Chapter 75 Sherlock
Damien buttoned the last button of his crisp white shirt with steady fingers, though his chest felt anything but steady.
The hotel room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the bedside lamp and the faint neon bleed from the city outside the window. Los Angeles stretched beyond the glass like a restless beast—bright, loud, and unforgiving. The hum of traffic far below sounded like a distant warning.
He slipped into his tailored black suit jacket, rolling his shoulders once as if testing the weight of it. It felt heavier tonight. Everything did.
On the bedside table lay his phone. He picked it up slowly, his thumb brushing across the screen until it lit up.
Jasmine’s face filled the display.
She was asleep in the picture, lashes resting softly on her cheeks, lips parted just slightly. He had taken the photo without her knowing, weeks ago, when she’d fallen asleep on his chest after laughing herself tired. The memory of that moment tightened something painful and tender in his ribs.
His thumb traced her cheek on the screen, reverent.
“Tesoro…” he murmured.
For a moment, the world shrank to that single image. The warehouse. Raymond. Dominic. The blood that might come. All of it faded behind the quiet gravity of her smile.
He typed with deliberate slowness, each word chosen as if it might be the last thing he ever sent her.
I love you, tesoro.
Three words. Heavy. Final. Honest.
He stared at the message for a second before sending it, as if weighing whether love could shield her from what he was about to do.
Then he hit send.
The phone slid into his pocket. His hand moved to the gun on the dresser—cold metal, familiar weight. He slipped it into the waistband of his trousers, adjusting his jacket until it disappeared beneath the fabric.
Damien turned toward the mirror.
The man who stared back looked calm. Controlled. Dangerous. But his eyes betrayed him. They were darker than usual, carrying too much thought, too much conflict. He inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled.
“This ends tonight,” he whispered to his reflection.
He stepped out of the room.
Gustavo stood waiting in the corridor, hands folded in front of him, face unreadable. Marco was a few steps behind, already gripping Damien’s spare weapon like it was an extension of his arm.
The elevator doors slid shut with a dull metallic thud.
They descended in silence.
Outside, the black McLaren waited like a shadow with wheels. The engine purred as they climbed in.
Gustavo glanced at Damien through the rearview mirror. “Marco is to remain at the hotel.”
Damien’s head snapped up. “No.”
Gustavo frowned. “Dominic ordered—”
“Then tell Dominic I do not walk into his safe house without my man.” Damien’s voice was low but final. “Marco follows or I don’t come.”
The air in the car tightened.
Gustavo hesitated, jaw grinding. Then he pulled out his phone and typed rapidly, fingers stiff. The engine idled while minutes crawled by.
Finally, he dropped the phone into his lap and started the car.
“…Fine,” he muttered.
They drove in heavy silence.
The city slowly thinned into quieter streets. Damien memorized every turn, every cracked sidewalk, every flickering street lamp. His mind mapped the route automatically—entry, exit, escape.
His hand itched to reach for his phone. To see if Jasmine had replied. To let her voice ground him.
But he didn’t.
Not now.
Right now, he needed to be empty. Sharp.
The McLaren slowed near what looked like an abandoned bread factory. The sign was rusted, half fallen. Windows were boarded. The air smelled of oil and dust.
A lie of a building.
They parked several blocks away.
The three men stepped out into the night. Gustavo spoke quietly into his phone, turning in slow circles like he was checking the shadows. After a moment, he nodded and motioned them forward.
They reached the heavy metal gates.
Three minutes passed.
Then the gates groaned open.
Inside, the safe house revealed itself.
The space was vast and industrial, lit by harsh pale-blue lights that flickered like dying stars. Thick pipes lined the ceiling, sweating condensation. The floor was stained with old oil and footprints that told stories of violence long past.
A large wooden table sat in the middle, covered with scattered weapons—knives, pliers, chains. Nearby were steel cabinets, some open, revealing files and equipment. A cracked television sat on a shelf, humming faintly with static.
And in the center of it all— Raymond.
He was tied to a metal chair, wrists bound behind him, ankles secured with thick rope. A sack covered his head. His chest rose and fell unevenly.
Dominic sat a few feet away in a velvet cushioned chair that looked absurdly luxurious in the cold, grim space.
A small table beside him held a crystal glass of whiskey and a transparent bottle of golden liquid.
He looked like a king on a throne in hell.
Damien walked in and stopped several feet from him. Gustavo leaned down and whispered something into Dominic’s ear.
Dominic’s head turned.
“Ah,” he said, rising with a slow smile. “Brother.”
He approached Damien and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome.”
Damien didn’t move. His jaw tightened.
“I hope I have delivered my side of the favor,” Dominic said smoothly, stepping aside.
Damien approached Raymond.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the bound figure like a scientist examining a specimen.
Then he reached out and lifted the sack from Raymond’s head.
A bruised face appeared. Blood dried at the corner of his mouth. His head lolled forward.
Unconscious.
Damien placed two fingers under Raymond’s nose.
Breathing. Shallow.
“Water,” Damien said.
Gustavo retrieved a bucket and dumped it over Raymond’s head.
Raymond gasped awake, choking, thrashing against the ropes. His eyes darted wildly until they landed on Damien.
“You—” he rasped. “You did this.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“You didn’t think you could touch my wife and escape, did you?” Damien said coldly. “I thought you knew me better than that.”
Raymond’s gaze flicked to Dominic. “Please—I’ll pay you more than whatever he offered. Double it. Triple it.”
Dominic laughed softly. “Tempting. But he is family.”
Dominic glanced at Damien’s waist. “From the gun I see there, I already know your plan, should Gustavo ready the tarp?.”
At the word gun, Raymond panicked.
“If Jasmine finds out, she will never forgive you,” he screamed. “She will see you for what you are—a gang leader, a monster—”
Damien didn’t flinch.
He drew the gun and pressed it against Raymond’s forehead.