The Bad Seed of the Underworld

1 I was born bad. A rotten seed down to the marrow. When I was seven, the boy next door told me I was garbage nobody wanted. By sundown, I’d snapped three disposable-camera photos of his father slipping into a motel room with his dental hygienist and taped copies across every mailbox in the cul-de-sac. His parents divorced by Thanksgiving; after that, nobody wanted him, either. When I was eight, our foster home’s live-in housekeeper kicked me down the basement stairs. That night, I emptied two economy bottles of lavender bath gel across the sloped porcelain of her tub. She slipped the next morning—compound fracture, tibia shattered in two places. So when Arthur and Eleanor Mercer tracked me down through state records at eighteen, the local society pages hailed them as saints. The Mercer family, beloved philanthropists, taking back their lost, feral daughter to save her from the gutter. Except on my very first night in their gated estate, they pinned me to a stainless-steel examination table in their private cellar clinic. They wanted my kidney. Their adopted golden child, Vivian, was suffering from acute renal failure. She’d spent a year on the donor registry, deteriorating, until my DNA popped up in the national match pool. I was the spare tire. The designated harvest. I didn’t cry. I didn't beg. I just palmed an eight-inch surgical scalpel off the tray and aimed straight for Arthur’s throat, fully prepared to gut both of them like deer. If I had to lose an organ, they were losing theirs first. They panicked, cracked a brass paperweight across my temple, and loaded my limp body into the trunk of a town car. Arthur’s breath reeked of expensive scotch as he dragged me into the underground garage of a private downtown high-rise. "Do you have any idea who lives up there?" Arthur hissed, twisting my collar until the cotton choked off my air. "Declan Cross. They call him Nine. His torture methods make federal prison look like a country club. A vicious, ungrateful stray like you needs the syndicate to teach you how to heel." Eleanor Mercer dabbed her nose with a monogrammed handkerchief, her voice cold as sleet. "Vivian offended Mr. Cross's associates last week. You’re taking her place to wipe the slate clean. Don't worry—scum like you doesn't die easy. Once he's finished with you, we’ll take the kidney." I slumped against the leather seat, an ugly laugh bubbling in my throat. Did they honestly never wonder who taught me how to be this vicious in the first place? Arthur dragged me by the roots of my hair onto the curb, forcing my face up toward the wrought-iron gates of the high-rise estate. "Look at it," he snarled. "This isn't a street corner you can run your mouth on." A thick linen washcloth was crammed into my mouth, secured with industrial duct tape. I couldn't speak, so I let my eyes drift toward the twin stone gargoyles flanking the heavy bronze entry. The gargoyle on the left had a shattered ear, jagged and raw. Declan had kicked it off with a steel-toed boot ten years ago. I’d tried climbing the pediment as a child, lost my footing, and scraped both knees raw. To stop me from crying, Declan had sworn a blue streak and kicked the granite ear clean off, yelling that no piece of masonry had the right to trip his kid. A strange warmth flickered through my chest. Arthur took my glassy stare for terror and sneered. "Finally scared? Every cop and judge in this city lowers their voice when they say the name Declan Cross. Let's see how smart your mouth is in five minutes." I bit down on the cloth to hide my smirk. Yes, Declan had done three years in federal prison. But not for running drugs or shaking down innocents. He’d run a child-trafficking transport off an elevated highway ten years ago—two kidnappers dead, three crippled, six stolen children pulled alive from the burning van. When he walked out of penitentiary walls, he took over the Southside underbelly and methodically tore down every back-alley racket, extortion ring, and brothel operating in his zip code. And me? He’d pulled me out from beneath a rusted highway bridge when I was six, wrapped in a soaked wool coat. Eleanor stepped close, pulling a silk wipe from her designer clutch to swipe the dirt from my cheekbone. Her hands were soft, manicured, and utterly devoid of mercy. "Darcy, listen to Mother one last time," she murmured softly. "Whatever Mr. Cross demands of you tonight, you