Chapter 214 VELVET SMUGGLERS.

Chapter 214 VELVET SMUGGLERS.
AVERY’S POV:
I took a final look at the garden through the floor-length window. Lights sparkled, people laughed, and soft music filled the air.
Let them think it was just toys.
Let them believe in the fantasy.
They had no idea what I was truly building — and that was exactly how I wanted it.

The applause had faded. The lights outside the garden had dimmed to nothing but a twinkle. Even the orchestra had packed up and gone, leaving behind the kind of silence only wealth could afford.
But for us, the night had only just begun.
We were no longer in designer heels and charming small talk. I’d changed into black boots and a structured jacket — my hair tied back, sleeves rolled. In the quiet of the factory’s top floor, I looked nothing like the glowing CEO who had just launched a toy company to standing ovations.
This was the other side.
The real side.
The loft now buzzed with quiet coordination. The floors had been reinforced, lined with industrial panels that led to our custom packing conveyor. Red Hand operatives moved with military precision, gloves on, no wasted movement.
Baron stood beside me, towering, silent. He looked like sin in a suit — and we worked well that way. No emotion. Just the mission.
“All fifty crates packed,” he said, voice low and gritty. “The last set are going through compression now. We’ve got seventeen minutes before the trucks need to be out.”
I nodded once. “Let’s see it.”
We moved past the metal door — guarded, of course, and only accessible via palm scan and a retinal key. Inside, the room smelled like cotton, glue, and faint traces of chemical disinfectant. A machine hummed quietly as it injected sealed packets into the belly of the plush toys — cocaine, vacuumed and layered in carbon-thread wrappings.
Each stuffed animal was a masterstroke of misdirection. A powder-blue elephant. A sleepy white tiger cub. A baby hippo with a pink bow.
Cuteness had never been so efficient.
The crates were sleek custom-fitted. Each one held twenty stuffed animals, their softness perfectly preserved despite what they carried. The crates were triple-lined and labeled with international cargo codes. No scan would show anything but foam and fabric.
“Trackers?” I asked.
Baron nodded. “Already sewn into four random toys in each crate. GPS pings every 11 minutes, shifts location every 23.”
I scanned the data on my iPad — live signals blinking softly over a map that stretched from Miami to the coast of Marseille to Italy.
The trucks were already lined up on the back road of the property — two heavy-duty military-grade transport vehicles with false plates and legitimate cargo manifests. Red Hand drivers, fully briefed. Everything was airtight.
“All right,” I said, stepping back. “Let’s load.”
Men moved without being told — crates lifted, catalogued, and locked down inside the reinforced compartments of the trucks. Every motion was smooth. Every second used. There was no room for error in our system — not tonight, not ever.
Baron stood near the open bay doors, speaking into his earpiece. “Thaddeus is prepped. Airfield’s cleared.”
I checked the internal manifest, syncing it with Thaddeus’s flight schedule.
One stop at the secluded airfield outside town. Then, everything would be loaded into AXEVY SEA 12— our newest cargo plane, branded with the same innocent logo we used for the stuffed animal company. It was a jet built for softness and smiles — but it had been reengineered beneath the decals. Reinforced hold. No-risk flight routes. Privately owned airspace contracts.
The moment the last crate was loaded, Baron gave me a look.
“They’re ready.”
I stepped up to the driver of Truck 1 — one of our Red Hand agent, face half in shadow. “Three hours to the airfield. Don’t push the limit. Make your stops, switch routes twice. Let the system know you're playing by the rules.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Truck 2 rolled out quietly behind it, both vehicles vanishing into the dark, country road. No one would suspect them. Not tonight. Not with the media still breathlessly replaying my launch speech.
We returned upstairs.
Inside the control room, the screen glowed with our map — little blips moving smoothly across their designated paths. No deviation. No unexpected signals. The software we used was military-grade, stolen from a forgotten war-zone contract Axel had secured years ago.
We watched.
And waited.
Three hours passed.
At the airfield, Thaddeus was already on-site, overseeing the transfer. The crates were loaded onto AXEVY SEA without incident. The private tower confirmed clearance. The runway was clean. Weather was perfect.
I watched the blip representing our jet take off at 02:14 a.m. The engines roared across a strip of land that no one thought was still in use. We’d bought the airfield under a shell company that trained aviation engineers. Nobody cared what flew in or out, so long as the money was good.
“Estimated flight time?” I asked.
Baron answered without looking up. “Ten hours. Land at 12:18 p.m., Milan time. Contact’s on standby. Receiving warehouse is prepped.”
I leaned against the console, arms crossed, eyes alert.
Time stretched thin.
Every hour, a ping. Every ping, a check.
I slept for twenty minutes in the side office — barely a breath. Baron stayed up, watching every movement like a silent wolf.
And then—
The screen lit up.
"Milan Warehouse Received Manifest. Delivery Confirmed."
A second ping came through — encrypted, just four words from our Italian contact:
"Safe. Full. Grazie, regina."
I exhaled. Slow. Controlled.
Baron smirked beside me. “Cleanest one yet.”
I stared at the blinking dot that had once been a plane and was now a perfect receipt of victory.
We did it.
Not a single eye on us.
No flags. No questions.
Just smiles, toys, and the quiet voice of power moving beneath velvet skin. That was what I wanted.