135. FELIX YEATS (POV)

135. FELIX YEATS (POV)
After leaving Isabelle to rest, I head to my office — a space that, so far, is free of distractions. The door clicks shut behind me. Tony is leaning against the desk, eyes tense, putting me on alert.
“You and Phill already put Simon in his place?” I ask, swallowing my own voice. I want quick answers.
He nods.
“Yes, boss. Each one’s in a separate cell. Security’s been posted outside the whole time.” The steadiness in his voice gives me a small wave of relief. But I’m starving for revenge, ready to end everything that tried to destroy me and take Isabelle from me.
“Good.” I take a deep breath, run a hand through my hair, and turn to the window, watching the lights fade to make way for daylight. The sun is rising on the horizon.
“And the container? Did they ship it to the Kireevs?”
Tony makes a rough sound in his throat, straightening up by the desk.
“There was a delay. Phill’s still checking the packaging, the fake documents, and the route. But everything’ll be shipped to the Kireevs before nightfall.”
I frown.
“I can’t have any slip-ups with this. I need to know the weapons are no longer a problem, that they’re going to the right men — no turning back.”
In the window’s reflection, I see Tony stand and head toward the door.
“I know. I’ll go check now. Phill asked me to remind you he already sent the encrypted route, and the notes are ready.”
I turn, walk across the office, and pick up a small crystal globe, holding it in my hand. I watch it closely, shaking it so whatever’s inside moves.
“This is more than just a shipment, Tony. This is our insurance. If any of those weapons come back on the map, our route will be exposed. The family, the cover... the business — it all goes down.”
He clenches his jaw.
“Got it, boss.”
I fix my eyes on the reflection in the globe. The tight space forces me to face it — more than I expected. I sit back down, unbuttoning my filthy shirt, letting the weight of my body drop into the chair, letting my exhaustion show.
“One more thing,” I say, locking eyes with him. “I need to know how that container ended up at that supposedly abandoned port. Simon planned this too well — if he has access to any lead… we need to find it now.”
He nods, tense.
“I’ll check the footage from the hall and the basement. Phill said he managed to hack into their system. If there’s anything off, I’ll let you know.”
“Good.” My face hardens. “Tell the Kireevs the shipment was found. They can keep the money I gave back — and the cargo.”
Tony takes a deep breath and nods silently. He opens the door and walks out, leaving me completely alone.
The sound of the latch echoes softly, but it feels like it sinks straight into my skull. The sunlight coming through the penthouse windows is pale, indifferent to the shitstorm everything’s become. I get up slowly, my body protesting after a night spent on high alert — after the blows, after the blood that’s still drying on the edges of my shirt.
I head to the bar. The bottle of bourbon is still there, untouched — like it has no idea I almost killed a man. I pour two fingers, the ice cracking against the glass. I lean on the counter and catch my reflection in the glass cabinet door — my face tight, the dark circles deep, my eyes darker than they should be.
My mind cuts back, sharp and sudden, to Isabelle. The way her body folded into mine — limp, drugged, confused. Her eyes begging, even though she couldn’t speak. Simon with a gun to her head. The rage comes rushing back, pounding in the back of my skull, burning in my gut. I should’ve pulled the trigger. I should’ve done it.
But I couldn’t. Not with her there.
I take a deep breath and knock back the bourbon in one go. The taste is hot, harsh — but not enough to numb what’s running through my veins. Rage is a slow poison, eating me from the inside.
I pace the room. I sit in the armchair by the bookshelf, running my fingers over the crystal globe still on the table. The snow inside turns slowly, a quiet reminder of everything I used to control… and what I can’t control now.
Simon’s still breathing.
And that eats me alive.
I whisper, more to myself than anyone else, “He’s going to tell me everything. Every damn detail. And then… it’s over.”
I grab my phone and check my messages. Nothing. Isabelle’s still asleep. Tony hasn’t updated me yet. But then, my comm crackles softly. Phill’s voice comes through, tense and encrypted:
“Boss… about the tracker on the container… there was someone else involved.”
I freeze.
The bourbon glass hangs midair in my hand, the ice half-melted. My eyes stay locked on the window — but now, all I see is the shadow of another piece. This shit’s turning into a chess game, wearing down whatever strength I’ve got left.
The hand holding the glass starts to sweat. The melted ice slides down the sides, dripping over my fingers. The bourbon doesn’t warm me anymore — it just weighs me down.
“Spit it out, Phill,” I growl, eyes still locked on the glass. “Who’s involved?”
“Vicent, boss.” His voice cuts through static. “That bastard’s been messing with the routes for a while. Started small, skimming boxes of ammo. Now it looks like he’s working with the same son of a bitch who tried to screw us in the beginning. That first traitor — the one selling intel from the warehouses. They’re working together.”
The name hits hard in my chest. Vicent. Always too ambitious, too quiet. So damn discreet he seemed loyal. But too much loyalty has always just been another way to blind the right eyes.
“You sure about this?” My voice comes out low, steady — walking a fine line between keeping control and snapping.
“Absolutely. We found his navigation signature in the comms from the old port. Tony tracked it to a remote property. Too small to look dangerous, too well-equipped to be just a front.”
I grip the glass so tight the ice groans in my fist. The pieces start to fall into place. Simon, Vicent, the traitor who’d been dealing with Simon — a network stitched together in silence, while I was busy fighting to protect what little honor’s left in this filthy world.
They wanted Isabelle, sure. But they wanted more than that — they wanted to destroy everything I built. Humiliate me. Erase me.
I stand, body aching. Rage, as always, pushes me forward. But now there’s something else — a coldness born from betrayal.
“Send me the location of the property. Now. And prep two teams. One quiet. One loaded to the teeth.”
“Understood.” Phill’s voice is respectful, but there’s a hint of fear. He knows when I get like this, someone’s going to bleed. A lot.
“One more thing,” I say before ending the call. “If the traitor’s there… I don’t want him dead. Not yet.”
I hang up. Silence returns. But now, it marks the beginning of the end.
I look out the window. The city is still calm, innocent, unaware of the hell that’s already rising beneath it.