submit. Vivian has a delicate constitution; she couldn't survive an hour in a place like this. But you—you were raised by rats. You're built for suffering." I held her gaze, steady and unblinking. Something in my eyes unnerved her. She flinched, then snapped, her open palm cracking hard across my jaw. "Stop looking at me like that!" The metallic tang of blood flooded my mouth. Arthur ignored the slap, pulling out his burner phone to dial. A minute later, the reinforced security door clicked open, and Gage stepped out onto the granite steps. Gage. Declan’s right hand. He looked as lethal as ever—tall, built like a brick wall, eyes deadened to the world. But I knew the man who slipped me sour cherry chews from his leather jacket, always muttering with a scowl, "Gas station threw them in for free. Don't look at me." When I was twelve and hopped a chain-link fence to fight three neighborhood bullies, he’d screamed at me for two hours for being reckless—then grabbed a crowbar from the trunk and went back to crack their older brothers' ribs. My pulse hammered against my ribs. I tried to scream his name. All that came out was a muffled, pathetic whine behind the tape. Worse, the blood from Eleanor’s slap had smeared across my cheek and chin, plastering my matted hair across my forehead. Gage’s eyes swept over me without a flicker of recognition. He saw a battered, nameless girl. His gaze settled on Arthur. "Mr. Mercer?" Arthur broke into an oily, practiced grin. "Gage, sir. Thank you for granting an audience. I brought the delivery." He shoved me forward with all his weight. My knees buckled, and I hit the pavement headfirst, skidding directly to a halt against Gage’s polished leather boots. "This is my biological daughter," Arthur said smoothly, his voice brimming with pious regret. "She insisted on coming here to make amends on Vivian's behalf." Eleanor chimed in, sounding like a grieving patron saint: "She’s wild, sir. Feral. Do whatever you need to discipline her. As long as she’s breathing by morning, we won't ask questions." Gage looked down at me, his eyes freezing into dark slate. I strained against the zip-ties binding my wrists, lifting my chin to show him my eyes. Look at me, Gage. Look at the scar over my brow. Arthur read my movement as defiance and drove his heel hard into my shoulder blade. My collarbone slammed into the stone threshold. A gasp tore through my lungs. "Keep your head down," Arthur hissed, his hand clamping like a vise around the back of my neck. He leaned down, whispering in my ear: "Piss this man off, and they’ll fish your pieces out of the river." Gage’s eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at my forehead, a faint crease forming between his brows. 2 The moment passed. "Nine is upstairs," Gage said, his tone flat. Arthur let out a ragged breath of relief. Gage stepped aside, signaling two private security guards to haul me off the concrete. They dragged me through the heavy oak double doors of The Nocturne. The reception lounge hadn't changed a bit. Above the mahogany bar hung that wretched, oversized oil painting of a Thoroughbred racehorse. When I was ten, I’d sworn the animal looked like a bloated mule and used an industrial black Sharpie to give it handlebars and a goatee. Declan had threatened to dock my allowance until I was thirty, but he’d never taken the canvas down. Arthur noticed my eyes darting across the walls and chuckled under his breath. "Taking it all in? Good. Start praying." You’re the one who needs to pray, I thought. If Declan saw me trussed up like livestock with blood leaking from my ear, he wouldn't just ruin the Mercers. He’d pull their empire down brick by bloody brick. Gage didn't send me up the private elevator. Instead, the guards hauled me down the second-floor corridor, throwing me into a disused VIP dressing room near the back. The door swung shut, stirring up the faint scent of crushed amber and vintage face powder. Ruby's old sanctuary. Back when I was small, Ruby used to sit me on the counter and try to braid my unruly hair, producing tangles that looked like an electrified bird's nest. I’d run crying to Declan, who’d stare at my head for five straight minutes before declaring I looked like a "magnificent, pissed-off prairie chicken." I hadn't spoken to him for two days after that. Arthur threw me onto a tufted velvet chair and nodded to his personal bodyguard, who looped a thick length of coarse