I lift a shoulder. “I honestly do not know how he found out about me gathering intel to expose him and my father, but he did. And my father didn’t put up an ounce of a fight in my defense."
He goes predator-still. That dangerous quiet I'm learning to recognize, the one that means violence is being calculated behind those dark eyes.
"How many guards?"
"At the warehouse? Six on rotation. Two at the perimeter, four inside. Shift changes at midnight and noon."
"Cameras?"
"Three that I spotted. North entrance, loading dock, and the main floor. But Seamus is cheap with security tech. They're older models. Blind spots everywhere. He relies on his lethal reputation to do most of the heavy lifting."
He nods once, filing it all away. "We'll take the warehouse. Free whoever is being held there. We have contacts within the police department. They’ll help get any women out.”
"And Seamus?"
"Seamus will be dealt with." The promise in his voice sends a chill skating down my spine. "That I can guarantee."
Silence settles between us. Morning light catches the scar bisecting his eyebrow and the beard trimmed close along his jaw, neat and deliberate. A man this dangerous who grooms himself with this much care is a man who pays attention to details. I file that away.
He pushes off the counter and rolls his shoulders, the henley pulling tight across his back. "My office. I need to cross-reference what you're giving me with Luca's files."
I scoot off the stool and follow him down the hallway, my boots quiet on the polished concrete. The Foundry is different in the morning. Warmer. Sunlight cuts through the tall windows and catches on the exposed brick, turning the inside of the beast’s lair from cold industrial to almost cozy. I pass one of his typewriters sitting on a narrow table against the wall, a half-finished page still curled in the carriage. My fingers itch to read it.
His office is smaller than I expected. A massive oak desk dominates the center, stacked with folders and loose papers and a laptop he never seems to use given there’s a stack of books pinning it in place.
Bookshelves line the far wall. A silver flask with… I squint to read what I think is Cyrillic script engraved in the silver.
The whole room smells like leather and old paper and him.
He drops into his chair. Gestures to the one across from him. I don't sit.
"Why did you volunteer?" The question has been on my mind since last night.
He raises an eyebrow.
"At the auction. Rafael could have sent anyone. Why you?"
An easy smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "I handle acquisitions."
I shake my head. "Bullshit." I move around his desk toward him. "I’ve studied the Syndicate. You're the enforcer. The one they send when they want something destroyed. Why would they send you to buy a woman?"
"Does it matter?"
A moment of silence passes between us. This is about power as much as it is about understanding the enemy, even if he is a good lay. "It matters to me."
We're close now. Close enough that the scent of his cologne fills my lungs with every breath. My body responds without permission, heat pooling low, my pulse climbing.
"Yesterday." I keep my voice steady. "I offered payment on a wish and you collected. Deal done. I get that, but why are you acting like I'm a stranger who wandered into your kitchen?"
His eyes darken. The muscle in his jaw flexes. "What do you want me to do, Onyx? Pin you against the counter and remind you?"
For starters…
"I want you to stop pretending you weren't affected." I know it’s hard for most people to speak the truth, but my world revolves around words and the emotions attached to them. I need to hear people use their words. It’s just how my brain works.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Onyx."
"I'm not playing anything. I'm clarifying terms. One secret per encounter. That was the deal. I fed you a truck load this morning but it was only the tip of what I really know. So if you want more information..."
