The rain came down like judgment over the city, washing blood into the gutters where it belonged. Detective Marcus Halloway stood in the alley behind Giuseppe's Bar, watching a man twice his size whimper against the brick wall.
"I don't know nothing about no guns, man. I swear."
Marcus didn't blink. The rain soaked through his coat, cold water running down his collar, but he didn't move. He'd been standing here for ten minutes, saying nothing, just staring. It was amazing what silence could do to a man's nerves.
"Vincent Caruso," Marcus said finally, his voice low and even. "Sold three pistols to the Westside Boys last month. Two of those guns were used in a drive-by that killed a sixteen-year-old girl."
"That wasn't me, man—"
"Her name was Maria Santos." Marcus took a step closer. The man pressed harder against the wall. "She was walking home from her shift at the grocery store. Had her whole life ahead of her."
"I didn't pull no trigger—"
"No. You just put the gun in their hands." Marcus's jaw tightened. "Now you're going to tell me where Vincent gets his merchandise, or I'm going to make sure every dealer in this city knows you're talking to me anyway."
The man's eyes widened. "You can't do that. They'll kill me."
"Then I guess you'd better give me something worth protecting you for."
Twenty minutes later, Marcus had three names, two addresses, and the location of a stash house. He also had the familiar weight of guilt settling in his chest as he walked back to his car. The man would disappear into witness protection if things went well, but Marcus had crossed another line to get there. No warrant. No official interrogation. Just a scared man in an alley and a detective willing to bend the rules until they almost broke.
The city can be better, he told himself, the same mantra he'd been repeating for five years. But not by playing clean.
His phone buzzed as he climbed into the driver's seat. His partner's name flashed on the screen.
"Halloway."
"Where are you?" Detective Sarah Chen's voice was sharp with irritation. "Captain's been asking."
"Following up on the Santos case. Got some leads."
"Leads you got without backup or authorization?"
Marcus started the engine. "The kind that'll actually put guns off the street."
Sarah sighed. "You're going to get yourself suspended one of these days, Marcus. Or worse."
"Maybe. But the guns will be gone."
"That's not—" She stopped herself. They'd had this argument before. "Whatever. Listen, there's something on the news you should see. Turn on Channel 7."
Marcus switched on the car radio and found the station. A polished voice filled the car, accompanied by what sounded like a crowded room and champagne glasses clinking.
"—the annual Ashford Foundation Winter Gala, where the city's elite have gathered to celebrate the season and, ostensibly, raise money for local charities. With us tonight is Jonathan Ashford, CEO of Ashford Industries and patriarch of one of the city's most prominent families."
Marcus's grip tightened on the steering wheel. The Ashfords.
"Mr. Ashford, your family has been a cornerstone of this city's business community for three generations. What does this holiday season mean to the Ashford family?"
Jonathan Ashford's voice was smooth, practiced, the voice of a man who'd spent his life convincing people he cared. "The holidays are about family, tradition, and giving back to the community that's given us so much. The Ashford Foundation has donated over two million dollars this year to various causes—"
Marcus switched off the radio. He didn't need to hear the rest. Everyone in the department knew about the Ashfords. Everyone in the city knew about the Ashfords. They owned half the commercial real estate downtown, had their fingers in manufacturing, retail, and media. On paper, they were philanthropists. In reality, they were parasites.
Marcus had worked three cases that brushed against Ashford interests. A wage theft complaint from factory workers—dismissed after the lead witness suddenly recanted. A zoning violation that would have shut down an unsafe warehouse—buried under paperwork and legal motions. A wrongful termination suit from a whistleblower—settled out of court with an NDA so tight it might as well have been a gag order.
Every time, the Ashfords walked away clean. Every time, people suffered.
And every time, Marcus felt that familiar itch under his skin, the one that said someone should do something.
But he never did. Because even he knew where the line was, even if he walked right up to it. You didn't go after families like the Ashfords without a perfect case, without ironclad evidence, without the kind of backing that a detective with his reputation would never get.
So they remained untouchable, shining on magazine covers and charity galas while the city bled.
Marcus pulled out of the alley and headed toward the precinct. The rain was getting heavier, the kind of December storm that made the city feel like it was drowning. He'd file his report, leave out the parts about the interrogation methods, and go home to his empty apartment where he'd pour a drink and try not to think about all the lines he'd crossed.
Just another day in a city that couldn't decide if it wanted to be saved.
The precinct was quieter than usual when Marcus arrived, most of the day shift having gone home already. He nodded to the desk sergeant and made his way upstairs, rain still dripping from his coat.
