"Nobody is allowed between these pretty little thighs but me....and if anyone tries...𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."
~
They call him The King-a ghost who rules the world's most powerful mafia from the shadows. No face. No mercy. No mistakes.
And beside...
-"Next time I'm opening up to someone is my autopsy."-
_______________________________
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The hum of the jet engines filled the silence like a heartbeat no one wanted to acknowledge. Outside, the sky hung black and endless, speckled with distant stars that blinked like fractured memories.
Inside the cabin, no one spoke.
They were still hours from Sweden, but the air felt thinner. Heavier. As if the altitude wasn't the only thing pressing down on their lungs.
They had grieved her. Lost her. And yet now, with every mile closing in on her past, they were peeling her open again—layer by hidden layer, name by stolen name.
It wasn't just about who Kaia was anymore. It was about who she had been to each of them.
A secret. A storm. A savior. A question that never came with answers.
They sat scattered across the cabin, but none of them were truly apart. Not tonight.
Tonight, they remembered. Not because they wanted to, but because they had to. Because to understand what awaited them in Sweden, they first had to remember the moment she walked into their lives.
And everything after that was never the same.
Blade seemed to be reminiscing as well as he examined an infinitely sharp dagger.
The jet hummed through the clouds, slicing toward Sweden like a blade through silk. Inside, the cabin was dim. Quiet. Every soul onboard heavy with memory, wrapped in the grief of a girl who had never belonged to the world she died for.
Blade sat near the back, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes unfocused as he stared at the floor. He hadn't spoken in hours. Hadn't needed to. Something in his silence told the others he was someplace else entirely.
And he was.
♕
Eleven years ago — New Orleans
The streets stank of bourbon and vomit, of spilled beer and gumbo left to rot on the sidewalks. People danced in the haze of Mardi Gras—painted faces, sequined costumes, beads flying overhead. The kind of chaos that made it easy to disappear.
He was twenty-two. Almost. Close enough. A mask covered the right side of his face, hiding the scar that still burned like his father's final curse. He moved through the crowd like a ghost, slow and surgical, untouched by the madness around him.
He knew where his father would be. Knew what time he'd leave the bar. Knew the alley he'd piss in before stumbling home. Knew exactly how the bastard would die—choked on his own blood with a knife buried in the gut that had sired monsters.