jute rope around my torso and the chair back, yanking it tight. The hemp bit savagely into the soft flesh of my wrists. Eleanor stepped in, holding a scented handkerchief over her nose, surveying the peeling wallpaper with disgust. "This won't do," she said, looking down at me with curled lips. "She looks like she crawled out of a storm drain." She turned toward the woman leaning against the vanity counter. "Clean her up. Fix her hair. We can't have Mr. Cross thinking the Mercer family lacks respect." The woman was wearing a crimson silk blouse, her dark hair pinned up, a distinct beauty mark resting just below her left eyelid. My breath caught. Ruby. She held an antique powder puff in her manicured hand. As she approached the chair, her gaze locked onto my face. She froze. Her eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter. "This girl..." Ruby breathed. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged crow. Ruby reached out, her fingers heading straight for the tape over my mouth, but Eleanor’s manicured hand shot out, catching her wrist in an iron grip. "Don't touch the gag," Eleanor warned, her voice dropping into a hard, crystalline threat. "She's unstable. Bit a maid down to the bone this morning. If she takes a chunk out of your fingers, we won't be held liable." Ruby’s dark eyes flicked up, assessing Eleanor with ice. Arthur pulled a fat envelope of hundred-dollar bills from his tailored breast pocket and tossed it onto the glass vanity. It landed with a dull thud. "Make her look presentable," Arthur said. "Whatever it takes." Ruby didn't look at the money. Her eyes drifted down to the bloody hemp rope digging into my wrists. "Mr. Mercer," she said evenly, her voice dripping velvet venom. "She’s here to offer an apology. Is it standard practice in your social circle to bind your daughters like hogs for slaughter?" Arthur’s face tightened. "This is family business. Take the cash and do your job. Keep your mouth shut." Eleanor smoothed her cashmere wrap. "She is our flesh and blood. We would never harm her needlessly. But she lacks breeding, and we cannot risk her throwing a tantrum that offends Mr. Cross." Ruby didn't push further. She picked up a damp linen pad and gently pressed it against the dried blood along my cheek. The coarse cloth grazed the open split on my lip. My fingers twitched with involuntary pain. Ruby leaned in close, the scent of her jasmine perfume washing over me. In a breath so soft it didn't even stir the loose strands of my hair, she whispered: "Hold on, baby." A sting burned behind my eyes. She hadn't completely forgotten me. Three years was a long time in this city. Three years ago, Declan had sent me to an elite boarding school in Vermont under an assumed name while he dug into the cold trail of my infant kidnapping. But on the train ride back during Thanksgiving break, our carriage was hit. Sedatives, blackouts, total retrograde amnesia. I spent months wandering through state shelters and group homes until the Mercer family’s private investigators matched my DNA. My memory had only pieced itself back together forty-eight hours ago, locked inside the Mercer family basement. Declan had spent three years tearing the state apart looking for me. Neither of us could have imagined this was how I’d come home. Arthur set his smartphone on a vanity tripod, angling the lens toward my chair. "Get the video running," he muttered. Eleanor asked, "What are you recording?" "Her confirming that she came willingly," Arthur said, his smile thin and serpentine. "That she chose to take Vivian's punishment. If she tries to run to the district attorney later, this will destroy any credibility she has." Eleanor nodded in approval. "Smart. Always protect the estate." I closed my eyes. The sheer, shameless rot of it made me sick. Before handing their flesh and blood to a perceived mob executioner, they were manufacturing an airtight legal defense. The Mercer bodyguard brought forward a lowball glass half-filled with amber bourbon. A murky, powdery residue swirled at the bottom. Arthur ripped the tape from my mouth, tearing a layer of skin with it, and seized my jaw with brutal force, tilting my head back. He forced the rim against my teeth, pouring the liquid down my throat. The alcohol burned like battery acid, carrying the bitter, chemical undertone of high-grade Rohypnol. I choked, coughing violently as the fluid seared my windpipe. Eleanor