Sarah was at her desk, surrounded by case files and cold coffee. She looked up as he approached, her expression somewhere between concerned and annoyed.
"You look like hell," she said.
"Feel like it too." Marcus dropped into his chair and started typing up his report. "What did the Captain want?"
"To know why you've been working the Santos case alone for the past week when you're supposed to be sharing information with the task force."
"The task force moves too slow."
"The task force follows procedure."
"The task force lets dealers slip through the cracks while they're filling out forms in triplicate."
Sarah leaned back in her chair. "You know I agree with you, Marcus. About most of it. But you're burning bridges. People talk. They say you plant evidence, intimidate witnesses, break into places without warrants."
"Do they say I get results?"
"Results don't matter if you can't use them in court."
Marcus stopped typing and met her eyes. "Maria Santos is still dead, Sarah. Her family still has to bury a sixteen-year-old. If the system worked, she'd still be alive. So forgive me if I'm not too concerned about procedure."
The office fell silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of phones ringing downstairs. Sarah's expression softened.
"I know," she said quietly. "I know you're trying to help. But one of these days, you're going to cross a line you can't come back from."
"Maybe." Marcus returned to his report. "But not today."
Sarah watched him for a moment longer, then shook her head and went back to her own work. They'd been partners for three years, and she'd learned when to push and when to let it go. This was a "let it go" moment.
The television in the corner of the office was on, muted, showing more footage from the Ashford gala. Marcus glanced up and saw them all there, smiling for cameras, shaking hands with politicians and business leaders. Jonathan Ashford in the center, his wife Patricia beside him in a dress that probably cost more than Marcus made in a month.
Their children were there too. Marcus recognized some of them from news articles and society pages. The oldest son, Richard, who ran some kind of social media empire and was always posting videos of his luxury lifestyle. The daughter, Catherine, who actually seemed decent by comparison—she ran a few of the family's legitimate charity programs, or at least put her name on them.
There were others too—cousins, uncles, aunts, all of them circling the Ashford name like sharks around blood in the water.
And there, almost invisible in the background, was a boy. Fourteen, maybe fifteen, wearing an uncomfortable-looking suit that was slightly too big for him. He stood apart from the others, hands in his pockets, staring at nothing in particular while the family mingled and smiled.
Marcus had seen that look before. The look of someone who was there but not really present. Someone overlooked.
The camera panned away, focusing back on Jonathan Ashford as he gave some speech about community and responsibility, and the boy disappeared from view entirely.
Marcus turned back to his report. The Ashfords and their problems weren't his concern. He had real crimes to solve, real victims who needed justice. People like Maria Santos who couldn't hire lawyers or buy their way out of consequences.
Let the rich eat each other. He had work to do.
He finished his report just after eight, filed it electronically, and grabbed his coat. Sarah had already left, her desk clean and organized as always. Marcus's looked like a tornado had hit it—files scattered, coffee cups forming rings on old case folders, sticky notes with cryptic reminders covering his monitor.
Maybe tomorrow he'd clean it. Probably not.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from his informant, the one he'd been protecting for the past six months despite multiple orders to bring him in. The man had information on three different drug operations and a human trafficking ring, but the moment he went official, he'd be dead within a week.
So Marcus kept him off the books. Another line crossed. Another regulation bent.
Meeting tomorrow. Same place. 7am.
Marcus typed back a confirmation and pocketed his phone. Tomorrow would be another day of walking the tightrope between justice and the law, between right and what was allowed.
As he headed for the door, he passed the television one more time. The gala was ending, the Ashfords waving to cameras as they left in their expensive cars, heading back to their mansions and their comfortable lives.
Something about the image bothered him, though he couldn't say what. Maybe it was the excess, the casual display of wealth in a city where people were struggling to eat. Maybe it was the knowledge that they'd done terrible things and would never face consequences.
Or maybe it was that boy, standing alone in an ill-fitting suit, invisible to everyone including his own family.
Marcus pushed through the precinct doors and into the rain. Christmas was in three days. The city would sparkle with lights and decorations, people would gather with their families, and for a brief moment everyone would pretend things were better than they were.
Then December 26th would come, and it would all go back to normal. The grind. The violence. The corruption.
The same city, still bleeding.
Marcus climbed into his car and drove home through the rain, not knowing that in three days, everything would change.
Not knowing that the Ashfords' perfect Christmas was about to become a nightmare.
Not knowing that somewhere in that mansion, a boy who'd been overlooked his entire life was making final preparations for a reckoning that would span an entire year.
The rain fell harder, and the city washed its sins into the gutters one more time.
End of Chapter 1