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CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Kace leaned back in his executive chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, a rare smile playing across his lips as he surveyed the digital battlefield on his dual monitors. The Hendrix stock ticker scrolled in relentless red, plummeting another seven percent in after-hours trading, a symphony of destruction orchestrated by his own hand. Shares dumped through anonymous proxies, whispers of instability leaked to key investors, and now the empire Austen had lorded over for decades teetered on the brink. Victory buzzed in his veins, a warm rush that momentarily drowned out the ghosts of St. Maria and Anderson’s fresh grave. His green eyes gleamed with satisfaction, olive skin catching the soft glow of the screens, jet-black hair impeccably styled despite the late hour. The penthouse office at Hexagon Industries felt like a throne room, the city lights twinkling beyond the windows like conquered stars.The intercom buzzed, shattering the moment. His secretary’s voice filtered t
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Damn him!” Austen Hendrix roared, sweeping an arm across his desk, sending files and an antique paperweight crashing to the floor in a chaotic symphony.He had transformed his study into a war zone of splintered wood and scattered papers, the air thick with the acrid scent of spilled ink and shattered glass. Austen rampaged through the room like a typhoon incarnate, his ocean-blue eyes wild with unbridled fury, graying blonde hair matted with sweat as he hurled a crystal decanter against the wall. It exploded in a cascade of shards, amber scotch spraying across the Persian rug like blood from a fresh wound. The stocks, his life’s blood, the empire he’d clawed from nothing, had plunged another eighteen percent that afternoon, a nosedive that screamed sabotage. Investors were fleeing, partners ghosting calls, and the market feeds on his MacBook screamed red alerts like sirens in hell. Axel Tantanam stood frozen in the doorway, MacBook clutched to his chest like a shield, his dark brow
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“I don’t like this, Kace,” Autumn said without preamble, striding across the plush rug, her athletic frame coiled like a spring. She wore a fitted tank and joggers, the casual attire doing little to mask her intensity. She had burst in from the study, her short black spiky hair disheveled, and her eyes flashing with agitation.The penthouse living room was bathed in the soft glow of the hearth, the flames crackling like distant gunfire in the quiet expanse. Kace was standing by the bar cart, pouring himself a nightcap, scotch, neat, to dull the edges of the day’s chaos. His jet-black hair fell slightly over his forehead, his eyes reflecting the fire’s dance, olive skin taut with the lingering tension from the motel rescue. The space felt larger tonight, echoing with the weight of new responsibilities: Emilia, tucked away in a guest suite down the hall, her presence a reminder of promises made to the dead. “Having Emilia here is a liability. The mafia’s already on her trail; they trac
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The penthouse elevator doors parted with a soft chime, spilling Kace and Emilia into the expansive foyer of his Manhattan sanctuary. The space was a fortress of modern luxury, with marble floors veined in gold, and walls of dark walnut paneling that absorbed the city’s ambient glow through floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the skyline twinkled like a distant galaxy, indifferent to the chaos below. But inside, the air was warm, scented faintly with leather and the subtle hum of a crackling hearth from the adjoining living room. Emilia Rogers shuffled forward, her slender frame swallowed by Kace’s oversized blazer, the fabric still carrying his clean, masculine scent, sandalwood, and resolve. She shivered uncontrollably, not just from the December chill that had seeped through her thin clothes during the frantic escape, but from the bone-deep shock that rattled her core. At twenty-one, in her final year of college, she should have been cramming for finals or laughing with roommates ove
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Acura sat idling in the motel’s cracked parking lot, a nondescript black sedan blending into the Queens afternoon like just another shadow in the urban sprawl. Inside, Detective Donnell Winston gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other aggressively working a cigarette to his lips. The cherry glowed bright orange as he inhaled deeply, the smoke curling out the cracked window in thick plumes that dissipated into the chill December air. His short, red mahogany hair was disheveled from raking his fingers through it, his brown eyes narrowed in frustration, the lines around them deepening with each drag. The engine hummed softly, but it couldn’t drown out the replay in his head: Emilia’s trembling voice through the door, begging them to leave, her refusal a wall he couldn’t breach. “Damn kid,” he muttered, exhaling a lungful of smoke that fogged the windshield. “We’re trying to help, and she slams the door in our faces? Could’ve had her in protective custody by now.”Aubrey W
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The lobby of the dingy Queens motel was a far cry from the cozy Brooklyn brownstone Emilia Rogers had called home just days ago, a fluorescent-lit purgatory smelling of stale coffee and cheap air freshener, with faded wallpaper peeling at the edges like old skin. It was December in the 21st century, a time when the city buzzed with digital life, but for Emilia, the world had shrunk to survival mode: cash payments, fake names, and constant glances over her shoulder. Her auburn hair hung limp and unwashed, tucked under a hoodie that swallowed her slender frame. At twenty-one, she should have been worrying about her final year papers, not the phantom eyes she felt boring into her back everywhere she went. School? She’d skipped it for days, the thought of sitting in class while shadows lurked outside too terrifying to bear. The trauma of her father’s death haunted her like a relentless specter: the blood, the flames, the silence that followed her screams.Clutching a crumpled wad of bills
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