Roman
The panel at the top of the stairs is already open and Dad is waiting by the hidden door, exactly where he said he’d be.
His suit is immaculate and his hands are calm at his sides.
Two of his men flank him, silent in that specific way that is trained into you.
On the floor between them is a body in everyday clothes, sprawled on its side with their wrists bound and ankles tied. Dad’s gaze meets mine.
“This is him?” I ask as my eyes flick from the man on the floor to Dad.
“It’s him,” Dad replies. He gestures toward the unconscious figure with a small movement of his hand. “I sent my best guys out to dig for traitors and we found him.”
He reaches into his pocket and produces a set of keys. The small red cross catches the low light of the church and my teeth grind. I close the distance between us as my fingers curl around the keychain when he offers it to me.
“Does he work for The Company?” I ask.
Dad gives a small nod. “Yes. He was in the security sector.”
“And you drugged him?” I ask, looking down at the man again.
“He resisted, Sir,” one of Dad’s men answers in a flat voice.
Dad’s eyes cut sideways. The warning in them is sharp enough that the air around us tightens.
My lips twitch, threatening a smile despite the situation.
Dad has always been a stickler for respect, rules, hierarchy, and order.
He expects the chain of command to hold, and when someone forgets their place, even briefly, he notices.
The lackey realises it too. His shoulders stiffen before he bows his head and falls silent again.
“He should be out for the next thirty minutes,” Dad states.
A dark pulse of satisfaction moves through me as adrenaline climbs beneath my skin.
The urge to start now, to drag him downstairs and tear the answers out of him piece by piece, burns so hot that I can barely focus.
The only thing that reins it in is the thought of Fae.
The image of her somewhere cold and bound to a floor like this one forces the heat in my chest to pull back just enough for reason to slip in.
If I lose control now, I’ll ruin him before he gives me anything useful.
I pull my phone from my pocket and type into the group chat, my eyes never leaving the body on the floor.
Roman:
Top of the stairs. Need hands.
A second later I add:
Roman:
Bring gloves.
“Thank you for bringing him straight here,” I say, and I mean it. Dad’s mouth twitches at the corner, not quite a smile but the closest thing he gives when he’s pleased.
“I thought you wanted immediacy.”
I roll my eyes. “I thought you said you wanted me to be sensible.”
“Eh,” Dad shrugs. “Nobody saw. This is as sensible as it can get.”
I crouch beside the man and check his pulse out of habit as footsteps scrape the stone behind me. Riggs appears first. He ducks through the panel, his hair is slightly mussed, his cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and his eyes are bright with that manic energy he uses as armour.
“Jesus, Roman,” he mutters, taking in the unconscious figure on the floor. “You couldn’t have texted for snacks like a normal person? I nearly fell over the bloody fire pit trying to get up here.”
Felix follows him. He’s quieter than Riggs, but there’s something coiled in him tonight that makes his shoulders look broader and his face harder.
He looks at the man on the floor like he’s trying to see through skin and bone and find the truth inside it.
He flicks his gaze to Dad, gives a respectful nod, then looks at me.
“This him?”
“It’s him,” I answer.
Dad inclines his head toward Felix. “Felix.”
“Sir,” Felix replies, his voice is clipped but polite.
Riggs clears his throat and gestures at the body with theatrical reluctance. “So, we’re… carrying him, yeah? Or are we doing the classy thing where we just throw him down the stairs?”
“Try not to leave blood in the nave,” Dad responds as his gaze slides to Riggs.
Riggs blinks, “Love that you have boundaries, Mr Longstaff. It’s very wholesome,” then grins like he’s just given the nicest compliment.
Felix lets out a quiet huff and shakes his head as he crouches beside the body. His hands move over the bindings with precision, checking each knot and testing the tension against the man’s wrists. He works methodically, then straightens slightly and looks up at me.
“Straight to the dungeon,” I answer the unasked question.
Dad steps back, giving us space to take over, but his presence doesn’t fade.
He watches in silence as Felix and Riggs move in to lift the man, one taking his shoulders, the other hooking an arm beneath his knees.
His head lolls forward and knocks against Felix’s chest with a dull thud that echoes in the stone space.
“He’s built like a fridge. What have they been feeding him? Protein and lies?” Riggs huffs under the strain.
“Focus, Riggs,” Felix barks, and Riggs chuckles as they adjust their grip.
