Chase Costello didn't cry at his father's funeral. That alone felt like a failure.
Rain soaked through his jacket, cold and irritating, the kind that crept in slowly and stayed. People whispered behind him. Important people. Dangerous ones. They weren't mourning. They were measuring.
He could feel it.
They were all looking at him now.
The coffin lowered into the ground with mechanical precision. Too neat. Too controlled. His father would've liked that. A man reduced to wood and metal, buried with secrets no priest would dare mention.
Chase kept his face still. He'd learned early that emotions were invitations—once you showed them, people stepped inside and took what they wanted.
"Hard day."
Luca Romano's voice slid in beside him. Luca always spoke softly, like he didn't need volume to be heard. Like he already owned the room.
Chase didn't look at him.
"I've had worse."
Luca gave a faint smile.
"You're standing where he once stood. That makes today important."
"It makes today inconvenient."
That finally earned Chase a glance. Luca studied him the way traders studied markets—searching for weakness, volatility, panic.
"The board meets tonight," Luca said.
"They'll want clarity."
"They won't get it," Chase replied.
Luca nodded once. Not offended. Interested.
The grave filled in. The rain kept falling. And just like that, the man who'd controlled Chase's life from a distance was gone.
Chase waited for something to hit him.
Nothing did.
The office still smelled like his father.
Leather. Whiskey. Something sharp underneath—control, maybe.
Chase stood in the doorway for a long moment before going in. The room was untouched. No dust. No chaos. His father hated disorder. Everything was aligned, squared, disciplined.
Except for the envelope on the desk.
CHASE.
No last name. No greeting.
Chase poured a drink he didn't want and took a sip anyway. It burned. Good. He needed something real.
The letter inside was short.
'You were never meant to inherit this.
If you are reading this, I failed.
There is a child. He is yours.
Protect him—or remove him.'
—A. Costello
Chase read it once.
Then again.
The words didn't change.
His chest tightened.
"No," he muttered, even though no one was there to argue.
A child.
Seven years old, if the math lined up. The thought hit him sideways. He sat down harder than he meant to. Memories surfaced—too fast, too sharp.
A woman.
A weekend he'd convinced himself meant nothing. A clean break.
Apparently, nothing had teeth.
The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.
His phone buzzed immediately.
'Unknown number.'
He stared at it, then answered.
"Yes?"
"You don't know me," a woman said.
Her voice was calm, but it sounded practiced. Like calm was something she wore for survival.
"But your father did."
Chase's grip tightened on the phone.
"He told me to call you if he died," she continued.
"There's a boy. He's yours."
The room felt smaller.
"Where are you?" Chase asked.
A pause.
Breathing. Fear slipped through the line before she caught it.
"That's… complicated," she said.
"Someone's been asking questions."
Of course they had.
Chase walked to the window. The city glowed below—alive, hungry, indifferent. His father's kingdom. His problem now.
"Listen carefully," Chase said.
"Everything tied to my family attracts the wrong kind of attention."
"I don't want money," she said quickly. "I just want him safe."
That stopped him.
Chase closed his eyes.
"So do I," he said. And for the first time that day, he meant it.
"But safety isn't distance. It's control."
The call ended before she could respond.
Chase stood there for a long time, phone still in his hand. Somewhere out there was a child who shared his blood. A child his father had known about—and weaponized.
Chase picked up the letter again, folding it carefully.
"This ends with me," he said quietly.
But even as he said it, he knew better.
The Costello legacy didn't disappear.
It hunted.