“I’m not afraid.”
My voice betrays me again.
Chapter Six - Lukyan
The reports from my men arrive before sunrise. I read them one by one, standing at the long table in my study. The more I read, the tighter the muscles between my shoulders pull.
They weren’t mine.
The men who tried to take Clara acted without my orders. They belonged to a smaller crew that has been testing boundaries for months, pushing at places they think I have stopped watching. They followed her for days. They waited until she was isolated. They moved in with confidence, expecting no consequence.
My hand closes around the edge of the table until the wood strains under my grip.
They thought they could take her from the street like she was nothing. They thought I would ignore it. They thought she belonged to no one.
A heat rises in me that I haven’t felt in years. It sharpens my focus until every other concern falls away.
I call one of my lieutenants. He answers on the first ring.
“Find them,” I say.
“Yes, sir.”
“And handle it.”
There is a brief pause. “Handled how?”
“Permanently.”
The word hangs in the air. He understands. No questions. No hesitation. He moves to carry out the order.
It should end there, but another lieutenant steps forward as I set the phone down. His posture is stiff, careful, as if he already regrets speaking.
“Sir,” he begins, “we have other matters due this week. Allocating resources to chase men over a journalist—”
My stare stops him.
He lowers his eyes. I step closer so he hears me clearly.
“They touched what’s mine.”
He swallows and nods. He does not ask another question. He walks out quickly, leaving the room in a silence that settles deep.
I should return to business. I should focus on the operations that keep this entire structure intact. Instead, I walk down the hall toward the guest room where she sits behind a locked door.
I expect to find Clara pacing or shouting again. Instead, when I unlock the door and step inside, she is sitting in the chair near the window. Her knees are drawn up slightly. Her shoulders sag with exhaustion she is trying to hide. Her skin looks pale from lack of sleep, but her gaze is clear the moment she hears me enter.
Clara doesn’t shrink back. She straightens.
Her eyes track me as I cross the room. I stop in front of her, expecting resistance, anger, maybe another attempt at throwing something, but she stays still.
I ask her the same questions I asked last time. “Who told you to write my name? Who paid you? Who stands behind you?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “No one.”
“Why do you keep lying?”
“I’m not lying. I wrote the story because corruption matters. Because it affects real people, because I found a trail and followed it.”
