Night draped the Bronx in neon and noise.
Inside the Carlson family's most profitable nightclub, bass thundered through the floor. Bodies packed the dance area, lights strobed across sweat and smoke, and the air carried the sharp scent of alcohol and bad decisions. In shadowed corners, people paid for things they didn't want traced back to them.
Rowan sat at the bar with a drink he barely touched, eyes scanning the room.
According to Leon, this club was currently managed by the youngest Carlson son. The man came almost every night. Not for business. For hunting. He liked newcomers. People who didn't understand the place yet. People without protection.
The pattern was always the same. Identify a target. Have his men isolate them. Move them to a private room. Money and threats took care of the rest. Complaints disappeared. Those who resisted learned quickly how deep the river was.
The club's reputation kept anyone powerful away. The regulars were either hardened or naïve.
Then the doors opened.
A broad-shouldered man with a shaved head entered, flanked by enforcers, and claimed the VIP booth as if it were a throne. Rowan stood.
Killing him outright would be easy. Too easy. And too loud.
High-profile assassinations made people hide. They caused investigations. Panic. Rowan needed the leadership to keep showing up. To keep thinking they were safe.
Accidents were better.
From the booth, Carlson's son scanned the dance floor and smiled.
"There," he said, nodding toward a woman near the edge of the crowd. New face. Hesitant movements. Clearly unfamiliar with the place.
One of his men leaned closer. "Want us to bring her over?"
Carlson waved him off. "No. I'll handle this myself."
He stood and moved into the crowd, blocking her path as she tried to leave. His voice was lost in the music, but his hands weren't subtle. Her discomfort was immediate. Her friends were quickly surrounded.
Rowan stepped closer.
"Tarantella."
A thin thread of magic slipped through the lights and struck Carlson squarely.
His hands froze. His legs jerked violently, forcing him into an erratic, frantic dance. To the crowd, it looked like drunken theatrics. His men laughed and cheered, assuming this was just another show.
Carlson himself was panicking.
"Leg-Locker."
His knees locked mid-motion. He stumbled backward.
At the same instant, a loose metal stud from a nearby patron's jacket snapped free, skittered across the floor, and rolled to the exact spot where Carlson fell.
The impact was sickeningly final.
Screams erupted. The dance floor exploded into chaos. Rowan let himself be carried out with the crowd, vanishing into the street.
Two hours later, the club was sealed off.
Old Carlson arrived in silence, leaning heavily on his cane as his men reported.
"Cameras confirm it," one said. "No signs of an attack. No external involvement. It was… an accident."
Carlson closed his eyes.
"I warned him," he said quietly. "Discipline would have saved him."
He straightened.
"The men assigned to him failed. Deal with them."
His grief was real. So was his calculation.
A dead heir meant instability. Power shifted when succession became unclear. Ambition followed.
As he left the club, Carlson's thoughts weren't on justice.
They were on survival.
"I can still hold this together," he muttered. "But I need a new successor. Fast."
From the shadows, Rowan watched the family's fault lines begin to split.