Hazel didn't sleep.
She sat by the window of the penthouse's highest room, watching the city twitch beneath her. The journal lay open on the glass table beside her, its pages filled with names — old crime lords, politicians, foreign buyers, and Graze ancestors.
Each one linked by Benjamin Crane's cryptic shorthand.
And that final entry, scrawled in the same frantic handwriting she remembered from the last letter he sent before his death:
"They'll come for the heir. The throne is never empty."
Hazel traced the words with trembling fingers.
The heir.
Her.
A knock at the door.
Michael stepped in, sharp in black, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tension radiating from him like heat.
"Hazel."
She looked up. "I know who killed my father."
Michael's jaw tightened. "You went alone. To a meet I explicitly told you not to take."
"He knew about my father, Michael. The journal's real."
"Who?" he demanded.
Hazel hesitated, then whispered the name.
"Roman Crowe."
The color drained from Michael's face. Not in fear — in fury.
"He's dead."
Hazel tossed the journal onto the table. "Apparently not."
Michael ran a hand through his hair, cursing low. "If Roman's alive, everything changes."
Hazel stood, crossing to him. "Then let it."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
Then Hazel added quietly, "He won't stop until one of us is dead."
Michael's voice dropped. "It won't be you."
**
Graze Tower — War Room
The core of Graze operations was a floor few even knew existed. Reinforced walls, blackout protocols, and a meeting table carved from wood older than the city itself.
Connor and two other lieutenants waited.
Michael barked orders as soon as he entered. "Double the guard. No one moves in or out without clearance. I want eyes on every inch of this city. Roman Crowe just put a price on Hazel's head."
Hazel strode in behind him, radiating steel.
"I'll be bait."
Connor blinked. "Uh… come again?"
Hazel smirked. "He wants me? Fine. Let him come."
Michael growled, "Not happening."
She met his gaze, unwavering. "You said it yourself — we don't wait for enemies to strike first."
Michael's jaw worked, war waging in his eyes.
"Hazel."
"I'm not your porcelain doll, Michael."
"You're my wife," he bit out, voice low and rough.
The room fell silent.
Hazel's heart stuttered.
"I can't lose you."
For the first time since the chaos began, Hazel softened. Crossing to him, she cupped his face. "Then stand with me."
His hand closed around hers, and for a second, the world narrowed to just them.
Then Connor cleared his throat. "I… uh… can step out if you two wanna…"
"Shut up, Connor," they said in unison.
**
Midnight — The Trap
Hazel stood alone in the courtyard of an abandoned opera house. The moon hung low, city fog curling around her ankles. She wore a sleek black suit, twin daggers at her hips, a gun strapped to her thigh.
Earpiece buzzing.
Michael's voice in her ear. "Hazel, report."
She smirked. "Still alive."
Michael's sigh crackled through the line.
Then, movement.
Figures slipped from the mist — five, maybe six. Armed. Quick.
Hazel's pulse didn't waver.
The leader stepped forward, a familiar face.
Roman Crowe. Leaner. Scarred. A viper reborn.
"Well, well," he drawled. "The little princess grew claws."
Hazel's grip tightened on her daggers. "You should've stayed dead."
Roman grinned. "You should've learned your place."
From the shadows, Michael appeared like a storm — gun raised, fury etched in every line of his face.
"You first," Michael snarled.
Chaos erupted.
Gunfire. Blades clashing. Hazel moved like liquid fire, a dancer in war. Michael covered her back, their rhythm perfect — two halves of a singular, lethal whole.
Roman and Hazel met in the center.
"You wear your father's sins like a crown," Roman hissed, blade flashing.
Hazel ducked, drove her dagger into his shoulder. "And I'll bury yours in your chest."
Blood spilled. Roman stumbled.
But as Hazel raised her weapon for the kill — another shot rang out.
A figure from the rooftops.
Hazel dropped, pain burning through her side.
"Hazel!" Michael roared.
Roman vanished into the mist, blood trailing behind him.
Connor's voice filled the earpiece. "Backup's here! We're moving in!"
Michael dropped to his knees beside Hazel, pulling her against him. Blood soaked her jacket, but she was smirking through gritted teeth.
"You… owe me dinner for this."
Michael crushed his mouth to hers in a reckless, desperate kiss.
"Done," he growled against her lips. "But you're not dying, Hazel. Not now."
She coughed a laugh. "Told you… I'm not porcelain."