“Come in.”
The door opens and Tomas steps in, dragging a man between him and Marco. The man’s wrists are bound, his suit torn, blood staining the collar of his shirt. He’s limping, mouth swollen, one eye nearly shut.
“Picked him up outside the north dock,” Tomas says. “Lachlan’s security. He’s been in and out of the estate grounds.”
A spark lights in my chest. Satisfaction. The first real edge we’ve had.
The man is dropped into the chair in front of my desk. He glares at me through his bruised eyes, trying to muster courage. Trying to mask the fear in his eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask calmly.
He nods.
“Then you know what happens next if you don’t talk.”
He doesn’t answer.
I smile coldly. “You’re going to tell me where she is. And you’re going to tell me everything else I want to know. Because if you don’t…” I lean forward, resting my arms on the desk. “I’ll spend the next several hours showing you how creative I can be.”
“I’m not scared of you,” he spits.
I stand and walk around the desk. Lars moves aside. I pull a blade from the inner pocket of my jacket, nothing flashy—just sharp and precise. I kneel beside him, placing the edge gently against his cheek.
“You should be.”
There's silence in the room now. Heavy. The man swallows, and it’s all the permission I need.
I cut. Not deep. Just enough to draw blood.
He gasps, jerking against the restraints. Blood wells up slowly.
“That’s nothing,” I whisper. “But if you don’t speak, you’ll find out just how many ways I can dissect a man without killing him.”
“I—I don’t know exactly where she’s kept,” he stammers.
“Wrong answer.”
“No! I mean it—I don’t. The estate’s sealed off. Staff are rotated. I only saw her once—maybe twice. Always escorted.”
“Where?” Lars asks.
“West Wing, I think. Old part of the estate. Guard rotation is heavier there. That’s all I know.”
I stand and nod at Tomas. “Hold him. If we need more, we’ll ask again.”
Lars steps forward. “That gets us one step closer.”
“It’s not close enough,” I say. “I want eyes on that estate. Drones. Satellite if we have to. I want to see every car, every shadow. No one moves until we have a way in—and a way out with her.”
“Enzo,” Rossi says, cautious. “If we set foot on his property, inside his home, this is war.”
“War it is then.”
Everyone goes silent. And in that silence, I feel the weight of what’s coming.
The basementunder the Monarch isn’t on any blueprints. It’s older than the club itself—built when my grandfather ran things and a small building with a deli was above it. I built the club and reinforced it when I took over. Soundproofed, stripped bare except for the chair bolted to the floor, the overhead light, and a drain in the concrete.
He’s down there now. The guard from Lachlan’s crew. Hands bound behind the chair, face still smeared with dried blood and fear. He hasn’t spoken again since his first round of answers, but I haven’t asked any follow-ups. Not yet.
