Marcus's voice followed, rough and impatient, the creak of his leather chair audible as he leaned back. "Intel? From where? You been sniffing around the docks again, Anton? I told you that job wasn’t meant for you."
A pause, the clink of a glass, Father pouring his nightly bourbon, no doubt. Anton cleared his throat, his words measured, but I could hear the edge. "Not the docks, exactly. The Butcher's planning to hit your next shipment. Hard. They're saying he's got eyes on the route, maybe even insiders feeding him schedules."
Marcus's laugh was dry, a bark that echoed through the feed, laced with disbelief but underlined with steel. "The Butcher. That ghost. Every time he strikes, it's the same. Guards dead, cargo gone, amessage carved in flesh. Come on, boy. That's nothing new. What's the angle? When? Where?"
Anton shifted, the rustle of his jacket audible, pacing like I did when cornered. "Tomorrow. The big one, the freighter from the Gulf, docking at Newark. My contact said someone was asking around the port, didn't show his face, hooded, but the physique... tall, athletic. Matches the descriptions from the survivors. He's sniffing the deal, Father. Testing for weak spots."
Marcus's glass clinked again, the liquid sloshing as he set it down harder than intended. "Newark. Of course. The Gulf run, always a pain in the ass with customs. But the Butcher? He's a gnat, Anton. Annoying, but swattable. I've doubled the guards, ex-special forces, not those rent-a-thugs he carved up last time. Drones on the perimeter, jammers for comms. He wants to threaten my life? Let him try. I'll be there myself, overseeing the load."
Anton's voice rose, edged with frustration, the pacing audible in the shuffle of his shoes on the rug. "That's what I'm saying, be cautious. The Butcher's not some low-level hitter, he's precise. Last time, he took out the whole crew with knives, silent, no guns, no noise. And the messages… He's inside your operations, Father. Change the location, use the Jersey dock instead, or push it back a week. Give us time to flush him out."
Marcus's laugh returned, colder this time, laced with that paternal condescension that always grated. "Change the location? For a ghost? No. The buyers are waiting. They don't like delays. Threatens the bottom line. The Butcher wants to play? I'll be ready. Traps, bait, the works. You worry too much, boy. Stick to your clubs and women, leave the real business to me."
"But Father.." Anton started, his voice tight, almost pleading, the shuffle stopping as he faced the desk.
"Enough," Marcus cut in, his chair scraping back as he stood, the authority absolute. "You're a good son, Anton, but this isn't your game. Go. I've got calls."
The door clicked shut, Anton's footsteps fading down the hall, leaving Marcus alone, the clink of his glass the only sound. The Butcher targeting the Newark shipment next week. The web tightened, Father's empire a hydra, heads multiplying with each cut.
I rubbed my eyes, thinking the island was safe for now, Aurelia with Zora, Victor's team on perimeter watch, but the shadows were lengthening. The phone buzzed on my pocket. I fished it out and saw Zora's name flashing. I snatched it up, answering it. "Zora? Everything okay?"
Her voice was trembling, rough and urgent, laced with fear that hit me like a gut punch. "Keith... someone took her. Aurelia. We were on the beach, talking, and this guy... he grabbed her from behind. I fought him but he shrugged me off like nothing. Injected me with something, needle to the neck, and I... I fainted. Woke up on the sand and she was gone. I didn't know what to do, so I called you. Keith, I'm sorry... I tried."
The world stopped, blood roaring in my ears, my vision tunneling to black spots. "Took her? When? Who? How long ago?" My voice was a snarl, rough and commanding, the phone creaking in my grip.
"Thirty minutes? Maybe more. He was fast, masked, black clothes, built like a tank. What do I do? The security,"
I was already moving, turning my keys. The call dropped, and I dialed Victor, the line connecting mid-stride as I bolted the engine. "Victor! Aurelia's gone. How the hell did this happen? Your security, my security, is top-tier. Cameras, biometrics, armed patrols. Who compromised it?"
A pause, keys clacking. "Unknown, sir. Systems check, everything's nominal, but... wait. Logs show a glitch at 8:47 p.m., all cams looped for five minutes, guards reporting dizzy spells around then. Something in the air? Gas, maybe? We're testing."
"Gas?" I snarled, the elevator dinging as I stormed through the lobby, rain pelting me outside. "In my resort? How? Who has access to disable high-tech like that? Victor, this isn't random, it's targeted. Find the breach!"
"Working it, sir. Extraction team en route to you. We'll have leads in ten."
The car's engine roared to life, tires screeching as I tore from the curb, the rain blurring the windshield, my wipers a frantic rhythm matching my pulse. Aurelia’s taken. The word was a knife, twisting. Boris was dead, but his syndicate? Father's enemies? Or Father himself, retaliating for the warehouse? A professional. My mind raced. Trafficking? Revenge? No. Not her. Not after what she'd endured. I'd burn the world to ash before they touched her again.
Chapter 32
Aurelia
The world was a haze of darkness and nausea, a suffocating fog pressing against my eyelids like wet cloth, heavy and unrelenting. My head throbbed with a dull, pounding ache, as if someone had stuffed it with cotton soaked in pain. My mouth was dry, tasting of copper and chemicals.
I tried to move, but my body felt leaden, limbs pinned. A cold bite dug into my wrists and ankles. Zip ties, tight enough to cut skin. Warm trails of blood slid down my fingers, slow and sticky.
Panic clawed at the edges of my mind, distant at first, muffled by the fog. Then awareness hit like ice water. Hooded. A rough sack covered my head, the fabric coarse against my skin, smelling of sweat and mildew. No light. No orientation. I was blind. Bound. Helpless.
No. No, not again.
The realization slammed into me, a tidal wave of terror drowning everything. My breath came in short, ragged gasps, fogging the inside of the hood. This couldn’t be happening. Not after years.Not after the warehouse, the chains, the hands grabbing in the dark.
Please… I can’t breathe.
The words echoed from my nightmares, but this was real, the zip ties were real, the throbbing in my head real. My mind raced, fragments flashing like static. Trafficked. Again. The syndicate. Or worse, Marcus. Keith’s father. The man whose name had shattered me.
Tears welled under the hood, soaking the fabric. My body shook, silent sobs wracking me, terror a living thing clawing up my throat.Not again. Please, God, not again.
My head hammered as I strained against the ties, the plastic biting deeper, blood slicking my wrists. Then, a hand. It grabbed the hood and yanked it off, rough enough to burn my scalp. Light stabbed my eyes like knives.
