Chapter 8 Wesley
Wesley
I let the silence linger after his words, savoring the rawness in his voice. The mask he wore, all sharp teeth and bravado, had shattered.
My lips curved faintly as I swirled the wine in my glass, watching the dark red ripple against the light. “Fucked…” I repeated softly, almost tasting the word. “Yes, I imagine you would be.”
Ro’s throat bobbed. He looked away, pretending to study the flame of the small candle on the table. His shoulders were set like stone, but I could see the tension vibrating just beneath the surface.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table, lowering my voice so it threaded just between the two of us. “You’ve followed me around for days like an eager puppy.”
Color rose high in his cheeks, but his expression stayed stubborn. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment to slit your throat.”
“Then why wait? Because you want my help?”
His hands clenched on his lap, the twitch of his fingers betraying him.
“I think you need my help,” I murmured, “but not with what you’re asking.”
The waiter appeared then, clearing plates and offering dessert menus. I waved him off with a polite smile, and when he left, I turned my attention back to the boy across from me.
“Ro,” I said, loving how his pupils dilated at the sound of his name in my mouth. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
His pink tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “…What?”
“A lost thing. Clever, dangerous—but lost. And craving something you’re terrified of.”
He squirmed in his seat as if he were sitting on hot coals. “You talk too much.”
“And you listen too much, for someone who pretends not to care.” I reached for my glass again, leisurely, taking a slow sip before setting it down. “You can keep playing your game, but the more you sit here with me, the more you’ll find yourself slipping.”
He scoffed, but the sound was shaky. “You really think you’re that irresistible?”
“No.” I leaned in again, lowering my voice to a barely audible whisper. “I think you’re that tired. It must be exhausting acting all the time. I’m offering you a place to rest.”
I sat back, signaling to the waiter for the check.
“Eat with me again tomorrow,” I said as if it were already settled.
His eyes widened. “What—why the hell would I—”
“Because you will.” My tone cut clean, leaving no room for negotiation. I slid the billfold across the table without looking at it, leaving far too much cash behind.
Then I stood, adjusting the cuffs of my jacket. His eyes followed the motion, wary and restless.
I placed a hand briefly on the back of his chair as I passed, leaning just close enough to murmur by his ear, “Good boys keep their appointments. I’ll be expecting you.”
And then I left him there, buzzing in the wake of it.
The air outside was cool and damp, carrying the faint brine of the waterfront, mixed with the scent of roasted coffee and fresh bread from the market stalls nearby. I breathed it in slowly, letting it settle me after the heat of the restaurant.
I didn’t need to look back to know Ro was still sitting there, caught between fury and fascination. He’d sit another five minutes, maybe ten, trying to convince himself he wouldn’t follow my order.
And then he would.
That was the thing about boys like him who were trained to bite, conditioned to bleed on command.
The obedience was already wired into him, hidden under his claws.
All it took was the right tone and the right pressure, and suddenly he was sitting up straighter, eating out of the palm of my hand, and answering questions he had sworn he wouldn’t.
He was not Elias’s boy, not really. He only wore Elias’s collar because he hadn’t learned he could easily slip free of it.
I adjusted my cuff, slipping my hands into my pockets as I moved down the stone steps of the market, my shoes clicking against the pavement.
His face came back to me in pieces—pale lashes lowered when I said his name, the sharp flare of defiance when I pressed too close, and the cute blush he tried to hide when I reminded him why he hadn’t struck yet.
It wasn’t attraction that held him—or, well, not just that. It was the relief of being seen through and still left standing.
Most people thought command was about force. Noise. Violence. But control wasn’t something you shouted into a boy like Ro. It was something you offered along with treats and a gentle touch, something he leaned into before he even realized he’d moved.
I wondered if Elias had ever figured that out. Judging from the bruise on Ro’s cheek that I’d glimpsed when he tilted his face toward the candlelight, I doubted it.
And when the boy found me tomorrow, as he would, he’d sit where I placed him, he’d let me order for him again, and he’d bite back his temper and bare his throat.
This game wasn’t about seduction or even loyalty—not yet. It was about teaching him that every time he followed, every time he obeyed, every time he whispered ‘yes’ when he swore he’d say ‘no’—he wasn’t answering Elias anymore.
He was answering me.
* * *
“Package is delivered,” Yazmin reported with a satisfied grin, leaning her hip against the edge of my desk. “Not as fun as my more hands-on work, but I’ve gotta admit, I’m excited to watch the CCTV footage later.”
I let a faint smile ghost across my lips. “Can’t say I’ll be joining the watch party.”
“Oh, I know,” she laughed, her long braid swinging at her back. “Bet your nephews will join me, though.”
“Not sure your little lover boy would feel comfortable with that,” I joked.
Yaz pursed her lips and rolled her eyes in mock disdain. “Carson can come too. The more, the merrier, as they say!”
“Good luck with that.” I shook my head in amusement. “God, there are too many fucking couples here.”
She snorted, shaking her head. “You’re just jealous, big man.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyways, one of these days, I’m gonna get you to come on a job with me.”
“Threats of torture,” I mused, arching a brow.
She winked at me before pushing off the desk. “I’m gonna go stake out the coffee pot before the info nerds drain it dry. You want me to bring you a cup before it’s gone?”
“Black,” I said simply.
“Always,” she tossed back over her shoulder, heeled boots clicking against the floor as she disappeared from my view.
I spun my chair around and closed my eyes, a certain pretty boy on my mind.
“Boss.”
I turned at the sound of Ichabod’s gravelly voice. He wasn’t one to interrupt without cause. His wiry frame stood in front of my desk, a file in hand.
