Chapter 38
Raymond’s POV
“Raymond.” Her voice found me first, steady as if an ordinary night were still possible. She was standing, leaning on the car door with one hand; blood smudged the sleeve of her blouse and a shard of glass had nicked the skin at her temple. For a long second I could do nothing but look.
“You promised to stop getting into dodgy cars,” I said, closing the few steps between us.
“You told me not to worry,” she answered.
“You told me not to worry and then made it rather difficult.” My hand slid along the cold metal. I pressed my thumb into the brake line where it had been sliced clean. “This wasn’t random.”
“They wanted it to look like chaos,” she said, watching the cut. “They want the headlines.”
“They want us to bleed on camera,” I replied. “They wanted a story.”
She let out a short, bitter laugh. “Bad headlines are predictable. It’s the people who make headlines believable that worry me.”
A guard knelt by the wheel, already on the radio. Faces crowded the curb—drivers, press, the courier who’d dropped us off a moment before. Calculated. Precise. Intimate.
“This was done from the inside,” I said.
She didn’t flinch. “Someone with access. Someone who knew the schedule.”
“So it begins in earnest,” I said, and the words tasted like a vow.
“So it does.” She straightened; blood dark on white cloth. “We go back.”
We rode home in silence. Rain smeared the city into streaks of light, reflections fracturing us into fragments. I watched her profile…counting bruises I hadn’t noticed before. Each one was an entry in a war ledger I hadn’t wanted to open.
The estate was a hive when we pulled in. Radios barked. Matthew’s voice cut across the courtyard like a blade. Joseph stood at the gate, face tense. Camille waited on the steps, hair damp; she started forward, then stopped when I descended with a presence that quieted the yard.
“Inside,” I told them. No one argued.
She moved through the house like someone who had practiced for this: precise, economical. Her steadiness steadied the staff. It steadied me.
In her study the rain tapped the windows. The lamp cast a pool of light across the desk.
“You should’ve let me call this in sooner,” Matthew snapped, tie loose, voice rough with fury.
“You already have twenty men combing the perimeter,” I said. “You don’t need me to outline the obvious.”
“Obvious isn’t enough,” he said. “Someone cut the lines where only our people could get access. Show me the footage, Raymond. Show me the list.”
Adriana poured water, hands steady. “Whoever did this wants me afraid,” she said quietly. “They want me to make mistakes.”
“Then we deny them the satisfaction,” I said. “We find them and make them understand the cost.”
She lifted her face. For a beat she was not a client or a public instrument—just Adriana, tired and honest. “Don’t let anger make you reckless,” she told me. “You promised you’d keep to rules.”
“Rules kept us boxed in before,” I said. “Rules let them poison halls and lives.”
“You survived that,” she said, the smile a wedge. “So you know there’s a difference between strategy and vengeance.”
“I don’t hesitate to make hard choices,” I answered. “But you have a right to tell me when to stop.”
I wanted to sweep the room clean with one order. I wanted men I hadn’t whispered to in years. Instead I let my temper cool enough to think.
“You listen to me, Adriana,” I said. “I won’t let this slide. I don’t plan for storms. I plan for rivers.”
She considered that, then nodded once. “Good,” she said.
Matthew cleared his throat. “We need forensics. Garage logs, vendor access, staff rotations. Someone photographed the delivery schedule an hour ago. Cross-reference badge swipes.”
“I will,” I said. “Quietly.” I meant it. If the council knew everything, leaks would drown us. Let the rot come to light on our terms.
I opened the small drawer where I kept lines separate from corporate phonebooks. The burner phone was there, the one used for things that couldn’t sit on a ledger. I dialed a number I hadn’t used in years.
“I need movement on specific people,” I said when the voice answered, calm and precise. “Find anyone with access to the garage during the maintenance window. Look for edited surveillance. Quiet work. No council. No paper trail.”
A pause. “Same contacts?”
“Same,” I replied. I didn’t say I wanted names that would let me peel this rot back without burning the whole house down.
Adriana watched me from the window. “You called old ghosts,” she said.
“They find quiet things,” I answered. “They move in the dark.”
Her jaw worked. “If one of our own did this,” she said, barely audible, “I’d rather know than pretend.”
“Then we will know,” I said. “And if someone helped them… I will make them regret the day they chose to betray us.”
“You speak like you think fatal blows are simple,” she said.
“I speak like I know how to make them necessary.”
She exhaled, a brief, almost-laugh. “You’re terrible company when you’re pining for violence.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe I’m finally honest about how tired I am of losing people.”
She placed her palm over mine. Cool. Real. Human.
“Promise me one thing,” she said. “When you find who did this, don’t let the finding be the final word. Make them understand why we refuse to crumble.”
I looked at her hand. “I promise,” I said, and meant it.
When the house emptied and the guards settled into a watchful rhythm, I stood at the window and watched the city. Rain had stopped; streetlights turned puddles into glass. My reflection looked older, lines I hadn’t earned yet. I thought of my father’s empire collapsing, of tables where people laughed as everything burned. I thought of the cost of rules and the price of bending them.
If someone inside our walls had tried to end her, they had failed tonight. Failures breed danger…they learn faster than mercy and hide deeper.
I reached for the burner and sent one short message: Begin.
Outside, the city kept a false calm. Inside, something harsher was taking shape. It would not be weathered. It would be made.
And I would make it for them.