Page 123 of Nocturne

Yuri’s gaze doesn’t falter. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ara, but when I reviewed your file, there was no mention of her. Anywhere.”

His words hit like a cold slap. My jaw slackens, more at his admission than the implication. That he’s read my file—a file containing my most personal details, including the people I trust—is infuriating. But I’m relieved Harley wasn’t in it.

“Thank God for that!” I snap. “That woman has been through enough. Leave her alone.”

Without waiting for a response, I march away. Yet something gnaws at me as I throw one last glance at the street Harley disappeared into. A figure stands at its mouth, hooded, their silhouette melting into the shadows before I can take another look.

I know Harley has her secrets—secrets she won’t share, just as I haven’t shared mine. But how dangerous could they possibly be?

Surely not more dangerous than mine.

Thirty-Three

Zagan

I step out of the car, my mind razor-sharp despite the chaos around me. Police sirens wail, their incessant noise grating but irrelevant. Detectives linger like vultures, their presence a nuisance I don’t have the patience for. The police chief starts toward me, but Iblis intercepts, steering him away before I’m forced to handle him myself. Nico stays close, his sharp eyes cataloguing every movement, every face. A few of my men flank the entrance to one of the most esteemed casinos in Walius, their presence a silent statement.

All the customers had been cleared, and I expected an empty casino. But inside, my business associates hover like moths drawn to the flame. At my arrival, they rise like marionettes on strings, a mix of dread and misplaced hope clouding their expressions. Their postures are tense, their eyes flicking toward me as though I hold the answers to this disruption. Pathetic.

“Boss,” Gringo, my manager for the fighting rings, nods respectfully.

I offer no acknowledgement, my gaze already fixed on my destination: the office of Trevor Martinez, the casino’s owner.

The death of a business associate is no anomaly. In this world, only the ruthless endure, and I have no patience for weakness. Normally, I’d delegate this nonsense to Iblis, but Trevor’s murder wasn’t a random act. Whoever orchestrated it intended to provoke me.

Trevor Martinez was more than a money-laundering asset. I have countless fronts for that, each one replaceable. What set him apart was his loyalty. In the war against the Crescenzo fucks, he stood firm, risking everything—including his only child—to bankroll our fight. Even after that loss, he didn’t falter.

And then there was his connection to Iko. Trevor was the only man Iko ever called a friend.

Quince—one of my men—moves to open the door but lingers outside as I step over the threshold. I pause, turning briefly to glance at my associates. Their fear is palpable, a sickly stench in the air. Pathetic. A pack of spineless vermin. Ara’s kid has more spine than them all.

“Clear them,” I order.

Quince nods curtly, ushering them out as I enter.

The stench of death hits me first—a cloying, metallic scent that saturates the room. Bodies are scattered like discarded trash, their positions grotesque. Forensics mill around, snapping photos and bagging evidence, their movements brisk but measured. It pisses me off to no end that the damn rookie called the cops before my men. Now I’ve got a pack of bureaucrats sniffing around, not because they can actually do anything, but because they want to grovel at my feet and expect a pat on the head for being useless.

A woman approaches, clipboard in hand. Her dark uniform blends with the room's oppressive atmosphere.

“Good evening, sir. I’m Kelly. The chief asked me to brief you on our preliminary findings.”

I don’t respond, my attention drawn to the scene. A gaping wound in one man’s neck catches my eye; a pen rammed deep into his flesh. Nearby, another corpse bears a shattered glass shard embedded in its eye socket. The tools of their deaths are absurd in their ordinariness—a comb buried in a throat, a table flag’s metal pole spearing a skull, a rod pinning a man to the wall like a grotesque display.

Kelly hesitates, gauging my reaction. “Our profiler suggests this might be the work of a skilled group.”

I glance at her, one brow arched. “You don’t agree.”

Her eyes shift to the rod impaling the pinned corpse as officers carefully manoeuvre the body free.

“No, sir,” she says, voice steady despite the carnage. “This level of precision, the improvisation of weapons… it’s unlikely a group could work so seamlessly. Every blow was fatal and executed with clinical efficiency. This is the work of one individual. Highly trained. Possibly ex-military or something similar.”

Her tone remains professional, but there’s an edge of unease as she continues.

“The scene was wiped clean. No prints other than Trevor’s and his men’s. No stray hairs, no fibres, no DNA. Apart from the blood, it’s like no one else was ever here. That kind of meticulousness suggests someone might have helped with the cleanup, but not the killings themselves. This… this level of skill isn’t something you see often.”

I glance at Nico, who’s been silently observing. His expression is a cold mask, but his hand flexes once at his side, a subtle tell.

“You’re saying one person took out a room full of armed men and left no trace,” I state flatly, more to confirm her nerve than for clarity.

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