VEINS OF FIRE AND ICE
CHAPTER ONE
The perfume of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and secrets hung thick in the air—so dense it could choke someone who didn't belong. But Ariella Kane didn't choke. Not anymore. She had learned to swallow poison and smile.
She stood behind the marble-topped bar of The Vault, the elite underground lounge located three levels beneath the Voraxis Tower. Her fingers moved with mechanical elegance—pouring aged whiskey, slicing citrus, layering cocktails into flawless ombré shades of desire. Every movement was rehearsed. Every smile designed.
To the world, she was Elle Morgan, a new bartender with perfect posture, an enchanting smile, and no past.
But deep within her, beneath the perfume and lipstick, beat a heart molded by fire.
Twelve years ago, she'd watched her family burn.
They called it an accident—an elite home ravaged by a kitchen fire while the Kane heiress slept upstairs. But Ariella remembered the truth too vividly for that lie to take root. Her mother had screamed her name. Her father had fought someone off in the hallway. She remembered the footsteps. The shattering of glass. The gunshots.
She remembered hiding, clutching her violin case under the floorboards, holding her breath as a man's boots passed inches from her face. That night haunted her like a ghost that never left the room.
The Kane Empire crumbled, its assets seized under the guise of debts and "undisclosed criminal ties." She was sent off the grid by her mother's sister—Aunt Elena—a woman whose history with military intelligence remained as shadowed as the life they began to build in secret.
Training replaced childhood. Firearms replaced toys. Truth replaced bedtime stories.
And vengeance became her bedtime prayer.
Now, here she was, twenty-three and weaponized, standing inside the very hive of power that had once turned its fangs on her family—Voraxis Group. On paper, they were a tech conglomerate and luxury investment powerhouse. In reality, they were a network of silent predators wrapped in the skin of legitimacy.
And somewhere deep within their walls hid the name—the one man who had ordered the assassination of her parents. Her final target. Her parents' killer.
Victor Drennan.
Her eyes scanned the lounge. The lighting was dim, tinted in seductive amber and gold. Powerful men leaned back in booths whispering dirty secrets into their glasses. Celebrities. CEOs. Corrupt diplomats with rings worth more than her fake apartment lease. All of them thought they were untouchable.
She was here to remind them that no one was.
A man slid onto a stool in front of her. Mid-fifties. Silver hair slicked back, Rolex glinting under the light.
"Vodka tonic. With a twist," he said with a greasy grin, his gaze skimming her neckline.
She smiled the way she was taught—inviting but unreadable. She poured, stirred, and passed him the glass without speaking.
He frowned. "Not much of a talker, are you?"
"Depends on the conversation," she murmured, already turning to the next order.
Flirting was a battlefield. Attention was a weapon. She had no time for amateurs.
Then came the voice.
Low. Calm. Almost too quiet for the music to allow.
"Whiskey. Neat."
Ariella turned, expecting another executive in a thousand-dollar suit. What she saw instead made her breath hitch.
The man was tall—broad-shouldered with a black shirt that stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows revealing veined forearms and a thin white scar along one wrist. His jaw was sharp, dusted with stubble, and his dark hair was just messy enough to look dangerous.
But it was his eyes that caught her.
Steel-gray. Piercing. Cold as iron and warm as old fire in the same glance.
They locked onto hers like they already knew her name. Like they had met before in another life. Or in the last minute before death.
She poured the drink, measured, precise. "You don't look like the vodka tonic type."
"I don't blend well," he said.
He took the glass but didn't drink. Just held it, staring.
Ariella felt the hairs on her arms rise. Something primal in her spine reacted to him. Threat? Recognition? She didn't know. Only that he made her feel seen—and she couldn't afford to be seen.
"You're not on the regular list," she said, eyeing his minimalist attire.
"I'm new," he replied. "Security consultant. Kael Wolfe."
The name scratched at something inside her. Wolfe. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Elle Morgan," she said, giving her alias.
He didn't offer a hand. Didn't flirt. Just nodded and walked off toward the back of the room, disappearing into shadow like he belonged to it.
Her eyes lingered on where he stood. Even when he vanished, his presence stayed.
Kael Wolfe.
The Wolf.
The nickname wasn't just poetic—it was infamous. Elena had once whispered of a man known only in whispers across black-market networks and encrypted webs. An operative-turned-ghost. A vigilante some called myth.
She thought he was fiction.
Apparently not.
---
Later that night, after the last cigar ember had burned out and the last politician had staggered out with his lies tucked neatly into his coat, Ariella wiped down the bar and signed off the floor.
Her shift ended at 1:00 a.m.
By 1:25, she was in her apartment on the 30th floor of a forgotten tower on the east side. Her view faced the city, but her lights remained off. She didn't trust windows. Not with people like Drennan watching everything.
She kicked off her heels, peeled off the sleek black dress, and opened the case beneath her bed.
Inside, under layers of foam and false-bottom compartments, were her tools.
A compact 9mm pistol. A blood-red USB stick. Her encrypted tablet. And a worn photograph—the last one taken of her parents before they died. Her mother was smiling, holding Ariella's chin, her wedding ring gleaming in the sunlight. Her father stood behind them, tall and handsome, a shadow already forming behind his eyes.
Ariella stared at the photo for a long time, then reached for the tablet.
She pulled up the Voraxis internal map, one she had stolen piece by piece through manipulated fire drills and borrowed access cards. Drennan's private office had a hidden corridor leading to a sub-level vault.
No cameras. No logs. No official entry in the architectural blueprint.
That's where the truth lived.
Emails. Surveillance data. Bank transfers. Kill orders.
She would go in. And she would make sure Drennan never came out.
But her thoughts kept drifting—to Kael Wolfe. His presence still lingered like phantom frost on the back of her neck. His voice. His silence.
Was he here for her? Or for Voraxis? Or something else entirely?
Could he be after the same truth?
Or worse—was he guarding it?
She didn't like uncertainty.
But the fire inside her—the fire that had never gone out—was starting to dance with something else now.
Curiosity.
Instinct.
And maybe… something far more dangerous.
---
By 2:30 a.m., the city outside was quiet. Her eyes had begun to close when a single ping lit up her secure line.
A message.
UNKNOWN: "Your name wasn't on the staff list."
Ariella stared.
She didn't respond.
But her blood turned to ice....