Chapter 186 Tied to too much

Chapter 186 Tied to too much
It's nearly closing time when Turner finally shows up. I had already been counting down the minutes, assuming he’d gotten caught up in whatever he does during his free time and wouldn't be coming tonight. But here he is, slipping through the door like a shadow before taking a seat across from my desk.
There's always an underlying simmer of anger in Turner. Sometimes he manages to tuck it away so deep that I almost assume it’s gone. But other times, times like right now, all it takes is one look at him to see it etched into every sharp angle of his face. It lurks in his eyes, heavy and dangerous. He usually only wears that particular expression when he’s been forced to deal with a specific brand of human garbage.
I glance down at my watch. Roughly forty minutes until the club closes. "You said you found something?" I ask, bringing my gaze back to him.
He blinks, looking up as if just remembering where he is. He holds my stare for a silent moment before straightening his spine and nodding.
"The absurdly clean Vesper record had been bothering me too," he begins, his voice low and raspy. "So I decided to reach out to a few off-the-books contacts from my old unit to see if they could dig up the stuff that never made it onto official police blotters."
He goes quiet, his jaw working as his eyes fixate on the corner of the desk.
"And?" I prompt.
He runs a heavy hand through his hair, letting out a sharp exhaled breath. Normally, he's a master at keeping his personal emotions entirely severed from his work. If he weren't, I never would've hired him in the first place. A former cop with his kind of baggage, granted the latitude I give him, would have gone off the deep end and committed something unhinged a long time ago. But tonight, there's a far more volatile energy beneath his skin.
"About four years ago, two girls went missing," he says softly. "Hope Johnson, nineteen. Isabel Williams, twenty. Isabel's grandparents filed half a dozen missing persons reports over two months. They swore up and down she was working shifts at Vesper. Said she hadn't come over for her usual Thursday dinner and stopped picking up her phone. The precinct sent two uniformed cops to Vesper, where they spoke directly with the manager. He claimed no girl by that name had ever been on their payroll."
My mind instantly flashes to Joshua Maddox....the sleek bastard currently running Vesper's floor.
"There were no official tax records, no footage or schedule logs, nothing to prove she’d ever set foot inside the building," Turner continues, his tone hardening. "The cops closed the file. The grandparents were left screaming into a void. Then, two weeks later, a body washed up near some marshlands outside the city limits. Hope Johnson. Cause of death was severe blunt force trauma to the skull, alongside extensive defensive injuries across her entire body."
Turner pauses, his knuckles turning white against his knee. "Isabel's grandparents saw the news broadcast and recognized the girl's photo. Hope had accompanied Isabel to their house a few times. They worked together. The grandparents tried going back to the precinct with the connection, but nobody listened. A high-profile murder tied to a elite nightlife hub usually generates heat, but every time an investigator tried pulling the thread, the case got quietly buried. Eventually, the grandparents ran out of money for private eyes, and the trail went cold."
"Was Isabel ever found?" I ask quietly.
Turner gives a grim, single shake of his head. "No. And if she ever is, I doubt there'll be much left to identify."
I sit back, studying the rigid tension in his shoulders. Now I understand the foul mood. Certain subjects hit a little too close to his own internal wounds.
"Have you spoken to the grandparents?" I ask.
"The grandfather died nine months ago," Turner replies flatly. "Lung cancer. I haven't reached out to the grandmother yet. I wouldn't even know what to ask her without opening up old wounds. But there’s more, Bastian. It wasn't just those two. There's a pattern of girls disappearing around that block every other month or so. I don't know the exact mechanics of what Marcel Ruslan was running out of Vesper's back rooms, but it makes absolute sense why he’s suddenly desperate to scrub his hands clean and sell."
I take in a slow, deep breath, letting the weight of the information settle. "Then we shift our full focus onto Marcel. Let's find out exactly what kind of blood he's trying to wash off."
Turner stands up, pulling his jacket straight. "I'm already three steps ahead of you."
"Keep me updated the second you find a leverage point," I say.
He studies me for a second before giving a curt nod. "Of course." He turns and begins walking toward the door.
"Turner," I call out, stopping him in his tracks.
He halts, looking back over his shoulder.
"I've been reviewing managerial applications for Orphic," I tell him, leaning forward resting my elbows on the desk. "I want to offer the general manager position to you."
He forces a faint, humorless smile, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not sure I'm qualified to run a nightlife venue, Bastian."
"You're overqualified," I reply smoothly. "And frankly, there's no one else I trust with the oversight of this place."
He arches an eyebrow, a slight glint of amusement breaking through his dark mood. "What about your dear bartender?"
My gaze narrows instantly. Turner merely shrugs, entirely unbothered. "The staff likes to gossip. Plus... reviewing security footage is in my job description."
My eyes dart instinctively toward the small black dome lens mounted in the top corner of my office ceiling.
"Relax," he says, a dry smirk touching his lips. "I don't have access to the feed in this specific room, you made sure of that. But the cameras in the hallway, the back alley, the parking lot, and the walk-in cooler? Those I control completely."
My mind instantly races through every single interaction Kaden and I have shared in those exact locations over the past few weeks. The very first image that hits my brain is me dropping to my knees on the cold metal floor of the walk-in cooler while Kaden held onto my hair.
"Delete that footage," I order, my voice dropping an octave into a low warning.
Turner shrugs again, his hand hovering over the door handle. "I'll think about it while I consider your job offer." He pauses, shifting back to business. "You're still flying out to Japan tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Four days," I answer. "Could be slightly longer."
I'm already planning on extending the trip if Kaden shows the slightest interest in staying longer to explore. I wouldn't give a damn about missing the family's anniversary celebration if it means keeping him happy.
Turner nods. "I've already coordinated with a private detail on the ground over there. Capable, discreet people I trust. They operate the way you like. You won't see or hear them, but they’ll be close enough to step in if anything sideways happens."
I nod. At least I won't have to spend the trip worrying about Kaden's safety in an unfamiliar country. "Goodnight, Turner."
"Have a good flight," he says, stepping out and letting the door click quietly shut behind him.
I glance down at my watch, fifteen minutes until closing. I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers as I mull over everything Turner just revealed. The horror attached to Vesper makes my stomach turn, yet my mind keeps wandering back to my original plan. I still want to gift the club to Kaden, even if he keeps dodging every conversation regarding it.
But is Vesper tied to too much rot?
Should I stop trying to hand him something that's likely soaked in a lot of quiet brutality? Or maybe everything worth having carries a bit of darkness. I certainly do. Even Orphic does.
Perhaps handing the keys of a place like Vesper over to someone as precious and fundamentally good as Kaden is the only way to genuinely cleanse it. While Turner and I burn whatever parasites are left hiding in its foundation to the ground.