Chapter 172 Not the Right Girl

Chapter 172 Not the Right Girl

Valentina

The north ridge property did not look abandoned.

Lights were on in the upper windows when we approached from the water, warm and steady, as if dinner had been recently cleared and someone inside was debating dessert. That detail unsettled me more than darkness would have. Darkness suggests concealment. Light suggests confidence.

We did not announce ourselves.

Rosco secured the boat against the dock and stepped out first, scanning the perimeter with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. Liana followed behind him, and I followed her. She did not ask where we were positioned or how many men Matteo had deployed along the inland road. She already knew the answer was enough.

The air smelled of salt and expensive landscaping.

Matteo’s voice filtered through the comms. “Road team in position. No visible external guards.”

That meant interior security.

Or arrogance.

We moved toward the side entrance. The door was locked this time.

Rosco didn’t hesitate. He stepped back, lifted his foot, and drove it through the frame with controlled force. The crack of splintering wood echoed through the hall as we entered.

The house reacted.

Footsteps upstairs. A shout. The metallic click of safeties disengaging.

“Clear left,” I ordered as Matteo’s road team breached the front.

Gunfire split the air almost immediately.

It was not chaotic. It was deliberate. Rosco moved through the lower hall like a blade, cutting angles, neutralizing threats with the kind of efficiency that comes from experience, not adrenaline. Two men fell near the base of the staircase before they fully understood we were inside.

One tried to retreat toward the back corridor.

He didn’t make it.

Upstairs, heavier resistance.

Matteo’s voice again. “Second floor. Three armed.”

I moved toward the stairwell as Rosco secured the lower level. Liana stayed exactly where I had told her—behind the wall line, protected but not removed. Her breathing was fast, but her eyes were steady.

This wasn’t the room from Freeport.

This wasn’t staged.

This was staffed.

We reached the second floor landing as one of Matteo’s men dragged a bleeding guard into the hallway. He was alive, barely. Rosco stepped past him without breaking stride and entered the master suite.

Another gunshot.

Then silence.

I stepped into the doorway.

Three bodies.

One still breathing.

He was younger than I expected, mid-thirties perhaps, dressed in pressed casual linen as if this were a business retreat rather than a holding site.

Rosco had him pinned to the floor, forearm across his throat, pistol pressed under his jaw.

“Where is she?” Rosco asked calmly.

The man tried to answer. Blood filled his mouth instead.

“Wrong question,” I said.

Rosco glanced up at me, irritation flickering.

“This isn’t Bexley’s final position,” I continued. “This is containment.”

The man’s eyes shifted.

Fear.

Not defiance.

Good.

“Who is here?” I asked.

He hesitated.

Rosco adjusted pressure just enough to make breathing a negotiation.

“Downstairs,” the man choked. “Rear suite.”

Rosco released him only long enough to wrench him upright and shove him toward the wall. He would live. For now.

I moved quickly down the hallway toward the rear suite.

The door was locked from the outside.

That was all I needed to see.

I opened it.

The room was smaller than I expected. Functional. Clean. A desk. A narrow bed. A stack of books too advanced for a child Eden’s age.

The girl sitting on the bed was not five.

She was older. Eight, maybe nine. Dark hair pulled into a low braid. Eyes wide but not crying.

She looked at me like she was assessing danger, not hoping for rescue.

For half a second, the room tilted.

Not Eden.

But someone’s Eden.

Behind me, I heard Liana’s footsteps before I saw her. She stopped in the doorway and took in the scene in one sweep.

Her breath broke.

Not in disappointment.

In recognition.

The girl flinched at the sound.

Liana stepped forward slowly, hands visible, voice low and steady.

“Hey,” she said gently. “It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.”

The girl didn’t respond.

She didn’t move either.

That told me enough.

Rosco appeared behind us, the surviving guard shoved forward by one of Matteo’s men.

“This isn’t the one,” Rosco said quietly.

“I know,” I replied.

Liana knelt in front of the girl, lowering herself deliberately so their eyes were level.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

Silence.

“You don’t have to answer,” Liana added softly. “But you can.”

The girl studied her face.

Not me.

Not Rosco.

Liana.

“Maris,” she whispered finally.

Liana’s hand trembled once before steadying.

“How long have you been here, Maris?”

The girl’s gaze shifted to the door. “Since Tuesday.”

Today was Friday.

Three days.

“Did a man bring you?” Liana asked.

A nod.

“Did he tell you his name?”

Another pause.

“Mr. Black.”

Rosco’s jaw tightened.

Alias.

Matteo stepped into the doorway then, taking in the scene with a single glance. His eyes moved from the girl to the guard to me.

“Not Eden,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “But connected.”

The surviving guard swallowed visibly.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he muttered weakly.

Rosco turned his head slowly toward him.

“That’s unfortunate for you.”

We cleared the rest of the house.

Two more men were found in a detached security room. They did not survive the sweep.

Liana had not left the girl’s side.

Maris clung to her sleeve without appearing to realize she was doing it.

“She’s dehydrated,” Liana said quietly when I approached. “And she hasn’t eaten properly.”

Her voice had changed.

It wasn’t fragile.

It wasn’t panicked.

It was maternal.

Rosco noticed it too.

He stood near the archway, watching Liana brush a strand of hair from the girl’s face with infinite care. There was no seduction in his expression now. No curiosity. Just something quieter and far more serious.

Understanding.

The guard Rosco had spared was zip-tied to a chair in the dining room by the time Matteo returned downstairs.

Matteo crouched in front of the bound guard.

“Where is he?” Matteo asked conversationally.

The man laughed weakly. “You think you’re close.”

“I think you’re replaceable,” Matteo replied calmly. “So I’ll ask once.”

The man’s bravado flickered.

“Freeport was never the endpoint,” he said. “This wasn’t either.”

“Where?” Matteo pressed.

The guard’s gaze darted toward the window.

“Water.”

I felt the shift.

He wasn’t lying.

He wasn’t taunting either.

He was afraid.

“He’s consolidating offshore,” Matteo said quietly.

Rosco straightened.

And this time, the escalation was real.

Not a staged near miss.

Not an empty room.

A network.

And a child who was not ours—but was now in our hands.

“Get her on the boat,” I said softly to Rosco.

He stepped forward immediately.

Maris hesitated for only a second before allowing him to lift her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, small fingers gripping tightly.

Liana stood and followed.

I watched the guard as Matteo rose.

“Where offshore?” I asked.

He swallowed.

“International waters.”

Of course.

Bexley wasn’t retreating.

He was expanding.

And now we knew exactly what kind of war we were walking into.