Chapter 14 Vane
VANE
Iwatch her walk away, the sway of her hips like a pendulum counting down the moments until she's mine again.
She thinks she escaped me. She's wrong.
My phone buzzes—another update from my private investigator.
I may have had to stalk her on a budget the first year after she left, checking her social media.
Still, as soon as Xavier accessed our trust, I had her entire life at my fingertips.
I knew every apartment she's lived in, every job she's held, every man she touched.
I have files. Pictures. Data. A digital shrine to her existence, accessible only to me.
I scroll through recent photos—Lia entering her new apartment, Lia at the gallery, Lia buying coffee. Such mundane moments, but I consume them all.
College was the first test of my commitment to my goals.
When that journalism major started getting serious with her sophomore year, it took one night of hacking his phone, a few fabricated dick pics sent to the Columbia admissions officer, and his academic career crumbled.
Lia cried for a week. I watched from a café across the street.
Then came the investment banker three years later. Handsome fucker thought he could build a life with her. One hired escort, a hotel room rigged with cameras, and carefully leaked evidence of his infidelity solved that problem.
But then Lia changed strategies. No more relationships—just The Red Room.
My jaw clenches, remembering the day I discovered her membership at that exclusive sex club.
The most secure, private playground for Manhattan's elite to explore their darkest desires.
Despite my resources and connections, I couldn't penetrate their security.
Couldn't see what she did inside those walls. Couldn't control who touched her.
For five years, I've failed to access what happens behind those doors. Five years of knowing Lia gives herself to strangers while I'm left in the dark. My fists tighten until my knuckles turn white.
But she's home now. Back in Ravenwood, where she belongs. Back where I can touch her. See her. Have her.
The sex club was her final act of rebellion. Her last illusion of freedom.
I had to buy the fucking gallery. That's what it took to get her back to Ravenwood. The purchase itself was easy—money is no longer an obstacle for us—but arranging for Elliot to hire her without arousing suspicion required finesse.
“She has an impressive resume,” Elliot had said during our meeting, spreading Lia's portfolio across my desk. “Gallery management experience in Manhattan, connections to emerging artists, exceptional taste. Why exactly do you want her specifically?”
I'd merely smiled. “Just make her an offer she can't refuse.”
The salary we dangled was obscene—three times what she made in New York. She never suspected I was the puppet master pulling the strings to bring her home.
Now, with the Hunt only three weeks away, everything is falling into place. I've watched her evolve from that stubborn, brilliant girl who refused to admit she wanted me into the confident, sophisticated woman who thinks she's built a life beyond my reach.
She has no idea that I've been directing her path all along, eliminating obstacles and creating opportunities that would eventually lead her back to me.
As second-in-command of the Blackwood empire, I've earned my reputation through blood and brutality. I'm no longer the boy she fucked after prom. That boy had potential, but he was still finding his way. That boy let her leave.
The man I've become takes what he wants.
And I want Lia Morgan.
In three weeks, during the Hunt, she'll realize the truth—that every choice she thought was hers was actually mine. Every path she took led her right back to me. The freedom she's cherished has always been an illusion.
I'm done watching from the shadows. I'm done stalking her from afar.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I'm walking away from where Lia stormed off. I glance at the screen—Xavier.
“What?” I answer, my voice rougher than intended, my mind still on Lia.
“We need you at the east-side warehouse,” Xavier says, his tone clipped and businesslike. “The carnival crew's making a delivery. Need someone to oversee the handoff.”
I run a hand through my hair, glancing once more in the direction Lia disappeared. “Can't someone else handle it?”
“Knox is already on his way, but I want two of us there.” There's a pause, then, “Problem?”
“No. No problem.” I know that tone. Xavier isn't asking; he's telling. And in the Blackwood hierarchy, his word is law. “I'll head over now.”
“Good.” The line goes dead.
I pocket my phone and head toward where I parked my bike, my thoughts still tangled up in Lia. But I need to clear my head, and a ride across town might help.
The carnival crew has been in town for nearly a week now, setting up for their annual summer show.
Tyson and his people have been useful allies over the years—their ability to move between towns without raising suspicion makes them ideal partners for certain aspects of our business. Plus, they throw one hell of a party.
I reach my Kawasaki Ninja, its green body gleaming in the afternoon sun. Running my hand over the sleek chassis, I feel the familiar rush of anticipation that comes with riding. I swing my leg over and settle into the seat, pulling my matching green helmet over my head.
The engine roars to life beneath me, a mechanical extension of my own pent-up energy.
I navigate through downtown traffic, heading east toward the industrial district where our warehouse sits.
My mind oscillates between business and pleasure—between the handoff waiting for me and the woman who just left me standing on the sidewalk.
I pull into the warehouse lot, parking my Ninja beside Knox's Aprilla. The massive steel door is half-open, voices and laughter spilling out into the afternoon air. Business with the carnival crew is never just business—it's a reunion of sorts.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Knox calls out as I duck under the door. My younger brother lounges against a stack of crates, spinning a butterfly knife between his fingers. “Thought you weren't going to show up.”
