18. Damien
Damien
The cigarette tastes like ash and gasoline on my tongue. I love the burn that it gives me.
I stare out over the property, watching the fog rise off the grass like ghosts with nowhere left to haunt. Brooke is sleeping. Harmony, probably pretending to. Reese is still gone, or at least not stupid enough to show his face unannounced.
I’m sick of waiting.
Every second that passes feels like a fucking countdown. Like someone’s winding the clock behind my back. Tick. Tick. Tick.
They think they’re smart—Dante, Lucien. Watching my trucks. Counting my shipments. Mapping my blind spots.
They don’t realize I intentionally left those blind spots there.
Still, they’re getting too close. Too clever. And I’m not about to let them touch what’s mine.
I need to move the captives soon. But how?
The tunnels?
They’re secure, but if anyone’s watching the property, it’s a risk. One breach, and I lose everything.
Flying them out?
Cl ean. Fast. But the cost—and the attention—isn’t worth it. One tail from the feds and I’m done.
So what’s left?
A fake-out.
A decoy move.
I’ll load the girls into the trucks, send them off with enough noise to draw every eye in the goddamn sky.
Let them follow ghosts across state lines while I take the real product underground.
They won’t see it coming.
And Reese?
He’ll drive the decoy convoy. He owes me that much.
I flick the cigarette into the grass, watching it smolder.
This ends soon.
And when it does, I’ll be sipping whiskey with my queen while the rest of them burn.
Because they forgot the one rule that matters around here.
I always play to win.
* * *
The world disappears when I’m planning. Everything’s silent and still, except for “In My Room” by Insane Clown Posse playing around me.
No sound. No scent. Just the drag of red ink across paper and the pulse of certainty in my chest.
I spread the new blueprint over the table, smoothing the creases with my palm. Every tunnel. Every hallway. Every fucking shadow this place offers—I’ve memorized it like scripture.
But scripture doesn’t save anyone. I do.
I grab the pen and draw three quick lines—
Route A : South tunnel to the abandoned well. Too exposed. Too predic table.
Route B : Old chapel exit. Good cover, but Reese mentioned new motion sensors last month. Still risky.
Route C : Detour through the maintenance shaft. Tight fit. Not ideal for more than two girls at a time.
I circle each and scribble notes beside them. Flaws. Advantages. Contingencies.
Then I move to the decoy plan—two trucks. Loud engines. Flashy movements. Sent north with empty crates and forged ledgers. One with Reese behind the wheel. One with a burner driver I can afford to lose.
I draw a dotted line behind those trucks—the watchers will follow.
They always do.
I circle Harmony’s room, then Brooke’s. I draw arrows from both toward the secure passage in the east wing. The one no one else knows exists. Not even Reese.
Backup plans?
If Dante intercepts the convoy, activate fail-safe Alpha.
If Harmony tries to run, she won’t get far.
If Reese turns on me, I’ll kill him myself.
I pause.
There’s only one outcome where I win. One thread that leads to order instead of chaos.
And I’ve found it.
I circle it in my mind three times. But I don’t mark what it is. Not even on the page. Not even in ink.
Some victories require silence.
I sit back, eyes narrowing as I trace every inch of the plan one last time.
Th ey think they know how this ends.
They don’t.
Because I’m not just one step ahead.
I’m already at the finish line.
And I’m the one holding the fucking knife.
* * *
A single knock.
The door creaks open, and Enrique steps inside like a storm cloud with a heartbeat—tall, broad, silent unless provoked. He doesn’t speak until I nod, and even then, it’s only one word.
“You called?”
I gesture toward the blueprint still stretched across the table. “I have a plan.”
He walks closer, his eyes scanning the red lines as if they hold more significance than just blood and control. Maybe to him, they do. He’s always been good at logistics. Precise. Loyal. Ruthless when needed.
“I need a secondary,” I say. “Someone I can trust to assist Reese with the decoy transport. Someone who knows how to follow orders without asking questions.”
His brow lifts. “You still trust Reese?”
“I trust his usefulness,” I reply flatly. “That’s not the same thing.”
Enrique gives a half-smile—more like a twitch of his scarred cheek. “And you trust me?”
“No,” I say. “But I trust that you fear me enough to follow through.”
That gets a low chuckle. “Fair enough.”
