Chapter 32 Cloe #2
The room didn’t get darker, but it felt like it did. Every breath pressed heavier. The air went thick, humid, metallic. I could taste rust in the back of my throat and didn’t know if it was blood or memory.
The door opened. Not a slam. Not the loud, angry kind of violence I could brace for. Just a click. And a shift in the air. Footsteps, slow. Controlled. He wasn’t in a rush. That was the worst part.
The man who stepped into the room didn’t wear sweat-stained cotton or stink of fear. He didn’t carry the weight of violence in his fists.
He was clean. Pressed slacks. White shirt. Rolled cuffs that had never been used to wipe blood from a lip. Leather shoes that squeaked slightly against the cracked tile. His hair was combed. His face unlined. A man who walked through filth but refused to let it cling to him.
And he smiled when he saw me. Not because he liked what he saw. Because he knew what came next.
He pulled a chair from the wall. Turned it around. Sat in it backwards, arms folded over the top like we were about to have a friendly conversation.
I didn’t speak. He didn’t expect me to.
“Cloe,” he said, like he was greeting someone at a dinner party.
I blinked. The sound of my name in his mouth made my stomach twist. He didn’t say it the way Wolfe did. He didn’t breathe it like a promise. He held it like a leash.
“You’re awake. That’s good.”
He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a small notepad. Flipped it open.
“We’re just going to have a quick talk, you and me.”
He looked up. Tilted his head slightly, as if studying me.
“You’re quieter than I expected. That’s rare.”
I met his stare. Because I knew better than to look away. He smiled wider.
“You’re not scared of me yet. I like that.”
He reached into his jacket again. Pulled out a flask. Uncapped it. The scent hit first. Not alcohol. Something sweeter. Thicker. My throat went dry. He took a sip. Offered it to me.
“No?”
I shook my head once. He shrugged.
“Suit yourself.”
He set the flask on the floor between us.
“I’m not here to hurt you. You understand that, right?”
I said nothing. He leaned forward. His voice dropped lower.
“But they will.”
I held his stare. He laughed. Soft. Easy.
“You think he’ll come. Wolfe. Right?”
My breath caught. I didn’t move. But something in my chest cracked. He saw it.
“You think you matter to him. That you’re some sacred thing he won’t trade for the bigger game.”
He reached for the flask again. Took another sip.
“You’re not.”
I smiled. Not because I believed him. But because he was wrong. So fucking wrong. He paused.
“You don’t believe me.”
I didn’t answer. But I didn’t have to. He stood. Walked a slow circle around me.
“You cost a lot of men a lot of money, Cloe.”
His voice was sharper now. Not angry. Disappointed.
“Do you know how many of them paid for your silence? How many bet on your obedience? Your shame?”
He stopped behind me.
“And you ran.”
I didn’t turn. Couldn’t. But I listened. Because every word was a thread. And I needed to know where he’d fray.
“You ran to Wolfe Lawlor. You begged him to leash you, thinking it would make you untouchable.”
His hand touched my shoulder. I flinched. He chuckled.
“But now you’re right back where you started. Only this time, there’s no one to pawn your skin to. No way out but the one we give you.”
He moved back in front of me. Bent. Met my eyes.
“So here’s the offer.”
He pulled a small phone from his pocket. Laid it on my lap.
“You call him. You tell him where to find you. Alone. No brothers. No plan.”
He smiled.
“And we let you go.”
I stared at the phone. Then back at him. And I spat in his face. The glob of blood and spit hit his cheekbone. Traced a line down to his jaw. He froze. Just for a second. Then he wiped it with the cuff of his sleeve. Slow. Deliberate. And smiled.
“That’s alright.”
He leaned in again. Closer this time. Too close. His breath was warm. His voice a whisper.
“We don’t need you to be clean.”
He pulled the phone off my lap. Slipped it back into his jacket.
“We just need you to bleed.”
Then he turned. And left me sitting there. Tied. Cold. Heart slamming against my ribs like it could break the ropes. And I knew something I hadn’t known before. They weren’t waiting for Wolfe. They were feeding me to him.
Wolfe
I didn’t know how long I stood in front of the window.
The glass was cold against my fingertips. The skyline bled orange and gray. The sun hadn’t fully risen, and the city still slept like it didn’t know it had swallowed something holy and tried to keep it.
My breath fogged the pane. Every inhale shallower than the one before. Every exhale too slow.
Loyal paced behind me. I heard him. The shift of weight. The light tap of his knuckle against the edge of the counter every five steps.
Royal had stopped pretending to be calm. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on the floor like he was watching someone bleed there. Barron stood by the door. Still. Waiting for orders I hadn’t given yet. Not because he needed them. Because he wanted to hear the way I’d say it.
I blinked. The image of her back—disappearing up those stairs, braid swinging, her fingers brushing the doorframe like she was promising to come back—played in my head like a loop.
I hadn’t looked up from my phone. I’d barely heard her say “one minute”.
I had believed her. I had fucking believed her. I turned. The room froze. I walked toward the war table. My boots echoed across the wood.
I didn’t sit. I placed both hands on the table, leaned forward, and looked at each of them. Loyal was first. His jaw tightened. His laptop open beside him, maps pinned to the screen. Royal straightened. Barron nodded once. No words. Just steel in his spine.
