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Mateo stepped closer, his presence alone enough to drain the color from their faces.

He plucked the black card from the thug’s hand and turned it over between his fingers like it was nothing.

“You’re going to tell me where you got this,” he said, his voice steady and dangerous, “or you’ll lose your tongue before the night’s over.”

The knife-man swallowed hard, but forced a crooked grin. “Pawnshop on Corso. That’s where. Some runner sold it to us.”

Mateo tilted his head, eyes narrowing. He could smell the lie.

Before he could press further, flashing lights painted the toyshop windows red and blue.

The door burst open—two officers rushed in, speaking over each other.

“Report just came in—two men, descriptions match, fled after assaulting a victim and stealing his belongings. They’re armed and dangerous.”

Mateo’s jaw tightened. His brow twitched once, sharp and angry, as his gaze cut back to the thugs. They froze under it, panic rising in their eyes.

“You lied to me,” Mateo muttered, his voice low, almost a growl. He slipped the card into his jacket, his stare heavy enough to make them stumble backward.

“Hands where we can see them!” one barked.

The two thugs barely had time to blink before they were shoved face-first onto the counter. Cuffs clicked tight around their wrists as the other officer read them their charges—armed assault, theft, and multiple pending warrants.

Mateo didn’t move. He stood a few feet back, the black card still between his fingers. The weight of it pressed against his palm like a brand.

If this card was gotten… if they’d had it…

His chest tightened. His brow twitched again, sharper this time.

“Wait,” he muttered under his breath. “Silas…”

He pulled out his phone, opening the tracker immediately. His fingers moved fast, too sharp for his usual calm. But when the screen loaded, the signal blinked, then flatlined.

No connection. No trace.

“Come on, pretty boy, don’t do this to me,” he whispered, jaw clenching. He tried again, refreshing, switching signals, but the device stayed stubbornly dead.

Mateo walked out of the toyshop, his shoes heavy against the cracked pavement.

He slipped the card into his jacket pocket, the weight of it like a curse.

By the time he reached his car, the tracker still refused to connect. He dropped into the driver’s seat, staring at the dead signal glowing faintly on his phone screen.

His jaw worked once, twice, before he finally exhaled through his nose. He set the phone aside and gripped the wheel, knuckles pale.

“Fine,” he muttered, the words half to himself, half to the ghost of Silas in his head. “Maybe you really do wanna be left alone…”

He leaned back, eyes closing for a second, but the tightness in his chest wouldn’t ease.

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips. “You can run, pretty boy. But don’t think I won’t find you.”

He started the engine, the low growl filling the silence, but this time he didn’t chase. He pulled away from the curb slow, like a man trying to convince himself to let go.

Mateo drove aimlessly back to the suite.

He went straight for the bar, shoulders stiff, jaw locked. The bartender straightened immediately, nerves pricking at the sight of him.

“Whiskey,” Mateo said, dropping into a stool. “Bottle. Not a glass.”

The man hesitated, then hurried to obey. The bottle was set down with trembling hands, along with a clean tumbler.

Mateo didn’t bother with the glass. He twisted the cap off and took a long pull straight from the neck.

The burn hit hard, but it wasn’t enough to burn away the hollow space inside him.

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and muttered, voice low, almost broken, “Where the hell are you, pretty boy…?”

Then he tipped the bottle again, drowning himself in the only thing that couldn’t leave him.

Mateo’s phone buzzed against the bar top, rattling beside the half-empty whiskey bottle. He ignored it at first, muttering, “Who the hell’s calling me now…” before finally snatching it up.

“This is Woods,” he said, voice rough.

A calm but firm voice answered on the other end. “Good evening, Mr. Woods. This is Nurse Daniels from St. Augustine City Hospital. We’re contacting you as the listed emergency contact.”

Mateo’s shoulders stiffened. His grip on the phone tightened. “Emergency contact?”

“Yes, sir,” the nurse continued. “A patient by the name of Silas Reeds was admitted to our ward earlier this evening. He was found injured and unconscious after an assault. He’s stable for now, but we need someone authorized to discuss his care.”

The world tilted under Mateo’s feet. His throat closed, but he forced the words out. “Silas… you’re telling me my bodyguard, Silas Reeds, is in your ward right now?”

“That is correct, Mr. Woods. We need you to confirm if you’ll be coming down to the hospital.

The bottle slipped from Mateo’s fingers and thudded against the bar top. His heart hammered in his chest as he stood, shoving his chair back so hard it scraped the floor.

“Keep him breathing,” Mateo growled, already heading for the door. “I’m on my way.”

Mateo stormed out of the bar, phone still clenched in his hand. His driver hurried from where he’d been waiting by the car, eyes darting to the whiskey bottle Mateo had left behind.

“Sir,” the driver said carefully, opening the door for him, “are you sure you want to drive? You’re… you’ve been drinking.”

Mateo froze for a beat, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like a storm barely held back. Then he shoved the keys into the man’s chest.

“Then you drive,” he snapped, sliding into the back seat. His voice softened at the end, almost breaking. “Step on it. We’re going to St. Augustine. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, climbing behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, and the car shot into the night, cutting through traffic with urgency.

Mateo pressed the heel of his hand against his temple, muttering low, “Hold on, pretty boy… just hold on.”