18. Thayer
It’s a crisp morning,but I hardly notice. My penthouse apartment sits behind me, all its comforts meaningless right now. I need to find Vogue. I want to see her before class, walk with her, and make sure she gets to class in one piece. I stride across the campus, my steps quick and determined.
The trees lining the path rustle as if whispering secrets, the breeze carrying a chill that doesn’t come from the weather. I shake off the feeling, pressing forward.
As I near Vogue’s flat, something shifts inside me, like an alarm bell ringing in my gut. Everything looks normal. It’s quiet, which is not unusual this early in the morning, but it feels off. I scan the area, trying to pinpoint the cause of this sudden bad feeling. My heart beats steady, but my senses sharpen, every sound and movement under scrutiny now.
The unease has settled deep in my chest, my instincts screaming that this is more than just an off day.
Seeing the door to Vogue’s building wide open, I pause and move my hand to the knife in the back of my pants. Always present, always to hand. I don’t get two steps before Harrison appears. He’s staggering, one hand clutching his shoulder, dark red staining the fabric. Pain carves deep lines in his face. He is shoeless and dishevelled.
“What the fuck?” I growl. “Harry!” The name punches out of me as I rapidly approach. He looks up, eyes glazed with pain and fear. The gun he’s holding is slack in his grasp like it’s suddenly too heavy for him.
“Thayer. It’s Vogue. They took her,” he rasps.
I push the panic down hard. There’s no time for that now. My hands go to his shoulder, gentle but swift, peeling back the soaked cloth to see the wound. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s messy, and it’s going to hurt like hell.
“Bullet grazed you,” I mutter. “You’ll live.”
He nods, breath hitching. “Tried to stop them,” he manages to say, his grip on the gun unyielding despite the tremor in his hand. “Four of them. They took her, Thayer.”
“Who?” But even as I ask, I know the answer doesn’t matter right now. What matters is Vogue is gone, and we have to get her back. That’s all there is to it.
“Didn’t see,” he says, and it’s a struggle for him, I can tell. “Masks.”
Dragging my phone out of my jacket pocket, I steadily bring up Callum’s number, faster than I’ve ever dialled before. The ring cuts through the morning air, harsh and demanding.
“Thayer,” Callum answers, no hello, just straight to the point like always. “What is it?”
“Vogue’s been taken,” I say, the words tasting like acid on my tongue. “Harry’s hurt, but he’ll live.”
“Where are you?” There’s ice in his tone, a deadly calm that promises violence.
“Outside her flat. I’m going inside.”
“Wait for us. Five minutes.” He hangs up without another word.
Five minutes. It feels like a lifetime when every second counts. But Callum’s not one to waste time; he and Quen will be here in under five.
I pocket my phone and glance at Harry, who’s trying to stand straighter, masking his pain. “Back upstairs.”
He gives a sharp nod, jaw set in determination.
“Thayer…” Harry’s voice is a rough whisper.
“I know,” I grit out, even though every cell in my body wants to shoot him between the eyes. How could he let this happen? The rational part of my brain struggles with the morally black part of me, knowing there must have been extenuating circumstances. Harry, like the rest of us, doesn’t fail unless there’s a reason.
Whatever that is, it had better be a good one, or Callum will see him six feet under before anyone else can.
I shove the broken door to Vogue’s flat. It’s been kicked in and is hanging off its hinges. The place is trashed, furniture strewn all over, a teacup smashed on the kitchen floor, and blood all over. Harrison leans against the wall, his face paler than the torn wallpaper, but he’s on his feet, which has to count for something.
“You get one of them?” I ask.
“Yeah. He will also live, un-fucking-fortunately.”
“No clues?” I ask him, scanning the wreckage for anything that might point to who took her.
“None. Could be anyone.” He winces as he shifts, clutching his shoulder.
Shit. There are multiple rival factions, each as hungry for power as the next, all of them knowing that taking Vogue would be a direct stab at us. But this feels personal, like someone’s trying to twist the knife. It could be the East End Kings; they’ve been itching to get back at us since the last turf war. Or maybe the Black Vipers, known for their love of sending messages through blood and fear. Whoever it is, they’ll pay.
The air hangs thick with the unspoken threat of violence. It’s a tang I’m familiar with, one that settles into your skin and doesn’t wash off easy. We need to act fast before they dig their claws in any deeper.
Footsteps sound on the stairs, and I spin around, ready for a fight—but it’s just Callum and Quentin arriving in a rush of urgency.
“Any ideas?” Callum asks, his eyes darting around the room, always thinking three steps ahead.
“It could be anyone,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “But we start with the usual suspects. Shake down some informants, see who’s talking too much.”
Quentin crouches by a shattered picture frame, his brain ticking behind those focused eyes.
“Fine,” Callum says, and there’s no doubt he wants to be on the hunt. His whole life has been a chess game played in blood and shadows, and Vogue’s abduction is a move he didn’t anticipate.
“Harry, you good?” he asks calmly, but I know all hell will break loose soon.
“Here’s better than dead,” he grunts, a shadow of a smirk on his face.
“Quentin, patch him up the best you can,” Callum orders.
Vogue is out there, somewhere, and every second that ticks by is another second too long. We will find her, and when we do, the bloodshed will be coating our hands.
Callum strides over to the window, his back to me, his posture rigid. He’s staring out at the campus, but I know he’s not really seeing it. His mind is working overtime, just like mine, trying to piece together the fractured image of what happened here.
“They were clean and professional,” Harry says quietly. “They weren’t expecting me to be here, but there were four. Two went for me, two for Vogue. I hit one of them, but it didn’t slow him down.”
“Figures,” Callum mutters. He finally turns, and there’s a storm brewing in his eyes. It’s the look of a man who’s seen too much and done too much but won’t be stopped by any of it. “What were you doing here?”
“Sleeping.”
Callum nods. “And Vogue?”
“She was in the kitchen when they took her.”
“Why were you here?”
“Does it matter? They fucking took her!” Quen bursts out, coming out of the bathroom with a small first aid box that probably won’t do shit for Harry’s shoulder.
We’ve all lost people before, been through hell and back. This life is just another battle in a never-ending war. We’ll burn everything to the ground, salt the earth beneath it. Whatever it takes to get Vogue back and make sure the ones who took her regret ever crossing our path.
“Through and through,” Quentin’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He’s on his knees beside Harry, who is now looking more furious than in pain.
Good. We’re going to need that.
Quentin rummages through the first aid kit, yanking out bandages with more force than finesse. His hands are steady, though, as he presses a pad against the wound, taping it down. Harry hisses but manages a nod, thanking him without words.
“Keep pressure on it,” Quentin instructs. He might not have had Callum’s childhood of privilege or mafia mentorship, but Quentin’s sharp, street-smart—picked up more skills than most would in twice his life, and right now, he’s the closest thing to a medic we’ve got.
Callum’s usual cool control is edged with something raw. Vogue is not just another pawn in our game. She’s more to all of us.
The flat seems to shrink, and the walls close in with tension. Every second she’s gone, the danger grows. I push back against the fear and let training ground it out. Emotions are liabilities.
“They had to have a car, so we follow the trail. CCTV, street cams, anything,” Callum states.
Then, the shrill ring of a phone shatters the silence, and we all jerk towards Cal. He snatches it from his pocket with movements so swift they blur.
We wait, breaths held, for him to break the silence.