
No one believed him.
Leon called her the next day.
"You've got instincts," he said. "But let's see if you have claws."
He handed her her first territory: a dying brothel with unpaid debts, demoralized workers, and zero income.
"You run this clean in two months," Leon said, "and we'll talk."
She did it in six weeks.