I've seen men dragged into places like this. Bound and gagged, thrown over shoulders like sacks of meat. There's a certain dignity in walking through the door yourself. A certain defiance.
Look at me, it says.I'm not afraid of you.
Even if that's a lie.
I step through the entrance. The man falls into step behind me—close enough to grab me if I run, far enough to give me the illusion of freedom. Professional. Alejandro trained his people well.
The interior of the building is exactly what I expected. Concrete floors stained with decades of industrial use. Metal beams stretching up to a ceiling lost in shadow. The smell of rust and oil and something else. Something organic.
Blood, maybe. Old blood.
Or maybe that's just my imagination.
The man guides me through a maze of corridors. Left. Right. Left again. I memorize the route automatically—. Not that it matters. I'm not planning to escape.
The man stops me at a metal door. Rusted hinges. No window.
"Arms up."
I comply. He pats down my chest, my sides, my back. Checks my waistband. My ankles. Finds the knife in my boot and removes it without comment.
No guns. I left them at the penthouse.
Showing up armed would have been suicide. Alejandro's men would have shot me before I made it through the door. This way, at least I get to have a conversation.
The man steps back. Nods once.
"Clean."
He opens the door.
The room beyond is large. Industrial.
And there, in the center, seated in a metal chair like it's a throne?—
Alejandro Mendoza.
His eyes show a man who is always alert.
My body moves before my brain catches up. Every muscle screams at me to close the distance. To wrap my hands around his throat. To squeeze until the light leaves those predatory eyes and he joins my family in whatever hell awaits men like us.
But I can't.
Not yet.
So I stop. Force my hands to stay at my sides. Force my breathing to stay even.
Alejandro watches me. A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
He knows exactly what I'm thinking. What I'm feeling. He's probably seen that look a thousand times before—the look of a man who wants to kill but can't.
He gestures to a chair across from him. Empty. Waiting.
I don't move.
"I need to check in every ten minutes," I say. My voice comes out steady. Controlled. "If I don't, people start dying. Your people."
Alejandro's smile widens slightly. He nods.
