"Call the chief," Seraphina said, her tone smooth as silk over steel. She didn't look up from her phone, one long leg crossed over the other as she lounged in a chair far too uncomfortable for someone with taste. "Everyone loves Chief George. He's got that classic golden retriever reputation. Untouchable. Honest. Like a Hallmark dad who moonlights as a moral compass."
Mahoney choked on his own spit. "You want me—a glorified meter maid—to call the chief of the entire NYPD?"
Context: The NYPD was a bureaucratic swamp monster with seventy-seven heads, nine housing burrows, twelve transport tentacles, and a snack budget that could feed a small country. Mahoney? He was plankton.
"That's not just a bold move," he muttered, half-laughing, half-panicking. "That's career Sudoku."
"Well, start sketching numbers," Seraphina said coolly, snapping her gum. "Or we can both sit here and let Chinatown fester like an untreated bullet wound. Your call."
He hesitated. Fear flickered behind his eyes. Good. That meant he still had self-preservation instincts.
"If I call the chief and he thinks I'm on a tinfoil bender—I'm done."
Seraphina didn't blink. She didn't do blinking when intimidation worked better.
She couldn't exactly tell him that she knew George was legit because she'd run a dossier on the man tighter than a CIA Christmas list. That'd raise questions like: How? Why? Are you a fed? Or just fashion-forward Hydra?
Instead, she let the suggestion hang in the air like perfume laced with cyanide.
"Fine," Mahoney sighed after a long moment, squaring his jaw like a man preparing to wrestle a bear with a spoon. "But you're coming with me. No way I'm walking into that lion's den solo."
Seraphina smiled, sharp and slow. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
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[ Three Days Later ]
While Mahoney went on a covert bureaucratic odyssey, Seraphina did what any self-respecting former assassin in a new city would do: she continued her fighting practices for making her old muscle memories and of course going gym for muscles gaining. And practicing how to use her power more precisely.
After her last brawl, she realized something irritating. Her quake powers were devastating, sure—but also loud, messy, and prone to attracting unwanted attention.
Mahoney reappeared like a man who'd just survived a government tribunal. Hair messy, eyes wide, confidence fried.
"Dinner. At. The. Chief's," he gasped. "I'm invited to dinner with Chief George. And his family."
Seraphina arched a brow. "Look at you. From patrolman to political savant. What did you do, bribe his dog?"
"I wrote him a ticket. On his personal car."
She snorted. Loudly. "Ballsy. Suicidal. I approve."
"He called me in instead of filing a complaint. Said I had nerve. I told him I had facts. Real ones. He wants to see proof. Over lemon sea bass."
"Wait. Did you say lemon sea bass?"
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[ Stacy Home ]
Upper Manhattan, apparently, was where integrity went to gentrify. The Stacy residence was a high-rise fortress of polished glass, manicured lobby guards, and the type of elevator that played Mozart like a guilty conscience.
The door opened to reveal Chief George Stacy himself. Thin, blonde, angular in that way that made Seraphina instinctively check for hidden blades. He wore a full suit. In his own home. The kind of man who probably ironed his pajamas.
He looked at her, said nothing.
She smirked.
Inside, the contrast was striking. Mrs. Stacy greeted them with a warmth that felt like lavender-scented hand towels and old sitcom reruns. Her aura practically begged people to confess sins over cookies.
And then came the family.
First: Gwen. Teenager. Blonde. Looked like a genetically engineered cheerleader. She gave Seraphina a once-over that screamed, Who let a Bond villain into our house?
Then: The younger one. Seven-ish. Hair like trouble, eyes like future therapy bills. Adorable.
The meal was lemon sea bass, roasted asparagus, and something that may have once been rice but now served more as decorative gravel.
Seraphina ate like a Roman general fresh from war. Controlled, elegant, and utterly without apology.
She'd been living off hotel bread and rice crackers that crumbled like false promises. Now? Now she was inhaling fish like Poseidon owed her rent.
Mrs. Stacy looked delighted.
Gwen looked horrified.
Mahoney looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.
"So," Mrs. Stacy asked gently, "what brings you to New York, Miss Johnson?"
Seraphina licked lemon sauce from her fork with all the delicacy of a queen eating caviar on a battlefield.
"Vengeance. And good shopping."
A beat of silence.
Then Mrs. Stacy laughed.
Gwen did not.
After dinner, while the women cleared the table, Chief Stacy led them into a drawing room that was less "man cave" and more "legal war room."
"Miss Johnson," he began, hands folded, voice like someone who'd spent twenty years making suspects cry, "how did you come across this... operation?"
Seraphina leaned back on the leather couch, the very picture of grace with a side of menace.
"Let's call it a civic obligation. Someone went missing. I followed the trail. Turns out the rabbit hole had a basement."
She dropped the stack of evidence like a dealer in a high-stakes poker game.
Utility bills. Shipping manifests. Facial reconstructions. Missing persons reports.
Even George blinked.
She offered him a razor-sharp smile. "Don't worry. No classified leaks. I keep things neat."
"You have photos?"
"No. Madame Gao is camera-shy. Like a vampire but with better posture."
He sifted through the documents, one brow slowly rising.
"This is thorough. Disturbingly so."
"I'm an overachiever. And I don't like human trafficking rings operating on my doorstep."
"Your doorstep?"
"Everything I walk on becomes mine."
Mahoney coughed to hide a laugh.
Chief George leaned forward, a frown pulling at his temple. "This could be something. But it's delicate."
"Delicate is for tea parties. These people move product like Amazon. You wait too long, and someone else disappears."
He studied her. She didn't flinch.
"You ever worked with law enforcement before?"
"Not... with. But I've taken a few bullets in their general direction."
He almost smiled. Almost.
"Alright. If you're lying, we'll find out."
"If I were lying, I'd be wearing heels and charging rent for this performance."
And the meeting continued.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]