clicked her tongue. "Careful, Arthur. Don't ruin the silk blouse. That was Vivian's." Ruby watched from the vanity, her knuckles turning bone-white around the handle of her brush. Arthur shoved a fresh gag between my jaws, taped it down, and slapped my cheek with the back of his hand. "Be a good girl, and it’ll be over fast." The drug hit like an anvil. Within two minutes, the overhead track lights blurred into smeared halos of yellow and white. My limbs felt as though they were sinking into wet cement, heavy and disconnected. Arthur and Eleanor stepped out into the hall to finalize terms with Gage. Only the Mercer bodyguard remained, leaning his massive bulk against the doorframe, engrossed in his phone. Ruby packed her kit. As she turned to leave, her hip clipped the corner of the small table, knocking a heavy glass bottle of mineral water to the floor. It rolled across the Persian rug, stopping right beside my foot. Tucked beneath the label was a fun-size square of high-cocoa dark chocolate. She didn't look at me as she slipped through the door, but her voice drifted back in the draft: "Don't you dare close your eyes." The latch clicked shut. The guard didn't even glance up from his screen. I dug my heels into the floorboards, hooking the glass bottle with the toe of my sneaker, dragging it inward millimeter by agonizing millimeter. Using the heavy wooden leg of the chair, I wedged the cap against the floor and levered my weight down until the seal cracked with a sharp hiss. Water soaked into the rug. I leaned my head down, rubbing the cloth gag against the wet patch until the fabric saturated and loosened around my jaw. Then, with my trembling right hand, I reached into my tangled hair, working loose the hair clip I’d sharpened against the concrete cellar floor forty-eight hours ago. 3 By the time the hemp cord snapped, the skin on both my wrists had peeled away in raw, crimson strips. The guard was still watching videos, chuckling at his phone. I used the vanity counter to drag myself upright. My legs felt like melted wax, trembling under the weight of my torso. The Rohypnol was surging through my bloodstream in waves of dizzying heat, filling my ears with a high-pitched whine. I couldn't go down the main staircase. Gage might not recognize me in this condition, and the rest of the perimeter guards would assume I was just another sacrifice sent up by the Mercers. I had to reach the penthouse. Declan’s private elevator was at the end of the north corridor. Right beside the elevator shaft, behind a walnut wainscot panel, sat the hidden maintenance hatch. When I was nine, after raiding the kitchen freezer for pints of double-fudge ice cream, I’d slip through that narrow crawlspace straight into Declan's study to escape his bellowing wrath. I clamped my teeth down on the tip of my tongue. Hard. The sharp burst of agony pierced through the chemical fog, clearing my vision for three crucial seconds. The guard caught the movement in his peripheral vision. As his head began to turn, I gripped a heavy, faceted crystal perfume bottle from the vanity and brought it down with everything I had against his temple. He dropped with a muffled grunt, folding onto the carpet. I dragged my numb legs out the door. The hallway stretched out before me, an endless tunnel of crimson damask and brass sconces. Every step felt like wading through deep river mud; my knees kept threatening to buckle beneath me. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the skin tore. Almost there. Just past the corner. My hand reached out to grasp the corner molding— A fist seized a clump of my hair from behind, wrenching me backward with sickening force. My scalp tore. My back hit the hardwood floor, my knees slamming hard against the baseboard. Arthur Mercer stood over me, his chest heaving, his face contorted in pure rage. He brought his Italian leather oxford down squarely into my ribs. "Run? You ungrateful little gutter rat, where did you think you were going?" The air exploded from my lungs. I curled into a ball, wheezing through cracked ribs. Eleanor hurried around the corner, her face going pasty as she saw the unconscious guard through the open dressing room door. "Have you lost your mind? Do you want to destroy Vivian? If Mr. Cross finds out—" Arthur crouched down, delivering two open-palmed slaps that made my skull rattle against the wall. "I knew we shouldn't have brought you back," he snarled, flecks