Hiding again.
I head for Atlas's office.
Chapter 19
Atlas
The Kline Cartel is testing us.
Three shipments intercepted in two weeks. Not seized—intercepted. Redirected. Product vanishing somewhere between our Vancouver connection and the distribution hub in Tacoma, then turning up on Kline-controlled corners at markup prices that would be impressive if they weren't using our supply to do it.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair. The numbers are clear. Margin loss on the suppressant pipeline alone is approaching six figures this quarter, and that's before I factor in the cost of replacing product and keeping our network of clinic fronts operational.
Someone inside is leaking routes. Has to be. The Klines aren't sophisticated enough to intercept us three times running on luck alone. Which means I have a mole. Which means I need Zero to start digging—pulling contacts, squeezing informants, doing what he does best.
Except Zero's been unreliable lately. Distracted. Disappearing for hours without explanation. Coming back with a look in his eyes that I can't read, which bothers me more than the shipment losses because I can always read my brothers.
I file it away. Deal with it later. Right now, I need a drink.
The bourbon is in my desk drawer—Blanton's, the good stuff, reserved for days that earn it. Today earned it. I pour two fingers into the glass I keep beside the lamp and take the first sip standing, letting the burn settle in my chest. Liquid patience. That's what Dad used to call it.The first drink is for thinking, Atlas. The second is for deciding. The third is for forgetting you had to decide at all.
I never have the third.
The evening light is fading through the curtains. Richard and Margot should be home within the hour. I should be downstairs. Should be the composed eldest son who keeps things running smoothly while the empire frays at the edges.
Instead, I'm in my office doing damage control on a war that hasn't officially started yet.
A knock at the door. Three sharp raps. Impatient.
"Yeah."
The door opens. Bane.
He looks wrong. That's my first thought. My brother is always composed—styled hair, easy confidence, the practiced charm he wears like armor. Right now, none of that is present. His hair is damp, like he just showered. His jaw is tight. His eyes are hard and searching and there's something underneath them—something agitated and raw—that I haven't seen since he was fifteen and found out about the business for the first time.
He closes the door behind him. Locks it.
That gets my attention.
"We need to talk," he says.
I lean back in my chair. Study him. Read the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine, the way his hands keep flexing at his sides like he's fighting the urge to hit something.
"About?"
"Max."
The name lands in my chest like a stone dropped in still water. Ripples spreading outward.
I keep my face neutral. Practiced. "What about him?"
Bane doesn't sit. He paces instead. Three steps to the window, three steps back. His energy is wound so tight the room feels smaller with him in it.
"Have you noticed anything... off about him?" Bane asks. The question comes out carefully. Measured. Like he's testing the water before he dives.
"Define off."
"Don't do that." He stops pacing. Faces me. "Don't play the CEO card with me right now. I'm asking you a straight question."
