Chapter 1 - The Scars Behind the Silk
Rory looked like a man standing before a firing squad. His jaw hung open, his hands hovered uselessly in midair, and his breathing came in shallow, panicked wheezes. In the Sheridan Syndicate, crossing the boss's inner circle was bad, but crossing Cormac Sheridan’s impeccably organized, unbothered personal assistant felt like committing treason against the universe.
Quinn Sutherland did not blink. A thick stream of sugary dairy and dark espresso dripped off the edge of her crisp collar, running down the fabric and pooling on the desk blotter. A single drop clung to the bridge of her wire-rimmed glasses. With agonizing calm, she reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a stack of paper napkins, and wiped the lens clean. Only then did she look up at Rory. Her gray eyes were completely flat.
"Take the paperwork off the desk before it absorbs the liquid," Quinn said, her voice dropping into an icy, steady register. "Then get the industrial vacuum from the janitor's closet on the twelfth floor. You have four minutes before the caramel stains the rug permanently."
Rory stammered, nodding so hard his neck looked ready to snap. "Yes, ma'am! I'm sorry, Miss Sutherland, I swear to God I tripped—"
"Go, Rory," Cormac intervened, his voice a low rumble.
The kid bolted like a frightened deer. Cormac reached into his breast pocket, drew out a fresh linen handkerchief, and held it out to her. Quinn stood up, her soaked blouse clinging heavily to her chest and shoulders. The translucent fabric was already threatening to give way to whatever lay beneath, though she wore a thick camisole underneath that shielded her skin. She took the handkerchief, dabbing mechanically at her lapel.
"I have a spare blouse in the executive archives," Quinn said, keeping her chin level. "The dry cleaner delivered it yesterday. I will be back at my post in ten minutes."
"Take your time, Sutherland," Cormac said, glancing at the sticky puddle threatening his shipping invoices. "Take the rest of the afternoon if you need it."
"The port manifest requires a supervisor's digital signature by one o'clock," she countered, walking past him toward the hallway. "Ten minutes is sufficient."
Cormac watched her retreat down the marble corridor. She moved with a strange, fluid grace—silent, purposeful, never wasting an inch of movement. He shook his head, grabbed a rag from the wet bar, and began sopping up the caramel mess himself. Five minutes later, Rory returned with a steam extractor, sweating through his polo shirt.
"Boss, I am so sorry, honest to God—"
"Shut up and clean, Rory," Cormac muttered, his eyes drifting down to Quinn’s desk. In her rush to change, she had left her ledger open. Beneath the shipping logs lay a single yellow manifest slip with an odd stamp on it: an embossed silver crest featuring a broken anchor.
Cormac’s heart skipped a beat. The broken anchor belonged to the O’Malley clan—an old South Boston rival family that had supposedly been eradicated a decade ago during his late father's bloody ascension. What was an O'Malley shipping stamp doing inside his private corporate ledger?
Frowning, Cormac took the slip. He needed to ask Quinn where she had pulled this archived record from. He walked down the corridor toward the executive archives, a quiet back room reserved for historical deeds and private records. The door was heavy oak, fitted with an antique brass latch. Cormac grabbed the handle and twisted. The brass bolt gave a loud, metallic snap—the internal tumbler, warped from years of neglected maintenance, gave out completely, and the door swung wide open.
"Quinn, where did you find this O'Malley—"
The words died in his throat.
Quinn stood in the center of the dimly lit room. She had unbuttoned the ruined silk blouse; it lay draped over the arm of a velvet armchair. Her back was turned directly toward him. She wasn't wearing a camisole.
Cormac froze. His hand remained gripped on the doorframe, his lungs completely locked.
Her back was a map of horrors.
Dozens of thick, silvered, jagged scars crisscrossed her pale flesh from her nape down to her waistline. They were not the jagged remnants of an accident, nor the clean incisions of surgery. They were whip marks, chemical burns, and deep, deliberate lacerations. Some were faded white with age, but several near her shoulder blades were angry, raised keloids, etched into her skin with calculated, savage cruelty. And right between her shoulder blades, half-obscured by scar tissue, was the faint, branded silhouette of a broken anchor.
Quinn didn't scream. She didn't shriek or cover her chest in panic. With terrifying, mechanical composure, she reached for the clean cotton shirt on the table, pulled it over her head, and turned around to face him. Her wire-rimmed glasses sat squarely on her face. Her breathing was entirely level, though the color had drained from her cheeks, leaving her as pale as marble.
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"You should have knocked, Mr. Sheridan," Quinn said softly.
Cormac stared at her, his voice rough and completely unrecognizable. "Quinn... who did that to you?"
