Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
NORTH CAROLINA
T he knot in Adria’s chest eased as the Charlotte skyline came into view. The flight hadn’t been full, but the sparse passengers were enough to keep her and Eric from speaking freely. She welcomed the silence. It gave her time to think.
How had Callen known out about the land? Was it luck? Timing? Or something more sinister?
A flight attendant moved past, offering snacks. Eric accepted a soda and a bag of chips. Adria shook her head.
“I’ll take them for her, in case she changes her mind,” Eric said, his Southern drawl smooth as always.
Adria nearly rolled her eyes when the attendant stuck out her hip and smiled while handing him the chips. Eric had that effect—his salt-and-pepper stubble, broad frame, and polite, Southern charm made women swoon wherever they went. He never lacked for partners at the club, but Adria had never seen him date. When asked, he’d joke that he was married to his work.
In truth, he was married to hers.
They had been together nearly ten years. At first, she refused to give him her brand, not because he wasn’t worthy, but because she didn’t want to condemn him to this life. Being a Right Hand meant more than loyalty. It meant permanent membership in the Nine. No wife. No children. No future outside her shadow. It was a vow made in flesh.
But Eric had insisted. And three years in, after endless nudging, she finally relented.
Now, he opened the car door, and she slid into the backseat of her Maserati Grecale. The tinted windows bathed her in darkness. The scent of lavender and leather greeted her, and she leaned back, exhaling.
As Eric drove, pines and oaks blurred past in flashes of green and shadow. She was home.
“When I was a kid,” Eric said from the driver’s seat, breaking the silence, “some boys and I took a raft down a river. It was crazier than we expected. No paddles, just a stick we called an oar.”
“Eric, I have a headache,” she muttered, forehead pressed to the window.
After her father died, she’d needed a clean slate. At seventeen, fresh out of high school, she fired every last member of his staff—down to the gardener. She redecorated the house, rebuilt her security, and cycled through bodyguards like cheap wine.
Then came Eric. And he stayed.
He cracked the window, letting in the warm breeze.
“The point is—three boys, no control, no way to steer…” he said.
Her phone buzzed. She jumped.
Eric glanced at her in the mirror.
It was a message from X.
X: How did it go?
She tapped the phone against her knee, unsure what to say .
Years ago, X had sent her an encrypted file. The recording was short. Just a few seconds of her mother’s voice:
“I’m proud of you, honey. You looked so grown up at graduation. That gold dress, stunning. I’m sorry I missed it.”
The congratulations were almost ten years too late and yet, Adria had listened to it hundreds of times. The audio was poor, distant. But it was her. Her mother.
X had earned her loyalty that day.
Later, he brought up the land. Fifteen miles upriver from the Santarém Port, a quiet stretch of jungle with a forgotten runway and untapped potential.
The port had exploded in traffic, moving five million tons a year. With the right infrastructure, her land could be the most valuable smuggler hub in northern South America.
It was her way in. Her bargaining chip. Her chance to rise in rank with the Nine. And her only shot at getting her mother back.
And now it was gone.
Worse than gone. It was in Callen Winters’ hands.
The Nine claimed to be noble. Protectors of balance. But they were monsters. Every last one. Including her.
If she could save her mother, if she could undo just one thing, maybe she could die a monster knowing she’d done one thing right. The Federov line, owed the world that much.
Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked them away.
“We floated safer and faster when we let the river take us,” Eric said gently.
Their eyes met in the mirror. His sadness mirroring her own, and it gutted her.
The French Country estate rose up in the windshield. Normally it brought her comfort. Now, it just looked like a monument to everything she couldn’t save .
Eric parked, but she didn’t move. If she stayed in the car, maybe none of it would be real.
“Want me to drive you to the club?” he asked softly.
She shook her head.
“Miss…” he tried again. “Maybe if you walked me through your thoughts, we could find a way. Someone we can call.”
She rubbed her face. There was no one to call.
Callen wanted her to take his son. Sell him. Break him.
Fine.
He’d called her bluff, whether he knew it or not. And she would own her part in how it unfolded.
But she’d make sure Callen paid for every ounce of pain she felt—in blood.
Her father used to say: Feeling will get you killed.
Maybe this time, it would.
Outside, the sun dipped behind the house. Pink and orange streaked the sky, painting the estate in firelight.
From where she sat, it looked like the house was burning.