8. Eight #2
I pulled the trigger twice. The boy crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him like spilled wine. His eyes stayed open, a question dying on his lips as the light faded from them. I felt nothing. No remorse, no satisfaction, just the clean efficiency of a job done right.
“We need to move,” Atlas said, appearing at my shoulder. “Orion found their stash. It’s bigger than we thought.”
Nodding, I stepped over the boy’s body without a second glance.
This was business. This was message-sending.
This was what I’d been trained to do since I could hold a gun.
The warehouse erupted into a controlled chaos as we worked our way through, eliminating witnesses and collecting what would hurt Besnik most—his product and his pride.
In the center of the facility, Orion had already lined up three men on their knees—higher-ups, by their clothing and the fear they commanded in the others. One of them I recognized: Besnik’s lieutenant, Artan Hoxha, a man known for his creativity with a blade and his loyalty to his boss.
“Which one sends the clearest message?” Orion asked, pressing his gun against Artan’s temple.
“Him,” I said, nodding toward Artan. “Take his head, leave his hands. The Albanians are superstitious about dismemberment. They believe it prevents the soul from finding peace.”
Artan’s eyes widened, his composure finally cracking. “Please, I can get you money. Besnik will pay—”
I cut him off with a raised hand. “Besnik will pay, but not in the way you think.”
The night ended as these nights always did—with blood on my hands and a message delivered. Orion took care of Artan, while Atlas supervised the removal of the product. By the time we left, the warehouse was engulfed in flames, a beacon to anyone watching that the Devils were not to be trifled with.
In the car, I removed my gloves, wiping a speck of blood from my watch.
The adrenaline was already fading, leaving behind the hollow emptiness that always followed violence.
I checked my phone—three missed calls from my father, one from the wedding planner, and a text from Frank, who was keeping an eye on Harlowe while my men and I were indisposed.
She’s gone.
Two words that sent ice through my veins. I called him immediately.
“What do you mean, gone?” I demanded when he answered.
“Left the house after you dropped her off. Took nothing but her phone and wallet. She disabled the tracker in her phone. I went looking for her, but . . .”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. “La Lune Noire?”
“First place I checked. She’s not there.”
Of course, she wasn’t. Harlowe was many things, but predictable wasn’t one of them.
“I’ll handle it,” I said, ending the call before Frank could respond.
Atlas raised an eyebrow, having overheard enough to piece together the situation. “Bride trouble already?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. But I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t becoming a pain in my ass.” I kept my voice even though rage was building in my chest. Not at Harlowe, at myself. I’d underestimated her desperation, her willingness to risk everything for one last taste of freedom.
“Want us to help track her down?” Orion offered, already pulling out his phone. “I’ve got men who can canvas every club, hotel, and safe house in the city within an hour.”
“No.” I shook my head, a plan already forming. “She’s mine to handle.”
I knew exactly where Harlowe would go. Not to a club or a friend’s place—she was smarter than that. She’d go somewhere unexpected, somewhere she thought I wouldn’t look. Somewhere that meant something to her but nothing to anyone else.
The car pulled up to my penthouse.
“I’ll be in touch,” I told Atlas and Orion before heading inside.
In my private elevator, I loosened my tie and considered my next move. Harlowe was testing me, pushing boundaries to see how far I’d go to claim what was mine. It was a dangerous game she was playing, especially tonight, with Albanian blood still fresh on my hands.
I entered my penthouse and went straight to my office, pulling up the surveillance files on Harlowe that I’d compiled over the past months. Every habit, every pattern, every secret place she thought no one knew about. I studied them methodically, looking for the clue that would lead me to her.
Then I saw it—a single notation from three weeks ago. Sunday, 2:17 AM: Subject visited a motel in Queens. A run-down place called The Starlight Motel, where she’d spent three hours alone in room 212, doing nothing but sitting on the balcony and staring at the cemetery across the street.
I checked my watch. Just after midnight. If I was right, that’s where she’d be—hiding in plain sight, seeking solace in a place connected to her grief.
Changing quickly, I shed my blood-stained tactical gear for a simple black long-sleeved shirt and slacks. No need to draw attention, not tonight. I slid my Glock into my shoulder holster and grabbed my keys.
The Starlight Motel was exactly as described in the surveillance report.
It was a two-story horseshoe of rooms surrounding a cracked parking lot, its neon sign flickering pathetically against the night sky.
The cemetery loomed across the street, a sea of headstones and mausoleums barely visible in the darkness.
The night clerk, a middle-aged man with yellowed fingers and suspicious eyes, didn’t ask questions when I slipped him an extra hundred to confirm if a young woman matching Harlowe’s description had checked in.
“Room 212,” he confirmed, pocketing the bill. “Paid cash. Didn’t give a name.”
Nodding, I took the key and headed up the exterior staircase to the second floor. The concrete walkway was wet from the earlier rain, puddles reflecting the flickering neon light. I moved silently, years of training making my footsteps nearly inaudible. When I reached room 212, I paused, listening.
No sound came from within, but a faint glow filtered through the thin curtains.
She was there.
I considered my options. I could kick down the door, drag her out, kicking and screaming, and show her that running was futile. But that approach would only reinforce her view of me as the monster she already believed I was.
Tonight required a different tactic.