“Yes?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
“I did some more research.” He glanced around, as if to make sure no one was listening in.
“I’d hope so. That’s your whole job, after all.”
“I mean about that kid you had me look into off the record.” Ich set the file down on the desk between us, tapping it with one blunt finger.
My gaze hardened. “What is it?”
“Um, well… It’s more about that Elias guy, the one whose name is on the kid’s—sorry, he’s only a few years younger than me, so I really should stop calling him that.
Anyway, the man on the lease for his apartment.
I just—something was bothering me about him.
I’m sorry that I looked further into things without your knowledge, but…
” His mouth pressed into a flat line; his eyes were troubled.
“What I found—it’s not just unsettling, Wes, it’s… ”
My jaw clenched. “Get on with it, please.”
Ichabod nodded shortly and flipped the file open. Photocopies, old records, and grainy photos spread across the desk. Elias at different ages, but always with that same too-perfect smile. A trail of names and addresses that didn’t add up. Birth certificates that contradicted one another.
“Some of these identities overlap,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Different names, same face. Different addresses, same paper trail. And I just can’t see how he’d be able to pull this off for this long without help on the inside.”
My eyes skimmed the documents. “Okay, so?”
“I’m not sure if it’s a police contact or a government official, but… He’s not just some random handler who picked up your guy. He’s got backing. Real backing. And not the kind we want sniffing around our operation.”
I let silence stretch, fingertips brushing one of the photographs. Elias, with an arm around Ro, the boy caught mid-smile—guard down, if only for a second.
“What do you want me to do?” Ichabod asked.
I looked up at him. “Nothing. And if Elias ordered Ro to kill me, we should assume that whoever’s backing him is already aware of me and probably the whole operation.”
His brows drew together. “Wes—”
I closed the file with quiet finality, sliding it back toward him. “Just keep watching. Quietly. No one outside of you and me hears about it.”
Ichabod didn’t move to take the file back. Instead, he rested both hands on the desk, leaning in slightly. “There’s more…”
I arched a brow. “Then say it.”
His mouth tightened, like he hated the words he was about to let out. “The uh… connections I found—they link to transit routes. From what I’ve seen, it’s a huge underground trafficking organization. But, not like drugs or weapons, Wes. People.”
My fingers stilled on the desk, and I was suddenly much more interested in the conversation.
Ich went on, voice low and grim. “Movements through ports, manifests that don’t match, so many shell companies. Elias’s name doesn’t show up directly in any of it, but his aliases do. Again and again. Every trail I followed led back to him.”
He flipped another sheet forward. Photos—blurry shots of kids and young adults being herded off trucks, faces pale, eyes wide. A few older men and women were scattered in, but it was clear what sold the most.
Youth.
Innocence.
And it was disgusting.
“And here’s the thing.” Ichabod tapped one corner of the photo.
“Ro, or should I say Andreas, doesn’t show up anywhere in the manifests.
Not once. But we know that he’s still listed as missing, never reappearing after the deaths of his family.
So he was a kid, vulnerable, the perfect victim for traffickers.
And yet he’s nowhere. Which means if Elias pulled him out of the stream… ”
“…he kept him.” The words came out quiet, clipped, like a blade being drawn.
Ichabod’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”
Silence thickened in the room, only broken by the faint tick of the radiator.
It wasn’t that big of a surprise, not really. I’d already seen the bruise on Ro’s cheek, and he’d gone as far as to ask me for help—help leaving Elias. But hearing it laid out in paperwork and photographs—evidence, not just instinct—made my hands curl into fists.
Ichabod studied me carefully. “If this guy’s mixed up in trafficking, he’s dangerous on a whole different level than we thought. Men like that don’t let go of their toys. They break them before they let them go.”
I straightened slowly, smoothing my jacket cuff with deliberate calm. “Look more into the family massacre. I’d bet my life that those motherfuckers were involved.”
Ichabod frowned. “Wes—”
“That’s an order from your boss, not your friend.”
Finally, Ichabod gave a slow, grim nod. “I’ll trace the massacre. Family records, neighbors, maybe the kids or parents had friends they’d mentioned something to. I’ll try to find something that he missed in the cover-up.”
“Do it quietly,” I said.
Ichabod slid the file back toward himself, gathering the papers with careful precision. “And the kid—man?”
I let my gaze drift to my dark computer monitor, where the reflection of my face stared back at me. “The kid,” I murmured, “isn’t going anywhere. Not until I decide what to do with him.”
The corner of Ichabod’s mouth twitched, though it wasn’t amusement. “You sound like you’re keeping him.”
I didn’t bother to correct him.
When Ichabod left, the space around me felt too quiet, and my jaw ached from how hard I’d been grinding my teeth in suppressed fury.
It all explained too much.
And now Elias had tossed his favorite toy in my direction, expecting me to die from the impact.
But he couldn’t have planned on Ro choosing to sit across from me, again and again, threatening violence but pleading on the inside for someone to finally see him.
My hand slid over the edge of the desk, rough fingers brushing the smooth wood. The thought was so stark, so quiet in my head, I almost didn’t recognize it as mine.
Ich was right.
I wanted to keep him.
Not in the way Elias had—not chained or collared, hidden away like a stolen jewel. No—I wanted him free. I wanted to be the one he answered to, not because he was forced to, but because he realized on his own that he could choose who holds his leash.
Control wasn’t breaking a boy down until he had nothing left. It was building him up until he saw you as the glue holding him together.
Elias could posture all he wanted, could bury himself in false names and bloody ledgers. But he’d made what would soon be his final mistake by sending Ronan my way.