Asher’s POV

The morning sun barely touched the edges of the glass panels at the front of my club when the shouting began. I was in my office, reviewing the final preparations for the upcoming tournament, when an angry voice tore through the air outside like a storm.

“Asher Moretti! You cursed bastard! Where’s my daughter?”

My hand froze mid-motion, pen hovering over the paper. For a second, I thought I was imagining it. But the voice came again, louder, raw with fury.

I set the ...