Chapter 26 She Is the Line I Do Not Cross

Chapter 26 She Is the Line I Do Not Cross
Dragon Ironside

The silence in the car is heavy, filled only by the soft hum of the engine and the tension vibrating in my bones. I left home leaving my wife there, immersed in the whirlwind of our own ghosts. What happened last night, and then in the bathroom this morning, wasn't just sex. It was a wild truce, a treaty written on skin and sweat.

Just as it was also a beginning. And now, sitting in the back seat of the armored SUV while Leo drives with silent efficiency, I feel the physical distance between us like a dull ache in my chest.

On my tablet screen, information about the Serbians parades, but my eyes do not absorb it. I see the reflection of my face, austere and marked, against the dark glass. I need to keep my eyes on that Becker family.

I know Nadja, back home in our fortress that must still smell of us, is consumed with worry for her sister Clara. If my wife asks me to bring her here,and I know she will ask, it's only a matter of time,I need to have a card up my sleeve.

I need something to be able to wrench the girl from the claws of those two vultures who have the gall to call themselves parents.

The memory of her father, Petar, offering his widowed daughter as if she were a prize cut of meat, still fills me with visceral disgust. And the mother, Ana, with her sharp smile and eyes empty of any maternal love, a pretense that must have fooled Nadja many times.

I know they got much worse after the advantageous deal with Nadja and Otávio's marriage. They saw the profit potential materialize and, like true vampires, are already targeting the younger daughter, Clara, who is barely sixteen. The thought of that girl with the same blue eyes as her sister being handed over to another Otávio makes me clench my fists so hard my knuckles crack.

"Boss."

Tomas's voice beside me pulls me from the pit of hatred. He holds the phone, his face impassive, but there is an alert gleam in his eyes.

"Speak."

"We received a message. From Mr. Reed's head of security. They're asking us to go directly to his house. Seems urgent."

A chill that has nothing to do with the Montana weather runs down my spine. Urgency, in our line of work, is rarely something good.

"Change course, Leo," I order, and the car makes a smooth but decisive turn, abandoning the route to the office.

Marcus's house isn't a house; it's a citadel. High walls, sensors, armed men with expressions that don't invite conversation. I pass through all the security points with the familiarity of someone who was once part of that mechanism. My boots echo on the cold marble corridors leading to the office. I knock twice and wait for permission to enter.

"Come in."

Marcus's voice is grave, a command in itself. I open the door and smile.

The scene surprises me. Marcus is seated in his large leather chair and Joana, his wife, is sitting on his lap, her arms around his shoulders. They are not in an intimate moment, but in a playful conversation.

But I also see there are maps and a tablet on the desk, yet their posture speaks of a unity that goes beyond a business partnership. It is a rare thing to see, and because of it, a knot of a strange, almost painful envy forms in my throat.

"Good morning, lovebirds," I greet, trying to inject a light tone I don't feel.

Joana turns her face, her intelligent eyes scanning me instantly.

"Good morning, Dragon. And how is married life?" The question isn't just courtesy. It's a probe.

I let out a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the last few weeks and let myself fall into the leather armchair in front of the desk.

"Difficult, Joana. It's as if my mere breathing could send her to hell. A stronger breath and she would dissolve into ashes of fear."

Marcus makes a low sound, something between a grunt and a dry laugh.

"It was your choice, my friend. You knew what you were getting into."

I look at him, at the cold eyes that hide a deep understanding of all our miseries.

"It's not that I'm complaining," I say, my voice rougher than I'd like. "I am consumed, Marcus. Consumed by a hatred that burns me inside, for what that trash Otávio did, for what her parents allowed, for what all the people who should have protected her failed to do. I am left with her wreckage. And trying to rebuild something with the very hands that, through my inaction, helped break it… is a bitter irony."

I told them then. Incompletely, but with the cruelty only truth possesses. I told them about Belgrade, about finding Nadja in that mansion surrounded by people who saw her as an intruder, she was a ghost in her own home. About Ella Mayer, Otávio's sister, trying to protect Nadja… from me. The greatest danger, in her view. And about her parents, Petar and Ana, whose calculating gaze upon their own widowed daughter made me want to tear their eyes out.

"She is wounded in places I can't even see," I confess, and the admission comes out like something stolen from me. "I need to find a psychologist. Someone she can talk to, a woman, so she feels safe. Because she sees me, and rightly in part, as her tormentor. Even after what happened between us, she is still like a scared pup, flinching at the slightest sudden movement. And I… I don't know how to be gentle, Marcus."

It is Joana who answers, sliding from her husband's lap with silent grace. She approaches, placing a light hand on my shoulder. The gesture is so unexpected, so maternal in its brutal context, it almost makes me shudder.

"I can arrange that, Dragon. I know a discreet and brilliant woman. She has helped… some of ours. Understands the kind of shadows we carry. Should I make the contact?"

The relief I feel is so physical my body seems to sink a little deeper into the leather of the armchair.

"Thank you, Joana. Truly."

She nods, a sad smile on her lips.

"She will learn that not all monsters have claws, Dragon. But you need to give it time."

Marcus interrupts, his gaze returning to the maps. The moment of vulnerability had to end.

"We have a more immediate problem. The Canadians are testing our borders, especially in the northeast region. Two of our posts reported incursions. They are not random. They are probing, looking for weaknesses. We need to show we are alive and alert. That we see every move."

The change of subject is abrupt, but necessary. I switch into work mode, my mind splitting into two parts: one diving into the lines of the borders, the routes, the forces at play; and the other part, a little more stubborn, remains in my foggy bathroom, in wide blue eyes.

"Want a response?" I ask, my voice now flat, professional.

"I want a message. Clear, but unmistakable. Nothing that triggers an open war, but something that makes the cost of their boldness clear."

We plan for an hour. It's dirty, precise work. We decide on a surgical operation: intercept a specific shipment, not too large, but symbolic. And leave two of their men unavailable. That will be our message.

"We'll need to go there, supervise," Marcus decrees. "We leave in two hours. We'll be gone for three days, at most."