Chapter 53 -
The artist worked in silence for another twenty minutes, his hand moving in blur of motion. Finally, he turned the sketchbook around so Nia and Leo could see.
“Is this him?” the artist asked.
Nia studied the face on the paper. It was a hauntingly accurate representation of the man who had destroyed her relationship. The sharp cheekbones, the thin lips, the coldness.
“Close,” Nia said, leaning in. She took a piece of charcoal from the table and made a tiny adjustment to the corner of the eye, pulling the line slightly downward. “The eyes were colder. They were hooded, like he was always bored with the world.”
The artist made the change with a few quick strokes. When he showed it again, Nia felt a shiver run down her spine. It was him. Jordan. The man who held the key to her freedom and, quite possibly, her death.
“I’m not sure, my meeting with him was brief,” Nia whispered.
Leo took the sketchbook from the artist’s hand. He stared at the drawing for a long time, his face unreadable. Then, he looked at Nia. There was a new kind of respect in his gaze, a recognition of her strength that had nothing to do with her role as a captive.
“Santiago, take the artist to the guardhouse. Have him digitize this and send it to every contact we have in the harbor district. I want a name to match this face by sunrise,” Leo ordered.
As Santiago led the artist out, Leo turned back to Nia. He walked over to her and, for the first time, he did not stop at the edge of her personal space. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding, and entirely possessive.
“You did good tonight, Miss Wallace,” he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to echo in her very bones. “Go to your room. Lock the door. I will handle the rest.”
Nia stood up, her body feeling heavy with the release of the tension she had been carrying. She walked toward the door, but stopped before she left.
“Leo?”
He looked up from the sketch. “Yes?”
“Do not let the Don handle the motivation,” she said quietly.
Leo’s eyes darkened, the grey turning to the color of a stormy sea. “Well, I guess we need to be fast.”
The atmosphere in the study had just begun to settle into a fragile peace when the silence was shattered. The black telephone on the mahogany desk rang, the sound shrill and demanding. It cut through the tentative connection that had formed between Nia and Leo like a serrated knife.
Leo did not jump. He did not even flinch. He simply reached out and lifted the receiver, his movements stripping away the softness that had been there only moments ago.
“DeSanto,” he answered. His voice was no longer the low rumble that had promised her protection. It was sharp. Efficient. It was the voice of a commander receiving intelligence from the front lines.
Nia stood frozen near the door, watching him. She could not hear the voice on the other end, but she could see the change in Leo. His spine straightened, the exhaustion he had been carrying seeming to evaporate under a surge of adrenaline.
“Go on,” Leo said, his eyes locking onto the map spread out before him.
There was a pause as Santiago spoke on the other end. Leo’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering near his ear.
“Are you certain?” Leo asked. “Describe the tattoo again.”
Another pause. Then, a dark, grim satisfaction settled over Leo’s features. It was not a smile. It was something far more terrifying. It was the look of a hunter who had just caught the scent of blood on the wind.
“Hold the perimeter,” Leo commanded. “Do not engage until I arrive. If he runs, shoot to cripple, not to kill. I need him able to speak.”
He hung up the phone with a decisive click.
“Leo?” Nia took a step forward, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What is it?”
“We might have something,” Leo said. He was already moving, rounding the desk with long, purposeful strides. He opened a drawer and pulled out a shoulder holster and a black semi-automatic pistol. “Santiago has a man pinned down in the East District. He matches the sketch. He has the tattoo.”
Nia watched as he checked the weapon. The sound of the magazine sliding into place was loud in the quiet room. Click-clack. It was a sound of violence, a reminder of exactly who Leonardo DeSanto was. He was not just the man who read stories to his nephew. He was the Enforcer.
He slipped into his suit jacket, adjusting the cuffs. In the span of thirty seconds, the man she had been vulnerable with was gone. In his place stood a weapon made of flesh and bone.
“I am going with you,” Nia said, the words leaving her mouth before she could think them through.
Leo stopped. He looked at her, and his eyes were like chips of ice. “No. You are going to your room. You are going to lock the door, and you are going to wait.”
“But if it is him—”
“If it is him,” Leo interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “then the things I am going to do to him are not things you should ever have to witness.”
“I can handle it,” Nia insisted, though her hands were trembling.
Leo walked over to her. He did not touch her this time. He stopped inches away, his presence radiating a cold, lethal heat. “You think you can handle it because you imagine justice is a courtroom or a conversation. It is not. Justice in my world is ugly, Nia. It is bloody and it is loud and it leaves stains that do not wash out.”
He reached for the doorknob, pulling the heavy door open.
“What happens if you find him?” Nia asked, her voice small. “What happens if he does not tell you where Alex is?”
Leo paused at the threshold. He turned his head slightly, looking back at her over his shoulder. The shadows of the hallway cut across his face, hiding his eyes.
“You do not want to know,” he said.
Then he was gone. The sound of his heavy footsteps retreated down the hall, followed by the distant slam of the front door and the roar of an engine peeling out of the driveway. Nia was left standing in the center of the study, surrounded by the smell of his tobacco and the lingering chill of his promise.