Chapter 1: Blood in the Shadows

Blinding sunlight cut through the narrow cracks above, slicing into the heart of a shadow-soaked alley in downtown Maple Heights. The contrast was jarring—brilliant beams illuminating patches of grit, while the rest of the alley hunched in darkness. The air was thick with the sharp tang of city heat, and somewhere nearby, the distant thump of bass from a passing car vibrated the bricks beneath my feet.

Sunlight glinted off shards of broken glass scattered across the pavement, catching on wild, looping graffiti tags smeared across the alley walls. The city’s heartbeat thudded just around the corner—horns blaring, engines revving—but in this forgotten slice of downtown, it was just me, the sour reek of rotting trash, and the guy kneeling at my feet. Far off, a siren wailed, the sound bouncing down the alley, swallowed by the brick and grime.

I marched over, boots crunching on gravel, and kicked the guy’s backpack aside. His DSLR camera skittered across the concrete, coming to a stop in a murky puddle by a rusted-out dumpster.

The camera splashed down in the filthy water, lens spinning with a pitiful whirr. For a fleeting second, I caught my own reflection in the glass—jaw clenched, eyes like ice. The alley stank of stale beer, sour urine, and something burnt. None of it mattered. I was here for one reason: to deliver a warning.

I grabbed a fistful of his hair and jerked him upright. “Listen, Mr. Delaney—let me give you a word of warning: stay the hell away from the Fairmont Group.”

His scalp was slick with sweat, and I could feel him shivering, but he kept his jaw tight. Even with pain written all over his face, he stared me down. Somewhere behind the fear, I almost respected the guy’s nerve.

As head of security for Fairmont Group, I’d learned that teaching nosy reporters a lesson wasn’t just a job—it was practically a daily routine. Sometimes I wondered if it was the only thing that kept me on Dalton’s payroll.

It wasn’t the life I pictured when I was a kid. But here in Maple Heights, you don’t just follow the rules—you learn to read the fine print, or you end up as someone else’s cautionary tale. Tonight, I was the one calling the shots.

Blood trickled down his forehead, but he managed a crooked smile and muttered, “Alright, Officer Shields.”

His voice trembled, but the sarcasm was unmistakable. He was bleeding, pale, and still had the guts to mouth off. I almost admired it. Almost.

My eyes narrowed, hardening.

I’m a cop—or, I was, once. That part never really leaves you, no matter how deep you bury it.

My name’s Travis Shields. A few months back, I walked away from the badge, started using the name Mark Shields, and signed on as head of security for Fairmont Realty.

Fake IDs, fake credentials, real hunger. The money was better, but the work was dirtier. I told myself it was just a stopgap—just until I found what I was searching for.

Because of my bottomless appetite, everyone calls me Ten Plates. Don’t ask—it’s a story that stuck.

The nickname started as a joke at a company barbecue—one of the guys counted my empty paper plates and started calling me ‘Ten Plates.’ Somehow, the name followed me everywhere. Now, it’s the first thing people remember about me, and the last thing they let me forget. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the only reason anyone talks to me at all.

Fairmont is the biggest real estate outfit in Maple Heights, all under the Dalton family’s thumb. Their reach goes way past property—trucking, private schools, even the hospital on Main. Nearly half the city’s taxes come from their businesses.

Drive through town, and you can’t miss their name. Their logo’s plastered on billboards, their foundation keeps the mayor’s campaign signs planted on every median.

On the surface, they look squeaky clean. But David Dalton, the boss, has one foot in the boardroom and the other in the city’s underbelly. When he wants something, he doesn’t hesitate to send in the muscle.

Word is, if you cross Dalton, you either pack up and leave or end up needing a new set of teeth. People call him a philanthropist, but I’ve seen the side of him that never makes the front page.

So roughing up a reporter like I did last night? That’s just another Tuesday in my world.

I don’t take pride in it, but sometimes survival means getting your hands dirty. And I’ve been surviving for a long, long time.

It was just after eight in the morning when my phone started buzzing, yanking me out of a restless sleep. The screen lit up with Savannah Lane’s name, her voice trembling with panic the moment I answered.

She’s usually unflappable, ice-cold under pressure. Hearing her shaken like that made my nerves jangle. Not even the fire alarm at the office last month had rattled her like this.

“Travis, something’s happened. You gotta get over here. I’ll text the address.”

Savannah Lane—David Dalton’s personal secretary—was a knockout with a razor-sharp mind. She dropped by the office often, sometimes with errands, sometimes just to check in. We’d gotten pretty familiar over the months.

There’s a look she gives me sometimes—half dare, half invitation. But I know better than to cross those lines in a town like this. Not if I want to keep my job—and my teeth.

“What’s wrong? Breathe, Savannah. Just tell me.”

I could hear her sucking in air, ragged and fast, like she’d sprinted up a flight of stairs. Or maybe she was just scared out of her mind. Either way, I bolted upright.

“It’s bad—really bad, someone’s dead. Please, just come. I’ll explain when you get here.” She hung up before I could say another word.

The call cut off, and my stomach twisted. The world tilted, just a notch—enough to make me dizzy.

My heart hammered in my chest, a cold dread crawling up my spine.

The last time I heard that tone, it was the night my dad disappeared. My hands trembled as I shoved the phone into my pocket.