And then —
I saw him.
Petros.
Bound.
In the center of the room.
He had been forced into a twisted fetal position.
Wrists zip-tied behind his back.
His ankles lashed tightly to his elbows with industrial paracord so tight the nylon had bitten deep into skin.
His body was contorted in unnatural restraint.
Duct tape sealed his mouth.
Another strip covered his eyes like a blindfold.
His breathing was shallow — uneven — each inhale dragging through swollen airways.
Bruises darkened his cheekbones.
Purple fingerprints marked his throat.
Blood dried along the corner of his lips.
My chest tightened violently.
“Petros!”
My voice cut through the room like a command detonator.
I crossed the distance in three strides.
“Cut him loose. Now.”
Two of my men rushed forward immediately.
Knives flashed.
Zip-ties snapped with sharp resistance.
Paracord sliced away.
Tape was ripped from his face — skin pulling slightly with it.
Petros collapsed forward the moment restraints were removed.
He coughed violently.
Blood splattered onto the marble beneath him.
His lungs struggled to expand.
He tried to push himself upright — hands trembling — but his legs buckled under him.
