26. Julian
26
JULIAN
T he house feels wrong the moment I step inside. Too quiet. Too still. The gift bag in my hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds as I scan the living room. my laptop sits abandoned on the leather couch - not where it belongs. Not where she'd leave it when she knows it goes in the study.
My jaw clenches as I cross the room, and I realize this is my work laptop. I don't even know why she would have pulled it out. The screen glows to life with a tap, revealing an open message thread from Travis fucking Porter. They're from an hour ago.
Each word hits like a sledgehammer.
We need to talk. Meet me at Gibson's. 8pm.
And then there's an answer.
No. Now. Meet behind Gibson's in 20.
It says it's from me but I didn't send it. Which means Ivy must have…
Ice spreads through my veins, followed by white-hot fury. Not at her - never at her. At myself. I trusted too much, gave too much slack on the leash. Let her have space when I should have known better. Should have known that piece of shit would try to slither back into her life, and my sweet girl is far too willing to please.
I grit my teeth. But why would she want to please him over me? It doesn't make any fucking sense.
The gift bag drops forgotten to the floor as my hands curl into fists, knuckles cracking. Behind Gibson's. The alley. Where that fucker will try to do something shady.
Again the question beckons - why would she go? She seemed so happy here, so easily compliant. I don't get it.
"Fuck." The word echoes in the empty house.
The rage builds in me as I try to place what I need to do. Not the hot, explosive kind that makes men stupid. This is cold. Calculating. The kind that lets me think clearly while planning exactly how I'm going to deal with Travis Porter once and for all.
I never should have let her out of my sight. Should have kept her close, protected. Now she's walking into God knows what because I was too focused on giving her freedom instead of keeping her safe.
I grab my phone, hitting Xander's contact while pacing through the living room. Each step echoes like a thunderclap in the silence.
"Boss?" Xander's voice crackles through the speaker.
"That piece of shit Travis used my name to get to Ivy." My free hand grips the edge of the counter, knuckles white. "He had her meet at Gibson's. An hour ago. And I fucking doubt if she's not back that they're still there."
"Shit." A pause, rustling sounds. "You know I'm out of town." Another pause, and then he asks, "Want me to head back?"
"No. I need you to track them. Pull security feeds, track the car, whatever it takes." The granite cracks under my grip. "I need to know where they went."
"On it. Give me a few." Keys click rapidly in the background. "You good to drive?"
"I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter. My pulse pounds in my temples, vision narrowing to pinpricks. Nothing about this is fine.
"Like hell you are. I haven't heard you this worked up since Madrid." More typing. "Already accessing Chicago PD's camera network. I'll call as soon as I have something."
I end the call, shoving the phone in my pocket. My reflection in the window catches my eye - face carved from stone, eyes like arctic ice. Good. I'll need that cold focus to handle this properly.
I need to check behind Gibson's first, just in case. I can't sit still much longer. Then I'll head wherever Xander's intel leads. And when I find Travis Porter...
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. Focus. One step at a time. Find Ivy first. Deal with Travis second.
But I will deal with him. I'll put a fucking end to the asshole.
Suddenly, a scent filters over me that I didn't notice before. I move toward the kitchen, a flash of gold catches my eye - delicate flakes scattered across dark marble. The island counter is a warzone of confectionery supplies: chocolate-smeared bowls, half-empty piping bags, scattered sea salt crystals.
My fingers brush against a cooling rack where perfect dark chocolate spheres rest in neat rows. The scent hits me - rich, complex notes that only come from the highest quality chocolate. The kind Ivy special ordered from that boutique shop in Paris because she remembered me mentioning it once.
Another freedom I gave her. I let her have free reign with my credit card and any online shop she wanted. All because I wanted to fucking see her smile.
Next to them, caramel-filled chocolates gleam under a dusting of edible gold, catching the kitchen lights like precious metal. She must have spent hours tempering the chocolate to achieve that perfect shine. A tray of raspberry ganache squares sits nearby, each one topped with crystallized flower petals in deep purples and blues.
Half-finished. Abandoned mid-creation.
The mixing bowl still has melted chocolate coating its sides. The thermometer lies discarded in a pool of hardening caramel. Everything left exactly as it was when that message came through.
My hands shake as I grip the edge of the counter. She was here, making my favorites, planning to surprise me. The care in every detail - the gold dust she knows I secretly love, the sea salt that reminds me of childhood summers, the flowers she spent weeks learning to crystallize just right.
And that fucking waste of oxygen Travis Porter had to ruin it all.
The bowl shatters against the wall before I realize I've thrown it. Chocolate splatters across the pristine white paint like blood. I force my breathing to slow, watching the dark streaks drip down to the floor. This rage won't help find her. Won't help keep her safe.
But later... Later it will serve its purpose.
I take the elevator down to the subfloor, each step measured despite the storm building inside me. My palm presses against the hidden biometric panel, and reinforced steel doors slide open with a whisper.
Cold air hits my face as I step into my sanctuary. Gun oil and metal fill my lungs - familiar, grounding scents that clear my head. Motion sensors trigger, washing the room in stark white light that gleams off rack after rack of pristine weapons.
I shed my suit jacket, rolling up my sleeves with mechanical precision. Scars are exposed as I do, lacing through tattoos along my forearms. I might be rich, but I only am because I'm a trained killer. I can't wait to see how the trust fund kid does against me.
My fingers trail over the weapon racks, touching each piece like old friends. The Sig P320 comes first - my daily companion, already loaded with hollow points. Then the ceramic knife that slips between my shoulder blades, perfectly balanced. A second blade straps to my ankle, this one serrated.
The far wall holds my special collection. Rare pieces, modified hardware, things that don't officially exist. Things that leave no trace. My hand hovers over several options before selecting a matte black case. Inside, a custom Glock 19 nestles in foam padding. No serial number. No records. Perfect for tonight.
I check each weapon methodically, muscle memory taking over. Magazine capacity. Action. Sights. Everything must be perfect. There's no room for error when it comes to protecting what's mine.
The weight of each piece settles against my body like armor. With each addition, the rage crystallizes further, turning to diamond-hard purpose. I've spent years building my reputation, cultivating fear through careful control and measured responses. Playing the civilized businessman who occasionally gets his hands dirty.
That ends tonight.
I slot spare magazines into my belt as my phone stays silent. Xander will call soon. Until then, I have time to prepare. Time to remember exactly who and what I am beneath the expensive suits and polite smiles.
The last piece slides into place - a garrote wire so thin it's nearly invisible, coiled in my breast pocket. An insurance policy. A promise.
I am done playing fucking nice.