In the dark and relentless world of assassins bound by codes, hidden allegiances, and unbreakable oaths, Blood Oaths and Shadows offers a thrilling collection of interconnected short stories set within the legendary universe of John Wick. These stor...
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Alexander Thorne straightened his Brioni tie, a habit born of precision rather than vanity. The mirror in his corner office at Meridian Ventures reflected a man who appeared every bit the successful corporate executive – tall, well-groomed, with sharp features that seemed engineered for board rooms and business magazines. Yet his eyes held something else, a coldness that belonged more to winter than Wall Street.
His phone buzzed. A text message displayed a single black chess piece: a knight. Below it, coordinates. Another mark for the High Table.
"Mr. Thorne?" His assistant's voice came through the intercom. "The board is waiting in Conference Room A."
"Thank you, Sarah. I'll be right there." His voice was smooth, practiced – the voice of someone who had learned that words were both weapon and shield.
The conference room housed twelve people, all executives from various departments of Meridian Ventures. Among them sat Claire Morrison, head of legal affairs, her auburn hair caught in the morning light. Something in Alexander's chest tightened whenever she was near, a feeling he'd learned to suppress with the same efficiency he applied to everything else.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Alexander began, standing at the head of the table. "Our Q3 numbers show promising growth in the Asian markets..." His presentation was flawless, each word carefully chosen, each gesture calculated. It was a performance he'd perfected over years of maintaining his cover.
As he spoke, his mind was already processing the assignment he'd received. The coordinates pointed to the Shanghai International Convention Center. His target would be there for next week's tech summit. The High Table never provided names – only locations and times. The rest was up to him.
Claire caught his eye during the presentation, offering a small smile that made him falter for a microsecond – an eternity for someone trained by the Roscharch Family. He recovered instantly, but the moment haunted him.
After the meeting, she lingered behind as others filed out. "That was impressive," she said, gathering her papers. "Though you seemed distracted at one point."
"Did I?" He allowed himself a small smile. "Must be jet lag from last week's Tokyo trip."
"You're always traveling somewhere, aren't you?" There was genuine curiosity in her voice. "Don't you ever get tired of it?"
*Every single day*, he thought. But instead, he said, "It's part of the job."
"Speaking of which," she continued, "a group of us are going to Maxwell's tonight. You should join us. Even executives need to unwind sometimes."
For a moment, Alexander imagined it – a normal evening, normal conversations, the simple pleasure of Claire's company without the weight of his other life pressing down on him. But then he remembered the last time he'd allowed himself to care for someone. Rebecca. Paris. Three years ago. The memory of her blood on his hands was still fresh.