of spit hitting my forehead. "You're broken. Poison." I spat a mouthful of dark, copper-heavy blood onto the toe of his shoe and managed a jagged, broken grin. "Return policy’s... still open, Arthur." His eyes went dead. He seized my left index finger and bent it backward until the joint snapped with a dry, sickening pop. White-hot pain flared behind my eyes. The world went blindingly bright, then pitch-black. "Quite the little fighter with these hands, aren't you?" He reached for the middle finger. Crack. I bit clean through my tongue, refusing to give him a scream. Blood pooled hot and thick under my palate. Eleanor stood three feet away, watching my mangled hand without a trace of remorse. Only cold, bureaucratic impatience. "Don't break the skin on her face anymore, Arthur. The society photographers will be at the courthouse steps tomorrow morning." Her phone buzzed. A FaceTime request. She accepted it immediately, tilting the screen down. Vivian was propped up against a mountain of down pillows in her VIP hospital suite, an oxygen cannula resting beneath her nose, her eyes artfully rimmed in pink. "Mom?" Vivian’s voice was a frail, trembling reed. "Is... is Darcy refusing to help me?" Eleanor’s face softened instantly into maternal adoration. "Don't fret, my sweet girl. Mother and Father are handling it." Vivian gave a soft, pathetic cough. "She grew up on the streets, Mom. A simple apology won't change her. She’ll just come back and try to ruin us." Arthur adjusted his grip on my hair. "What do you suggest, sweetheart?" Vivian lowered her lashes, sounding like a heartbroken angel. "She’s obsessed with taking what's mine. She wants the Mercer name? Fine. But if she’s tied to Declan Cross tonight, she’ll be ruined. The entire city will view her as damaged goods. No country club, no boardroom, no respectable family will ever let her through the front door." Eleanor blinked, processing the calculation. "Make sure you get footage of her crossing the threshold into his suite," Vivian whispered, her voice tightening with quiet malice. "Keep the file. If she ever steps out of line, if she ever refuses the transplant, we leak it to the press. Please, Daddy... I’m so scared. If we aren't ruthless, she’s going to kill me." Arthur smiled, a terrifying, proud beam spreading across his face. "Smart girl. God gave us a genius for a daughter." I lay against the baseboard, the coppery iron of blood thick in my throat. Arthur shoved the damp towel back into my mouth, signaling two more Mercer heavies who had rushed up the service stairs. They hoisted me by the armpits, dragging my dragging toes down the corridor toward the heavy double mahogany doors of the penthouse. The air grew cool. The faint scent of Siberian cedarwood, black pepper, and clean gun oil drifted through the threshold. Declan’s territory. Arthur kicked the double doors open and shoved me across the threshold with both hands. "Nine," Arthur called out, his voice a sickening blend of reverence and bravado. "Delivery as promised." The heavy doors clicked shut behind me. The suite was bathed in deep shadow, save for the floor-to-ceiling glass wall framing the glittering grid of the city skyline fifty floors below. Before I could regain my footing, a large, calloused hand clamped around my throat, lifting me off the carpet and pinning me backward against the wall. The impact drove what little air remained from my bruised lungs. A voice cut through the dark—low, gravelly, and lethal as an unsheathed blade. "Who gave you the nerve to play games in my house?" Black spots danced across my vision. The man reached down, ripping the sodden cloth from my teeth with a violent jerk. I gasped, my vocal cords raw, scraped to bloody ribbons. My voice was nothing more than a dry, rattling whisper. "Dad..." The hand on my throat froze. The grip turned to stone. In the faint, blue wash of the city lights, the man reached out, tearing the shredded silk strap of Vivian's blouse away from my shoulder. There, just beneath my left collarbone, sat a thin, pale crescent scar—the exact shape of a broken crystal whiskey decanter I’d knocked off his bar when I was nine years old. Declan Cross stared at that scar. His entire frame seemed to turn to ice. The silence in the penthouse stretched so long, so absolute, that I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the far kitchen. When he finally spoke, his voice was shaking. "Darcy?"