I settle on the cold floor, knees tucked to my chest, and let the darkness wrap around me. I need to think—need to find the crack in his control, or maybe in mine. Sooner or later, one of us is going to slip.
I don’t know which I want more—to escape him, or to see what happens if I don’t.
Chapter Six - Leon
It’s the dead hush of night when the truth finally lands, sharp as broken glass. I’m at my desk, sleeves rolled, bourbon untouched, mind a churn of questions and dead ends.
The call comes in on my encrypted line, the one only three people in this world can reach. I answer with a wordless click. My fixer’s face appears, blue-lit and calm, details scrolling at the bottom of the screen.
He doesn’t waste time: “Her name’s White. Suzanne White. Born Manhattan. Mother’s a model, nothing there. Father’s Marcus White.”
My blood chills. Marcus White. The boogeyman from across the Atlantic, the American shadow that haunts half the old guard. The syndicate’s king who never lets anyone see his face unless it’s the last thing they’ll see. Every story I’ve ever heard about him ends with a corpse, a fortune, or a war.
The feed scrolls—passport scans, news clippings, lists of properties and old business ventures, some of them legit, most of them very much not.
Suzanne White.
I let the name settle in my mind, see the girl anew: the fight in her, the composure under pressure, the skill. It’s all legacy. It’s all blood.
I barely have time to absorb it when my phone vibrates again. My security chief’s voice is taut, professional, but underneath I hear it—the thrill of a situation spiraling into history.
“We’ve received a formal demand, sir. Legal counsel, American. They want her returned immediately, cite diplomaticprotections and ‘potential for irreparable harm to business relations.’ Language of war, dressed in business suits.”
I don’t hesitate. I dictate a reply, every word careful and cold: “Ms. White will be released when Nikola returns to me alive and untouched. If you want her, bring my brother. Until then, she stays as my guest.”
The game is official now, not just blood and threats but signatures and lawyers. She’s not a complication anymore—she’s the piece that decides everything.
***
The air in the house is different when Suzy is brought out of the basement. Gone is the heavy hush of intimidation; now the halls are bright, icy with anticipation, every camera a watching eye.
Her hands are unbound, two guards flank her, but their faces are stony. She’s led down polished halls, feet echoing over parquet, and into a guest suite that’s all muted luxury: the sort of room designed to make a hostage feel like a tourist.
I stand by the window, city lights reflecting off the glass, back turned. The door clicks shut behind her and the lock slides home. I let her stand in the center of the room, feeling the boundaries of her new cage.
She doesn’t waver. Chin high, eyes sharp, her movements controlled down to the last flick of her fingers. If she’s afraid, she hides it better than most men I’ve watched beg for their lives. She doesn’t ask to sit. She doesn’t ask for water. She just waits, sizing up the battlefield, reading me through the glass.
I break the silence. “Your father wants you back.” I don’t look at her, just let her reflection speak in the glass. She’s still, except for the twitch of her mouth—a smile, or a snarl, I can’t tell.
She fires back, voice dry as dust. “You’ll have to do better than that. I’m not scared of my father, and I’m not scared of you.”
I turn then, take her in: the way she squares her shoulders, the steel in her eyes. I see it—the split-second tremor in her hands, the flicker in her gaze when I say “Marcus.” She hides it well, but it’s there. The mask slips, just for a breath.
I cross the room, keep my movements slow, deliberate, letting the moment stretch. She glares at me, defiance written into every line, but I can see the calculation running behind her eyes.
Suzy knows what she is now. Not just a problem, not even a threat—leverage. Pawn on a board she never meant to stand on.
For her, that realization is worse than any pain I could inflict.
She shields herself in sarcasm, the classic armor. “So what’s next? Do I get a ransom note to autograph, or do we just FaceTime my father while you hold a gun to my head?”
I don’t bother responding to the bait. I take a seat across from her—close, but not crowding. I keep my voice low, almost gentle, letting the gravity do the work.
“Why Nikola?” I ask. Not about Marcus. About her. About the first real choice she made.
She shrugs, a slow, practiced motion. “Why not?” Her lips twitch. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
The silence between us is its own kind of battle, thick with the weight of everything we’re not saying. She holds her posture, but her mind is racing—I can see it, the flicker of doubt, the calculation, the old fear of being just a pawn, never trusted with the real game.