I tap two boxes on the blueprint—convoy markers. “You’ll take Truck Two. Reese will drive the first. The manifests are forged. Crates are empty. You’re headed north. You’ll be visible. Loud. On a timed route. I want you to act like you’re running scared.”
He studies the map a moment longer. “And the real play?”
I meet his eyes, cold and unreadable. “You don’t need to know the real play. You just need to do your job.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Understood.”
“I want full silence once you hit the perimeter,” I continue. “No calls. No check-ins. If anyone contacts you asking for changes, assume they’re compromised. That includes Reese.”
“And if Reese deviates?”
“Kill him.”
Enrique nods once, like I just asked him to take out the trash.
I move to the desk and slide over a sealed envelope. “Coordinates. Burn after reading.”
He pockets it without looking. “When do we move?”
“Friday. Midnight.”
He nods again, turns toward the door, but pauses. “And Harmony?”
I stiffen. “What about her?”
“Just… wondering where she fits in all this.”
I clench my jaw. “Where she always has. As mine.”
Enrique doesn’t push. He knows better.
He just leaves.
I stare at the door for a long moment after it shuts.
Two trucks. Two men I don’t trust.
But only one plan that matters.
And they will not even see it coming.
* * *
The sky is ink. Black and endless.
Perfect for a lie.
Two trucks rumble outside the warehouse, engines low and threatening like the growl of a beast too tired to pretend it isn’t starving anymor e. Reese and Enrique each take one—manifest copies in hand, routes memorized, kill orders embedded in their bones.
The fake girls have already been moved to the staging cages. Our real prisoners are still happily locked away.
They are not the real shipment. Just the ones that’ll be seen. Heard. Followed. We make it loud. Sloppy. Intentional.
“Security routes are doubled?” I ask without turning around.
Reese nods once. “Tripled.”
“Good. Keep it that way. If anyone makes contact, you follow through. No improvisation. No last-minute instincts. You don’t get to think tonight. You get to obey.”
His jaw tics, but he doesn’t argue. Enrique, already in the driver’s seat of Truck Two, doesn’t even look over.
I turn to Reese. “Keep the radio on channel four. I want to hear every breath you take until you hit the outer perimeter. After that—radio silence.”
“Yes, sir.”
I study his face. Still. Blank.
Too blank.
He doesn’t ask where I’ll be.
Smart man.
I walk toward the house. The tunnel entrance sits behind the utility door, masked by drywall and a locked panel that only three people have ever touched. I press my thumb to the scanner.
Click.
It opens.
The air inside is damp. Old. Tense with memory.
I descend in silence, boots echoing off concrete like heartbeats. The tunnel runs under the eastern boundary of the Orchard—beyond the fences, the checkpoints, the lies.
And tonight, it becomes the artery of the trap.
Th ey’ll think I’m distracted. That I’m stupid enough to move product after weeks of stillness. That I’m arrogant. Predictable.
They forget—I don’t make moves.
I make endings.
I pass through the last section of the tunnel and reach the trapdoor. I haven’t opened it yet. I just wait. Listening.
Crack— The sound of tires kicking gravel in the distance.
Thud— A misstep. A boot on the soil.
And then—
“Move in. Quiet.”
Dante.
I smile.
He’s faster than I thought. Predictable. Sloppy with emotion. Just like my brother.
I let the trapdoor creak open an inch. Just enough. I glimpse them through the black—Lucien’s silhouette stationed farther back, scanning the perimeter with military precision. But Dante…
Dante’s already inside the fence.
He must think the trucks are the real play. The dumb bait. The shield.
He must think I’m stupid.
I slip down the tunnel, trailing his footsteps, hugging the shadows. The compound lights are all red-filtered tonight. No white. No alarms. It looks half-abandoned.
I quickly pull open the trapdoor, and Dante comes falling through into the tunnel.
A twist. A chokehold. A needle to the neck.
His body seizes once. Twice.
And then, crumples.
“Goodnight, little solider,” I whisper.
I secure the trapdoor, locking it to keep my stupid brother out.
I drag him back down the tunnel—one hand locked on his collar, the other flipping a switch that’ll lock the compound down for thirty minutes exactly. Enough time to vanish. Enough time to kill.
I don’t take him to the cages.
No.
I take him to the old cellar—the one no one uses anymore. Where the floors still smell like chemicals and bone.
