Chapter 29 The Broadcast
POV: Sienna
The taste of copper and stagnant saltwater was thick on my tongue.
My head throbbed with a sickening, relentless pulse, the residual trauma of being violently thrown into the back of a moving SUV.
I blinked against the harsh, blinding glare of a high-lumen ring light, trying to orient myself through the dizzying fog of pain.
My spine was pressed brutally against the unforgiving back of a rusted steel chair.
My arms were wrenched behind me, the thick nylon of heavy-duty zip-ties biting viciously into the delicate skin of my wrists with every panicked, shallow breath I took.
The air in the cavernous structure was freezing, carrying the sharp, biting chill of the ocean.
My dark turtleneck and cargo pants were still entirely soaked through, clinging to my shivering frame like a second skin of ice.
The scrape on my shoulder burned, a searing line of fire beneath the damp fabric.
I strained my neck, my eyes darting past the blinding halo of the ring light.
Two of Jorath’s mercenaries were moving with frantic, synchronized efficiency.
They were running thick black cables across the oil-stained concrete floor, connecting a high-definition 4K camera on a heavy tripod to a massive, encrypted routing terminal.
They were setting a stage. An altar of public execution.
"Check the uplink," a smooth, cultured voice commanded from the shadows beyond the glare. "I want the feed encrypted and bounced through three proxy servers before it hits the primary syndicate channels. The Luvaris trace-hounds are going to be hunting for this signal the second it goes live."
Jorath Nethra stepped into the halo of the artificial light.
He had shed his ruined, wet suit jacket, wearing only a pristine charcoal vest over a white shirt.
He looked infuriatingly calm, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was about to orchestrate the public murder of an eighteen-year-old girl.
He walked toward me, the sharp click of his leather shoes echoing against the concrete, stopping just out of reach.
He reached into his pocket and produced a small, silver-plated Beretta, casually checking the chamber with a sickening, metallic clack.
"It’s a shame, really," Jorath murmured, his cold hazel eyes sweeping over my bruised, shivering form.
He tilted his head, a grotesque mask of manufactured pity slipping over his charismatic features.
"You have your father’s eyes, Sienna. But unfortunately, you lack his pragmatism.
He would have never let a monster like Roman put a collar on his neck. "
"My father is the reason I’m alive," I spat, my voice hoarse and jagged. I tugged violently at my bindings, but the nylon only dug deeper, threatening to draw blood. "And Roman is the reason you’re going to die in this warehouse."
Jorath laughed, a dry, rattling sound that lacked any real amusement.
He stepped closer, the barrel of the Beretta casually tapping against his own thigh.
"Roman is currently tearing apart the residential sectors, entirely blind to the fact that you slipped his biometric leash.
By the time his AI realizes you used an analog tunnel to hit the streets, this broadcast will be over, and you will be a tragic casualty of the underworld. "
One of the mercenaries stepped out from behind the camera tripod. "Uplink is secure, boss. We are holding on a closed loop. We go live on your mark."
Jorath nodded, turning his full, lethal attention back to me. The charismatic facade entirely evaporated, leaving behind the hollow, sociopathic greed of a man who would burn the city to ash for a percentage of a share.
"Here is how this plays out, little bird," Jorath commanded, his voice dropping into a flat, business-like cadence.
"When that red light blinks, you are going to look directly into the lens.
You are going to state your full legal name, and you are going to confess to the syndicates that Roman Luvaris held you hostage.
You will declare the Rite of the Aegis void, forced upon you under extreme physical duress.
You will renounce his claim to the Moretti assets. "
"And if I don't?" I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic, bruised rhythm against my ribs.
Jorath raised the Beretta, pressing the freezing silver barrel directly against the center of my forehead. The cold metal sent a violent shockwave straight down my spine.
"If you don't," he whispered maliciously, "I blow your brains out on live television before you finish your sentence, and I take my chances disputing the assets in a tribunal while Roman mourns his dead bride. Read the script, Sienna. Give me what I want, and I promise your death will be painless."
I stared up at the man holding my life in his hands.
My mind flashed back to the underground vault.
I remembered the suffocating weight of Roman’s hand on mine, the absolute, apocalyptic devotion in his pitch-black eyes when he swore to stand between me and the dark.
I remembered the heavy platinum crest he had forced onto my finger.
I twisted my bound hands behind my back, letting my fingers brush the cold metal of the ring.
It wasn't just a shackle anymore. It was a promise.
I had run from Roman because I was terrified of his obsession. But staring down the barrel of Jorath’s gun, a dark, terrifyingly clear realization settled into my bones. Roman Luvaris was a monster, yes. But he was my monster.
"Go to hell," I snarled, lifting my chin so the barrel of the gun pressed harder into my skin. "I am Sienna Luvaris. I belong to the Don. I will never renounce him."
Jorath’s jaw clenched, a flash of genuine, unadulterated fury crossing his features. "Fine. Die a martyr for a tyrant." He turned his head toward the mercenary. "Take it live."
"Going live in three," the mercenary counted down, his hand hovering over the terminal. "Two. One."
The small red light on top of the 4K camera blinked to life.
Jorath tightened his grip on the Beretta. His finger curled slowly, deliberately around the trigger. I squeezed my eyes shut, my chest heaving, bracing for the deafening crack that would end my life. I drew in one final, jagged breath of the freezing, ocean air.
Crack.
But the sound wasn't the sharp, explosive report of a gunshot. It was the violent, shattering explosion of glass.
Directly above us, the massive industrial halogen lights of the warehouse violently burst, showering the concrete floor in thousands of razor-sharp shards. The blinding ring light next to the camera sparked violently, letting out a mechanical shriek before it blew out entirely.
In a fraction of a second, the cavernous warehouse was plunged into absolute, impenetrable pitch black.
The live feed was dead. And from the deepest, darkest shadows near the loading dock, the distinct, terrifying sound of a matte-black suppressor being racked echoed through the silence.