22. Damien
Damien
One Week Later
The compound doesn’t sleep.
Not today.
Not when the sun hasn’t risen and every breath feels like it’s balancing on a wire stretched over fire.
This is it.
The final move.
The rebirth of everything I built.
I stand in the center of the command room, eyes darting between feeds—eight cameras, eight rooms, eight fates hanging by a thread.
Seven girls.
One boy.
All packaged and prepped for auction.
Harmony once called them “victims”.
I call them “currency”.
And today? Their worth becomes legacy.
“Status?” I bark.
Reese steps up first. He’s sharp, alert, leather gloves already on, earpie ce flickering with static. “Tranquilizers administered. Tracking tags secured. All captives are in transport attire.”
“Sedation levels?”
“Per protocol. Light dose. Enough to keep them quiet, but awake.”
Good.
I glance toward Enrique, who leans against the wall, arms folded. He doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t need to.
But I nod.
And he nods back.
It’s all I require.
The warehouse smells like bleach, blood, and rubber. My boots echo against the concrete as I walk down the center aisle lined with crates, each marked with coded stickers only I understand. Some are real. Some are decoys. All are dangerous.
I pause by Brooke’s file, flipping it open one last time. Photo. Stats. Notes.
Loyal but volatile. Emotionally bonded to Midas. Under evaluation.
I scribble out the last line.
She’s passed.
Barely.
Harmony enters with her head down, wrists cuffed—not because I need her restrained, but because I like the symbolism. She’s dressed in black like she’s attending a funeral.
Maybe she is.
I tilt her chin up.
“You ready to be my shadow again?” I murmur.
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t look away either.
That’s enough.
I move past her, entering the medical bay. Anya is already strapped to the gurney, lashes fluttering. One of the newer girls is murmuring in Rus sian. The boy, sedated heavier than the rest, is lying in a cage we welded overnight.
Every lock clicks into place.
Every label is double-checked.
Every route uploaded to burners—one-time pings, timed to self-destruct.
North. South. West.
Enrique. Reese. Me.
I slam my palm against the table.
“Start final sweep.”
The team scatters.
Harmony lingers.
“You think they’ll chase you?” she asks quietly.
I grin.
“I hope they do.”
She doesn’t ask why.
Because she already knows.
I live for the hunt.
And I never lose.
* * *
The sun hasn’t risen yet.
Good.
I always preferred to move in the dark—before the world wakes up, before suspicion stirs, before eyes can track shadows that aren’t supposed to be there.
The Orchard is still. Silent. Empty, but for the ghosts I keep in cages.
And soon?
Even they’ll be gone.
I double-check the keys clipped to my belt. One for each cuff. One for each gate. One for each compartment. I pat them twice. Then a third time. My hands are shaking.
Not with fear.
With adrenaline.
This is it.
This is the move that puts me beyond reach.
I stalk down the east corridor, the boots of my guards echoing behind me. They know better than to speak. Even Reese is quiet, his usual cocky grin replaced by a clenched jaw. He knows what’s at stake if this goes sideways.
“Everyone ready?” I ask, voice low.
“Yes, sir,” Enrique says, already checking the cuffs on Anya’s wrists.
She’s gagged. Good. That one likes to scream.
Brooke stands behind her, dazed, loyal, a ghost in her own skin. She doesn’t flinch as Enrique pulls her by the arm toward the rear vehicle.
Harmony watches it all from the top of the stairs, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. I don’t let my gaze linger.
She already knows.
I slide the door open to my personal transport—black SUV, no plates, no markings. I’ve swapped it three times over the past week, just in case. The floor is padded. The windows are blacked out. And in the trunk? Three girls, sedated, wrists zip-tied, ankles shackled, mouths taped.
Perfect.
I double-check the vials. Just enough to keep them quiet, but not kill them.
I load the final girl myself, brushing her hair back before sealing the hatch.
“Reese, south route. Enrique, ninety-four. You leave after me. Ten-minute gaps between every departure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And remember,” I say, stepping closer to Reese, “no heroics. If someone is tailing you, don’t drive faster. You don’t try to outsmart them. You call me. You follow protocol. We lose one, we all lose.”
He nods.
I glance toward the sky. Still no sun. Still no sounds. Just wind rustling dead leaves across the cracked pavement like whispers in a chapel.
I climb into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut.
The silence inside is maddening.
The girls don’t move in the back. Good. I crank the engine and roll out slowly, tires crunching over gravel, heart pounding like a war drum. The gates open on motion sensors, then slam shut behind me.
And I’m off.
Out.
Alone.
The plan is perfect.
So why the fuck does it feel like I’m about to die?
Every mile is a question.
Every headlight in the distance?
A threat.
Every bump in the road?
A detonator.
I hit the industrial corridor within twenty minutes—rows of rusted-out factories, busted fences, forgotten trucks. My kind of place. It smells like fire and history.
