The gathering was intentionally small. Elias had meticulously pulled the necessary permits from the city council to host a private, open-air showcase for the neighborhood’s classic car registry. The music was a low, acoustic blues rhythm playing from a portable speaker—loud enough to set a mood, but strictly within the decibel limits of the county ordinance. Everything was legal. Everything was peaceful.
But in a neighborhood like Blackwood, peace was entirely subjective.
A sharp, rhythmic click-clack began to echo against the damp cobblestones, cutting through the low hum of conversation and the steady idle of the Mustang. It was a sound Elias recognized instantly, a sound that always preceded a storm. The laughter among the guests slowly died down, one by one, as they turned their heads toward the edge of the driveway. The mist parted, and the self-appointed executioner of the Homeowners Association had arrived.
Delilah moved through the fog with the rigid, terrifying posture of a monarch observing a peasant uprising. She was dressed in a pitch-black velvet pantsuit that swallowed the ambient light, paired with a stark white silk blouse buttoned tightly to her throat. Her blonde hair was sprayed into an immovable, architectural helmet, untouched by the evening wind. In her right hand, she clutched a sleek, black-cased smartphone like a weapon.