136. FELIX YEATS (POV)

136. FELIX YEATS (POV)
Vicent did betray me, and he knew from the beginning that my being there could mess up deals behind my back. For years, he was a good ally, but his problem was always that hunger for more and more money. Power? What the hell does he need power for if he had allies willing to defend him no matter what kind of shit he got into?
But people like him are never satisfied with protection. They want control; they want the world to revolve around them.
I get up slowly, no rush, with my body burning from the hate bubbling under my skin. The kind of rage that never ends well when I feel it.
I walk through the office in silence. My steps are slow, the glass still in my hand, but the drink has turned into sweat and melted ice. I set it down on the table without a sound. My brain’s already running through everything I have to do.
I can’t go after Vicent directly. He needs to fall on his own—and for that, he has to believe he’s still in control. I need to make him feel comfortable and safe. I need him to think I’m too busy with other stuff, when really, I’m already watching his every move.
But for that to work, I’m gonna have to use someone. Someone he trusts. Someone who can act as bait—and I already know exactly who.
That’s where Simon comes in. Because even locked up, even broken, he’s still useful. Simon trusted Vicent. And Vicent, right now, probably still thinks he can control everything—that he can keep up the act.
Not for much longer.
My mind draws the scene. The trap has to be perfect. I need a fake meeting. I need Vicent to think Simon’s getting out in exchange for some kind of deal. I need a recorded conversation and a proposed agreement. And I need all of it to come from him.
I take a step toward the table. The tablet’s there. My fingers slide across the screen. I open the surveillance records. The image of Simon talking to someone in the alley behind the warehouse pops up. Grainy footage, but it’s him. Vicent, wearing a black cap and jacket. Talking fast, glancing around.
My jaw clenches. A traitor who always smiled too easily. Always lowered his head without a fight.
“You’re going down, Vicent.” My voice scrapes through the air. “And when you fall, there won’t be anywhere to run.”
I unlock my phone and send a single message to Phill: “Meet me in the monitoring room. Now.”
I can’t waste time. If we’re going to use Simon, the game has to start before Vicent makes a move. And knowing that bastard, he won’t sit still—not after hearing the shipment was recovered. And especially not after finding out Simon was captured alive.
I leave the office without a sound. The hallway is quiet, the guards still in their strategic spots around the penthouse. Phill’s already waiting for me in the monitoring room, the screens lit up, fed by dozens of cameras from our controlled zones.
He turns when he hears my footsteps.
“We need to stage an opportunity,” I begin, cutting straight to it. “Simon and Vicent have a connection. If we can get Vicent to say his name... in a setup, in a ‘negotiation,’ we can tie them together. And then—”
“Make Vicent run straight into his trap,” Phill finishes, catching on immediately. His eyes light up with that spark of anticipation. “We can use the cell mics. We’ll stage it so a ‘Russian broker’ wants a trade for intel. That you’re hesitating. That Simon might be freed.”
I nod. I step closer to the table, eyes on the cell where Simon’s being held. The lighting’s low, the feed in black and white. He’s leaning against the wall, face bruised, one eye swollen. But he’s still breathing. Still useful.
“I want him to hear it. But I don't see anything. Just voices. Just enough to plant the idea.”
Phill starts setting up the simulation. Meanwhile, my eyes stay locked on Simon. I want him to think he can make it out of this alive. That there’s a chance. A deal. That maybe, just maybe, Vicent can help him.
Inside the monitoring room, under the cold glow of the screens, Phill tweaks the voice call—deep, distorted enough to hide the source. The plan: use Simon, even locked up, as an unconscious messenger to Vicent.
The recording begins, and I narrow my eyes, watching every detail:
"Vicent?" The voice is heavy, almost muffled. "Simon here. Got a new shipment ready—weapons from yesterday—but Yeats is sniffing around the port. If we don’t close this now, he’s gonna find out and blow it all.”
Tense silence. Phill watches the call LED like it’s the only living thing in the room.
“Understood,” a man's voice replies, calm and controlled. “I’ll pass it to the right people. I want details and photos. And good job, Simon.”
The call drops. The room falls back into silence, broken only by the flickering monitors. My body tightens with the tension. It was simple. Vicent bought it. He thinks he’s dealing directly with Simon.
I open the bunker door slowly. The penthouse is calm, feels like it’s asleep along with Isabelle. But in here, nothing shuts down. Nothing slips away. This is the final trap—and Vicent’s already biting the bait.
I walk over to the table and pick up the crystal globe. The snow inside spins slowly, reminding me of the calm before the storm. Perfect. I want Vicent to think he’s in control… while he’s sinking deeper.
"Phill," I say quietly, "get everything ready. I want every contact traced afterward. I want names before the next move."
He nods, fingers flying across the keyboard, dropping trackers and recorders into every exchange route.
"When he takes the bait, we’ll have more than just container footage. We’ll have the traitor exposed."
My hand tightens around the globe. Outside, the world keeps spinning, but in here, I’m triggering earthquakes. Every piece is in place: Simon, the unwitting partner; Vicent, falling straight into the trap; and the Kireevs, already warned that I’ve found the real cargo thief.
Minutes after the call, Phill updates the main screen with the tracking data. The map glows red—Vicent’s already on the move. The location he shared is an old hangar south of the city—supposedly abandoned, now receiving Vicent’s private jet.
“He bit the bait, boss,” Phill says, voice flat.
“Perfect,” I murmur, leaning on the edge of the table. “Tell me the moment he arrives. And get two cars ready. We’re gonna watch him real close.”
Phill nods, and the tension between us settles into something sharp and solid.
But before I can leave the room, the system lets out a sharp beep. Phill rushes to the panel, and his face shifts into a mask of alarm.
“What is it?”
“There’s another number… came into the channel just now. It’s not Vicent. It’s someone he contacted right after the call. Look at this, boss…”
He spins the screen toward me, revealing the number and its origin.
I freeze. The name flashes in bold letters.
Martin.
My eyes narrow. The tension tightens in my chest like a suffocating vest.
“He’s dead. How the hell is his number still active?”
Phill takes a steady breath. “What if someone’s using his number?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, the taste of hot blood hitting my tongue.