I cut my lights.
There’s no one here.
And yet—I feel them.
Behind me .
Beside me.
Beneath my skin.
I check the rearview mirror again. Nothing but darkness.
No cars.
No drones.
No movement.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing harder on the gas.
I follow the route to the first checkpoint—an abandoned weigh station I set up months ago, complete with fake security tape and a rusted-out dummy camera bolted to the corner.
I stop.
Wait.
One minute.
Two.
Nothing.
My hands grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles crack.
No sirens.
No shadows.
No fucking Dante.
And that’s what’s wrong.
He should’ve come.
He should’ve tried something.
I lean back and laugh. Low. Manically.
Because for the first time in years, I’ve outplayed every one of them. Every brother. Every rival. Every whisper in the dark.
I hit the accelerator and take the final turn toward the property I purchased. The main house comes into view, looking drab. Then, further back, we arrive at the prison. The Golden Hollows . A smile forms across my face. I fucking did it.
I park.
Unload.
Drag each girl into the processing room one at a time, placing them in lab eled crates.
Reese and Enrique pull up exactly on time. Brooke climbs out of the backseat of Enrique’s truck, her eyes glazed, but alert.
“Any issues?” I ask.
“No tails. Nothing at all.”
“South route?”
“Clear.”
I glance around. Just three trucks. Three men. Seven girls. One boy.
And no one is watching.
No one is coming.
Just how I planned it.
Still, my gut twists.
Because if I were Dante, I wouldn’t have waited.
I’d have come now.
I’d have tried.
But he didn’t.
He’s not here.
And that? That’s what sets my teeth on edge.
I don’t like silence. I don’t like smooth .
Smooth means I’m missing something.
Still…
I walk to the far wall, grab the fresh tin of paint, and scrawl the new name across the whitewashed metal that lines the building.
THE GOLDEN HOLLOWS
Where obedience is golden—and sin is cleansed.
And then I smile.
Because it’s done.
The transition is complete.
And no one stopped me.
Yet.
* * *
The crates are still.
The air, not so much.
Sweat clings to my spine as I light a cigarette and watch the old prison fill with motion—controlled, purposeful motion. Enrique drags one crate toward the staging area, boots echoing on the concrete. The sound grates on my nerves. Too loud. Too final.
“Open them one at a time,” I snap. “Start with Anya. Tag her first. Then the twins.”
“Yes, sir.”
The girls are unconscious but breathing steadily—perfect sedation. I made sure of it myself.
I move toward the file cart and unlock the drawer. Inside are binders. Names. Photos. Sales profiles. New aliases. Their value is written in ink that smears when it gets too warm. Just like people.
“Clock starts now,” I murmur. “Only four weeks until the first auction.”
Enrique nods and sets to work.
I turn toward Reese.
He’s still got that twitch in his jaw.
Brooke stands beside him, eyes wide, posture uncertain. Her hands tremble—small, fast motions like she’s trying not to scratch at her own skin.
And Harmony?
She won’t meet my gaze.
Good. She’s learning.
“You three—main house,” I say, voice clipped. “Take the east route. I want all of you inside and locked down within ten minutes.”
Reese raises a brow. “You sure you don’t want me here?”
“No,” I answer. “I need you with her.”
Hi s eyes cut toward Harmony.
Then Brooke.
“Both?”
“Brooke doesn’t leave your sight,” I say. “Not for a second. She’s been off.”
“She’s been helpful,” Harmony murmurs.
My head snaps toward her.
“What did you say?”
Harmony flinches. “I meant… she’s done everything you’ve asked.”
I step forward, slow and deliberate, until I’m inches from her.
“And so have you,” I whisper. “Which is the only reason you’re still breathing.”
Her lips part, but no sound escapes.
I brush a finger down her jaw—gently.
Then turn away like she means nothing.
Because she doesn’t.
Not right now.
“Reese,” I bark. “Lock them both in the west wing. No shared rooms. You sleep in the hall.”
“You got it.”
I toss him the keys.
“Food is in the cold room. Two meals a day. Lights out at eight. No internet. No phones. I want them treated like livestock—not lovers.”
Reese catches the keys. Doesn’t argue.
I nod toward the door. “Now go.”
They move—Brooke silent, Harmony lingering just a second longer. Her eyes meet mine.
And I let her see it. What I did tonight. What I’m capable of.
She looks away first.
Smart girl.
The door s lams shut.
I exhale slowly and turn back toward Enrique, who’s fitting the first cuff around Anya’s wrist. She groans under her breath, still half-dazed, lashes fluttering.
We’re almost there.
By tonight, the Golden Hollows will be complete.
By the end of the month?
They’ll be empty.
And my hands?
Drenched in gold.
Then… we do it all over again. And again. And again.
I always fucking win.