I chain him to the chair. Not because he’ll try to run.
But because I want him to wonder why I haven’t killed him yet.
I want him to sweat.
When he starts to wake, I sit in front of him.
Quiet.
Watching.
He blinks. Head lolling. “What the—”
“You fell for it,” I say calmly.
His eyes go wide. “Lucien—”
“Is still outside. Or dead. I’m not sure yet.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” I reach into my coat and pull out a red thread—one of Harmony’s ribbons.
I let it flutter to the floor between us.
Dante lunges—only to be yanked back by the chains.
I grin.
“You made this personal,” I whisper. “So now… I’ll make it art.”
He doesn’t respond.
But I see the panic blooming behind his eyes.
And just like that, the game resets.
Checkmate’s coming.
But first—I’ll let him watch every piece fall.
I get a call on the radio that Lucien retreated. Fucking pussy.
Letting your main man get captured.
Fu cking pathetic. He’s no brother of mine.
* * *
The door slams behind me with a crack.
The kind that makes you fearful and excited at the same time.
I toss my coat onto the nearest chair, fingers still buzzing with adrenaline. My boots leave muddy imprints across the marble, but I don’t care. Let the floor wear the bloodstains of victory. I earned them.
Reese is already in the living room, lounging against the wall with a drink in hand. He straightens when he sees me.
“Well?” he asks, already knowing.
I grin. “He’s in the cellar. Locked. Chained. Disarmed. And so very confused.”
Reese lifts his glass. “To dumbass heroes.”
I grab a bottle from the bar cart, twist the cap, and drink straight from it. The burn is nothing compared to the high surging through my veins.
“We didn’t just win,” I say, pacing slowly and controlled like a king returning from war. “We rewrote the rules.”
He hums in agreement, but his eyes flick toward the hallway. Waiting.
“I want her to hear it from me,” I say, already walking.
Harmony’s in the study, curled in the corner chair with a book she’s not reading. Her spine stiffens the moment I enter.
“I did it,” I announce, arms spread. “The fake move worked.”
She closes the book slowly. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t clap. Just watches me like I’m a storm forming in her living room.
“Dante came in through The Orchard perimeter,” I continue, voice low and smug. “Tried to act like a savior. Like he had the upper hand.” I laug h. “Now he’s chained to the same walls I built to break men like him.”
Her fingers twitch around the edges of the hardcover. “So he’s alive.”
“For now.”
She swallows.
I cross the room and sit across from her, resting my elbows on my knees.
“You doubted me,” I say softly. “But I told you, didn’t I? No one outsmarts me in my own kingdom.”
There’s a flicker in her eyes—fear, maybe. Or something darker. Something sharp enough to draw blood without even moving.
“You used me,” she whispers. “You used her.”
I tilt my head. “I used the lie. Not the girl. There’s a difference.”
She stands abruptly, walking toward the fireplace like she needs space. Like air is thinner around me.
Reese steps in then, drink still in hand, and leans in the doorway.
“Celebration or confrontation?” he asks dryly.
“Both,” I answer.
Harmony turns around. “So what now? You torture him? Parade him around like a trophy?”
“No,” I say. “That would be predictable.”
I walk to her slowly, deliberately, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m going to let him watch me win. Watch everything fall apart from the inside out. And when he’s broken enough, I’ll send him back… just in time to lose again.”
Her breath hitches.
“You’re not God, Damien.”
I smirk. “No. God takes credit for mercy. I take credit for results.”
She slaps me.
Hard.
Si lence crashes down like thunder.
Reese straightens. My jaw locks—but I don’t retaliate. Not yet.
I lean in, so close she can feel my breath. “I’ll let that slide. Just this once.”
She holds my gaze. “You want a celebration? Then go toast to your own ego. I’ll be busy trying not to drown in the aftermath.”
I chuckle low, savage. “You already drowned, sweetheart. You’re just too proud to admit it.”
I walk away, past Reese, who raises a brow.
“Still want that drink?” he asks.
I take the glass from his hand and down it in one gulp.
Then I raise the empty crystal to the ceiling.
“To the game,” I say. “And to the fools who think they’re playing it.”
Harmony doesn’t say a word.
But the firelight flickers across her face—and I swear, in that moment, she looks more dangerous than either of us.
Good.
She’s learning.