“Understood, Boss,” Luka says. “I’ll start the upgrades immediately.”
I nod, my jaw tight. “Good.”
Hours later, the office is still quiet except for the low hum of the surveillance monitors. I haven’t gone upstairs. I can’t. Not yet. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—Elara, trembling against me, lips parted from the kiss she didn’t refuse. And then I see the way she looked at me afterward, like I was the monster she’d always feared.
So I bury myself in work instead, drawing plans, reviewing camera feeds, pretending I’m not waiting to hear her footsteps outside my door. Not like she ever came here. Just that one time.
When the door eventually opens, I know it’s Luka before the voice filters through the tension. “Boss. We got something.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“One of Chang’s men. He was caught near the east perimeter trying to breach the fence. The guards subdued him. He’s alive, but barely.”
I stand immediately, the chair scraping against the floor. “Where is he?”
“In the basement,” Luka says, already waiting at the door when I step out.
We move down the dim hallway, the air growing colder as we descend. The basement smells of concrete and metal—familiar, efficient, controlled. My men part when I enter, and in the center of the room sits a bruised man, wrists bound to the chair, blood trickling down the side of his face.
Roman Rusnak does not lose his temper easily. But right now, the thought of someone coming that close to her makes every muscle in my body burn.
Luka speaks quietly. “He had Chang’s insignia. We found communication gear on him, encrypted.”
I stare at the mercenary, my voice low, steady. “You came for her, didn’t you?”
The man spits blood on the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I shake my head. “Don’t test me.”
He says it again, louder, desperate: “I swear to God, I don’t—”
“Bullshit.” I take a step forward. The room contracts around us; the guards fall into the silence I own. “You work for Chang. You came in here for her.”
He blinks, gags a laugh that tastes of broken teeth. “I told you. I don’t know—maybe I was paid for a job. I don’t—”
“Okay.” I motion to Luka. Luka gives a low, cynical grin that promises surgical pain and steps forward, pulling a compact field knife from his vest. The slick black steel catches the dim overhead light.
I watch, clinical and indifferent. This isn’t anger; it’s necessary analysis. I need the truth, and I need to measure Chang’s desperation.
Luka is a master of efficiency. He doesn’t strike the man’s face; he goes straight for the places that hurt the most but leave the least public damage. A sharp, precise strike to the peroneal nerve in the thigh.
The man screams, a high, thin sound that cuts through the thick concrete air. He writhes against the bonds, the chair legs scraping desperately on the floor.
“I was just a courier! I don’t know the woman!” he chokes out.
Luka ignores him. He moves to the left hand, resting the tip of the knife just under the fingernail of the pinky finger. “The boss hates a liar,” Luka says, his voice devoid of emotion. “It wastes time.”
The next sound is a choking, gagging roar of pain as Luka applies pressure. The room smells of stale concrete and fresh, metallic blood. I watch the man’s eyes, waiting for the exact moment the resistance breaks, waiting for the truth to override survival.
He holds out for a minute that stretches into an hour. Luka works methodically—a quick, debilitating strike to the elbow, a twist of the shoulder that threatens dislocation. The man is a bruised, broken, whimpering mess in the chair, his denial reduced to pathetic gasps.
Finally, he collapses forward, spent. His breath is a desperate, bloody croak.
“Stop! Please, please,” he begs. “I’ll tell you.”
I nod to Luka, who immediately steps back, wiping the blade clean with a practiced movement.
“Start talking,” I command, my voice a low, hard rumble that demands obedience. “And if I catch a single lie, I’ll let Luka finish the job.”