“They moved her by car,” I said.
Loyal tapped the trackpad.
“Confirmed.”
He rotated the laptop.
Security footage. Grainy. A dark sedan pulling away from the curb. Timestamped thirty seconds before I walked into that building.
“They had eyes,” I muttered.
“Everywhere,” Loyal added.
Royal shoved a knife into the sheath on his belt.
“You want me to follow the car?”
“No,” I said. “I want you to follow the scent.”
Royal grinned. Barron picked up his phone.
“I’ll push pressure on the brokers. If Selene’s tied to this, she won’t see tomorrow.”
“She didn’t do this,” I said.
Barron looked up.
“She would have if she thought it would hurt us.”
I shook my head.
“She didn’t want Cloe dead.”
I stepped back. Walked to my room.
The others followed. Not because I asked. Because they knew something had changed. I opened the closet. Pulled the blade from the vault beneath the floorboard. Laid it on the dresser. It wasn’t ceremonial. It was familiar.
I strapped it to my thigh. Pulled the gun from the drawer. Checked the clip. Full.
Loyal entered behind me.
“You have a location?”
He nodded.
“Last ping was east side. Near the docks. Warehouse complex. No recent shipping activity. Not cartel. Not syndicate. Independent.”
“Loan shark,” Barron said from behind him.
I closed the drawer.
“Which one?”
Royal answered.
“The one who took a cut from Callum. The one Camille warned us about.”
The words landed hard.
Camille.
Always Camille.
I pulled on my jacket. Grabbed the collar from the edge of the desk. Not to leash her. To show them what they tried to steal. Barron handed me his phone.
“This is the man who pulled her. The one who knocked.”
The screen showed a face. Pocked skin. Crooked nose. Dead eyes.
I memorized it. Then I handed it back.
“He dies last.”
Barron nodded.
Loyal spoke again.
“We go quiet or loud?”
I looked at him. I didn’t answer. Because they already knew. I walked to the door. Royal opened it. Loyal followed. Barron behind him. I was the last one out.
I needed one more second. To stand in the apartment that still smelled like her skin. To feel the weight of everything I didn’t say.
I touched the doorframe. Then I whispered her name. And walked into war.
Cloe
I knew they thought I wouldn’t last.
That I’d sit there in that rusted metal chair, hands tied, mouth broken open from hours of forced stillness, and eventually give in to the weight of it.
But I’d lived too long in silence to believe it could undo me. It wasn’t silence that hurt. It was what came after.
The door had stayed closed for what felt like hours. No sound except the soft hum of something electric in the walls. Maybe a cooler. Maybe a wire running to a camera they hadn’t told me about. Maybe nothing. But it was there. Buzzing. Waiting.
I worked my wrists against the ropes. Slow. Measured.
Pain sparked along the inside of my forearms, skin splitting in quiet tears as I twisted, pulled, flexed. Blood slicked the edge of the knot.
I kept going. Because pain was the only language I still trusted. My breath came ragged now. Not from fear. From effort. The right rope was loosening.
I shifted again. Legs shaking, thighs locked, my ankles still bound tight to the chair legs. Every movement sent a scrape of steel across concrete. I froze after each sound, ears tuned for footsteps. None came.
I bit my tongue. Tasted blood. Good. The rope gave. A flicker. Enough.
I didn’t move yet. I didn’t celebrate. Because one wrong twitch and they’d come back before I was ready.
I waited. Let my hand fall limp again. Let the numbness drain. When the door finally opened, it took everything not to jolt.
I closed my eyes. Listened. Not the clean-shoes man this time. Heavy footfalls. Broader frame. Thicker breath. The original one. The one with the rag. His boots thudded closer. I opened my eyes. He grinned.
“Still tied up, sweetheart?”
He reached out. Fingers brushed my cheek. I didn’t flinch. I waited until he stepped behind me. Until I felt the shift in his weight. Until I smelled the sweat on his neck.
And then I moved. My hand snapped free. Fast. Faster than he expected.
I grabbed the broken edge of the chair. Slammed it back. He cursed. Lunged. Too late.
I twisted. The chair cracked. Wood splintered as I wrenched my ankle free. He reached for my hair. I drove the jagged chair leg into his thigh. He screamed. High. Sharp. Ugly.
I wrenched the wood free. Blood sprayed. He staggered. I stood. Unsteady. Legs shaking. Hands slick.
I grabbed the knife from his belt. Small. Dull. Didn’t matter. I raised it. He hesitated. Only for a breath.
And in that second, I screamed. Not a cry. Not a name. A roar. Louder than the walls. Louder than the pain. My voice ripped out of my throat, raw and broken, soaked in fury.
“WOLFE!”
The name hit the ceiling.
Echoed.
The man lunged. I ducked. Swung the knife. Caught his shoulder. He screamed again. And I ran. Not far. Just enough. Just to the hallway. Just to the cold. I screamed again.
“WOLFE!”
I didn’t scream for rescue. I screamed for vengeance. Wolfe wasn’t coming to save me. He was coming to end them. Until it didn’t sound like a name anymore. Until it sounded like a war cry. Until I knew he would hear it. I wasn’t asking to be saved. I was calling him to kill.