“And miss all the fun?” I pull off my helmet and scan the space. Knox, Tyson, Remy, Nash, and Colt are gathered around several large crates—our regular setup.
Tyson steps forward, extending his hand. “Vane. Good to see you.” Despite running a traveling carnival as a front, Tyson carries himself with unmistakable authority. The handshake is firm, our eyes meeting in mutual respect.
“How's business?” I ask.
“Booming,” Tyson grins. “Amazing how many people will pay twenty bucks to see Nash here hang upside down in spandex.”
Nash flips him off without looking up from his phone. “People pay to see art in motion, asshole.”
“Speaking of art in motion,” I say, “let's get this show on the road. Got places to be.”
Knox tosses a duffel bag onto one of the crates with a heavy thud. “All there. Counted twice.” He resumes flipping his knife, the steel catching the warehouse's fluorescent lighting.
Tyson unzips the bag to inspect its contents. His eyes flicker over the neatly stacked bills before he nods, satisfied.
I notice Colt slide his hand discreetly onto Nash's lower back as they stand side by side. It's a subtle gesture, protective and intimate. Nash leans slightly into the touch.
“We good?” I ask Tyson.
He zips the bag closed. “We're good. Nash, Colt—get the packages from the van, would you?”
Nash nods, moving toward the door, and Colt follows close behind.
I hear the rumble of an engine outside, and moments later, Jenson pulls up in one of our unmarked vans. Our loyal spymaster has been with us for years—not much older than Xavier but twice as cautious. Three of our men climb out with him, all wearing the standard Blackwood uniform.
“Right on time,” I say, checking my watch. “Let's get this done.”
Tyson nods to Nash and Colt. “You two know the drill.”
The back doors of their van swing open. Inside, stacked in neat rows, are what appear to be equipment cases—perfect cover for moving product between towns. Colt climbs in first, disappearing into the shadows of the van's interior.
“Incoming!” Colt's voice echoes from inside as he tosses the first brick. Nash catches it easily. His movements are fluid as he pivots and launches it toward Jenson, who stands ready by our van.
“Good arm,” Jenson comments, catching the package and passing it to one of our men to load.
They establish a rhythm, brick after brick flying through the air. Colt to Nash to Jenson to our men. It's efficient, almost beautiful in its coordination. Twenty kilos are moving like they're passing a basketball.
Greg, one of our newer recruits, jogs over to the carnival van and pulls himself up beside Colt. “Let me help,” he says, positioning himself to speed up the assembly line.
While they work, I lean against a stack of crates beside Knox, Tyson, and Remy.
“Heard you've got quite the crowd this year,” I say to Tyson.
He shrugs. “Summer's always good for business. Kids out of school, families looking for entertainment.”
“Perfect cover,” Remy adds.
Knox grins. “You know what they say—join the circus, see the world, smuggle some blow.”
“Nobody says that,” I counter, watching as the bricks continue to fly from hand to hand.
“They should,” Knox replies. “Catchy slogan.”
Tyson laughs. “I'll put it on the posters next year.”
“I meant to ask,” I say, watching as the efficient drug transfer takes place. “How's Sofia handling the carnival life these days? Still trying to redecorate your trailer with those fancy Italian imports?”
Tyson's face softens at the mention of his wife. “She's good. Pregnant again, actually. Due in November.”
“Shit, man.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, number two, right?”
“Yeah,” he says with a proud grin. “Anthony’s eighteen months old now.”
Knox whistles. “Damn, you've been busy.”
“What about Tilly?” I ask Phoenix as he emerges from behind a stack of crates, laptop tucked under his arm. “Still putting up with your tech-hermit bullshit?”
Phoenix flips me off, but can't hide his smile. “She's developing a new game. Some virtual reality thing that's got the indie scene buzzing.”
“And Eden and Luna?” I nod toward Remy.
“Eden’s great, and Luna’s growing quick,” Remy answers, his usual brevity intact despite the pride in his eyes.
Nash calls over from the line, “Flora's pregnant again, too. Just found out last week, and Lucas is only five months old.”
“Jesus,” Knox laughs, “is there something in the carnival water? You guys are like a traveling baby factory.”
“Better than your sorry ass,” Colt retorts, tossing the last brick. “When are you Blackwoods gonna settle down? You're not getting any younger.”
I force a laugh with the others, but my mind immediately snaps back to Lia.
Little do they know I've been working on exactly that for fifteen fucking years.
The gallery is just the beginning. Three weeks until the Hunt, and then she'll understand that there was never any escape from what started that night after prom.
“Last one,” Jenson announces, securing the van doors.
The familiar tightness returns to my chest when I think of Lia, completely unaware that I orchestrated her return. That every art piece she'll display at the opening will pass through my approval first.
I check my watch. Time to get back to more important matters.