“Thanks for this, Dad,” I say, walking up and pulling him into a half hug, half handshake as he pats me on the back.
“Anything for you and…” he cuts a glare towards Felix before looking back at me. The words go unspoken, but I know exactly what he means. Anything for me… and anything for the child that might one day carry his name.
I move ahead of the others. The last thing I need is Riggs losing his footing whilst they’re hauling dead weight down a staircase designed in a century where people were apparently half the size they are now.
Behind us, the hidden panel slides shut with a heavy, final click, sealing the church above our heads away.
By the time we reach the lower corridor, the air has turned colder again.
The dungeon door waits at the end of the passage like a mouth that’s already decided what it’s going to swallow.
Victor opens it before we reach it. He doesn’t say a word, just steps aside and lets us pass as his eyes flick down the corridor behind us.
Atlas is perched at the metal table with his laptop open.
He glances up once as we enter, takes in the unconscious man between Felix and Riggs in a single quick sweep, then drops his gaze back to the screen.
“Nice,” Riggs says breathlessly as he and Felix haul the body through the doorway. “Welcome to the murder room, mate. Hope you like the interior design. We’re going for trauma chic.”
We lower the man onto the floor beneath the chains. His head knocks against the tile with a clang. Felix straightens, wipes his hands on his jeans like he can’t stand the idea of touching the man for longer than necessary, then glances at me.
“How do you want him?” Felix asks.
“Up,” I respond. “Let’s go for hanging today.”
Victor steps forward to help. He takes the man’s arms and lifts them into position, guiding the limp weight upward before hooking the cuffs into the restraints.
Felix mirrors the movement on the other side as the chains scrape and rattle against the iron brackets.
Riggs hangs back a step, watching the process with an expression that hovers somewhere between fascination and mild nausea. He cracks his neck once, then winces.
“He’s going to wake up with the worst shoulder ache of his life.”
“I think that’s the least of his concerns,” Victor laughs and Atlas snorts, the sound is brief before his fingers return to the keyboard.
I don’t join them. Instead, I keep watching Riggs.
“Are you good?” I ask, frowning.
Riggs’ head snaps up. “Me?”
“No, the fucking wall,” I shoot back dryly. “Yes, you.”
“Yes…” he says slowly, “why?”
“You’re too…” I cut a glance to Victor who just wears a bemused expression, “Comedic today.”
“Eh,” Riggs shrugs, “I’m just warming up my comedy set. I was thinking, if this whole torture thing doesn’t work out, I could pivot into stand-up.”
We hold each other’s stare before I sigh and turn back to the prisoner.
I’m not going to hold a gun to his head and force him to tell me what actually has him acting like this.
It’s not my business. The only business I have, is bringing Fae home.
As one, we hoist the prisoner up. His toes skim the floor at first, then lift.
The chain goes taut as his head drops forward, chin to chest, and his hair falls across his face.
His chest rises in uneven bursts, like his body is fighting its way out of the dark.
I step to turn the music on and “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye’ starts to play before I move to the metal tray in the corner.
I pull it closer towards me as I line up my instruments.
Riggs watches me, then leans toward Victor.
“He’s nesting. It’s adorable,” he fake whispers.
Victor’s mouth twitches and Atlas laughs without looking up from his screen.
A low groan drags out of the man like his throat is packed with gravel.
His head lifts slightly before dropping again.
His eyelids flutter, struggling to focus under the harsh light, and the slow rattle of the chains echoes through the room.
Felix steps closer.
“Welcome back,” he says, gripping the man’s jaw and tilting his face upward.
The man’s eyes fully open. At first they’re unfocused, glassy with the lingering fog of whatever drug my dad’s men used on him.
His gaze then drifts across the ceiling, the iron chains, and the faces standing in front of him.
He tests the restraints with a small movement of his arms but they bite immediately, forcing a sharp hiss of pain through his teeth.
Panic flashes across his face before he forces it down.
His eyes begin jumping from Felix to me, then to Riggs, Victor, Atlas, and back again as if he’s searching for the least dangerous person in the room.
He won’t find one.
“Let’s go easy,” I say, breaking the silence. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t—” he licks his lips as Felix cuts him off with a hard slap across his cheek.
“Don’t,” Felix barks as annoyance twists across his face. “We hate that word. Pick a different one.”