Chapter 3
three
Zach
The hallway outside the security room feels wrong.
Not empty, not quiet enough to draw attention, but stripped of the normal rhythm of the arena in a way that makes everything sit just slightly out of place, like we’ve stepped into something that doesn’t belong to the rest of the building.
I don’t move far from the glass. Close enough to see him when he passes. Not close enough for anyone to question it.
Elijah hasn’t stopped pacing.
Back and forth. Same length of the room. Same turn at the end. Same tightening through his shoulders every time he pivots, like the movement is the only thing keeping something contained.
He’s still in his gear. Still covered in blood.
It’s darker now, drying where it sits on his hands, across his jersey, along the side of his face where it must have caught during the fight, and the longer I look at it, the more it settles in as something real instead of something that happened too fast to process properly.
He doesn’t look at us.
Doesn’t look at anyone.
Just keeps moving like there’s nowhere else for it to go.
I know that kind of edge. Not like this. Not that far.
But I know the shape of it, the way something builds under the surface until it needs to be dulled or redirected before it turns into something you can’t pull back from.
My fingers flex slightly at my sides before I still them, grounding the movement before it turns into something restless.
Breathe. Slow. Steady.
In.
Out.
Jackson is moving beside me, not pacing, but not still either, his attention catching on every person who walks past, every staff member, every guard, his voice low and tight each time he asks the same question.
“Have you heard anything?”
“When is he being released?”
“What’s happening?”
The answers don’t change.
“We’re waiting.”
“We’ll let you know.”
“It’s being handled.”
Handled.
The word sits wrong.
Everything about this feels too contained in the wrong way, too procedural, like it’s being pushed through channels that don’t understand what they’re actually dealing with.
I let my focus drift back to Elijah.
The pacing hasn’t slowed.
If anything, it’s sharper now, tighter, like whatever is sitting in him has settled deeper instead of burning out.
That’s the part that sits uneasily in my chest.
Not the violence. Not even the fact that he nearly killed Vargas. It’s that he didn’t stop and he doesn’t look like he would have.
Footsteps approach down the hallway, more deliberate than the rest, cutting cleanly through the background movement.
Jackson stills beside me.
I turn slightly as a man steps into view, his stride unbroken, his presence contained in a way that doesn’t ask permission to be here.
“Can I help you?” one of the guards asks.
“I’m here on behalf of Elijah Bellandi.”
There’s a beat.
“And you are?”
He stops then, just enough to acknowledge the question.
“Lucian Bellandi,” he says. “I’m Elijah’s agent.”
The name lands first.
Bellandi.
Everything else comes second. Jackson shifts subtly beside me, attention sharpening. Lucian’s gaze moves to us, assessing without lingering.
“You must be Jackson and Zach,” he says. “Christian asked me to come.”
That tracks. Still, I don’t relax. There’s something about him that doesn’t sit cleanly in one role, the polish of an agent sitting over something else entirely, something quieter and harder to read.
“As soon as Elijah is released, we leave,” Lucian continues. “The plane is already being prepared. We’ll go straight to the tarmac.”
Jackson steps forward slightly.
“Have you heard anything?” he asks. “Do we know anything about Lia?”
Lucian studies him for a moment.
“Not yet,” he says. “But Christian has everyone moving.”
It isn’t reassurance. It’s certainty.
“We’ll find her.”
Jackson nods, but I can see the tension still sitting in him, tight and unresolved. It’s the same tension sitting in my chest, just held differently.
Movement shifts behind the glass. The door opens and Elijah steps out. He’s quieter now. Not calmer. That’s the difference.
The movement is gone, but the energy isn’t. It’s still there, just pulled in tighter, sitting under his skin instead of burning outward.
Lucian watches him for a moment before speaking.
“Hello, cousin.”
Elijah’s gaze lifts slowly. Lucian’s mouth curves slightly.
“Let’s get you home,” he says. “We’ll find your wife.”
The word lands differently now. He doesn’t react visibly, but something shifts through his shoulders.
Security clears the way without argument, like whatever needed to happen has already happened, like this has already been decided somewhere higher than the people standing in front of us.
We’re taken through a back exit, away from the main corridors, away from cameras, the air outside hitting colder than expected as we’re led straight to a waiting car.
Up close, the blood is worse. More real. It hasn’t been cleaned. Hasn’t been touched. Just left there. A reminder. I look away as we get into the car.
The door shuts, cutting everything else off. For a moment, no one speaks. Lucian glances toward Elijah.
“It seems you’ve created a complication,” he says lightly. “Surprising the family with a marriage.”
Elijah turns his head.
“Don’t push me.”
There’s nothing raised in his voice. Nothing sharp. Just something final enough that it doesn’t need anything else.
Lucian doesn’t react. If anything, there’s something faintly amused in the way he looks at him.
“What are you going to do, cousin?” he asks. “Fight me as well?” he pauses then adds “I’m the one helping you find your wife.”
The word lands again. This time, Elijah answers.
“Have you found anything?”
It cuts through everything else in the car. Lucian’s expression shifts, just slightly.
“Not yet,” he says. “Christian has everyone moving. We’ll know more soon.”
Jackson leans forward slightly.
“Should we be getting the police involved?”
Lucian’s answer is immediate.
“No.”
There’s no hesitation in it.
“The police won’t move fast enough for what you need,” he continues. “And we already have access to them if necessary.”
Jackson doesn’t argue, but I can feel the tension still sitting in him.
“So what happens when we get there?” he asks. “What’s the process?”
Lucian’s gaze flicks to him briefly.
“We find her,” he says. “We pull every camera feed available. Traffic routes. Exit points. We listen for anything that surfaces.” He pauses. “People talk. They always do.”
Elijah shifts slightly.
“I’m not going home,” he says. “Take me to Michael and Killian’s.”
Lucian nods.
“That’s where we’re going.”
The car stops. The plane is already waiting. Everything after that moves quickly, smoothly, like it’s been arranged ahead of time, doors opening, staff already in place, no delays, no questions.
“Clean up,” Lucian says, gesturing toward the bathroom once we’re inside.
Elijah doesn’t move. He drops into a seat instead, hands still stained, gaze fixed somewhere distant.
No one pushes him.
The door closes. And for the first time since this started, there’s nothing left to do. Jackson glances at me.
“You good?”
The question sits between us. I hold his gaze for a moment. And for once, I don’t reach for something controlled.
“I’m terrified we’re not going to find her.”