Chapter 20
twenty
Elijah
By the time it reaches day five, the anger stops feeling like something that needs to be released.
It doesn’t climb up my spine anymore or settle behind my ribs waiting for something to push it over the edge. It sits lower than that now, deeper, like it’s found somewhere permanent to stay, something that doesn’t need movement to exist because it isn’t going anywhere.
It’s there when I breathe.
There when I think.
There when I look at the table in front of me and realize I’ve been staring at the same line of text for long enough that the words have started to blur without actually changing.
Jackson’s voice cuts through from the living room, sharp enough that it pulls at the edge of my focus without breaking it completely.
“I don’t care,” he says. “Then fine me. Suspend me. I’m not playing.”
There’s a pause, whoever is on the other end of the call trying to reason with him.
“No,” Jackson says again, quieter now, but it isn’t softer. It’s settled. “Family emergency. That’s all you’re getting.”
Another pause.
“And Zach’s not playing either.”
The call ends.
Silence fills in behind it, heavier than before, like something in the apartment has shifted without actually moving.
I don’t turn toward it.
I don’t acknowledge it.
Because it doesn’t matter.
Not compared to this.
Paul.
His name sits in the center of everything we have, surrounded by fragments that should add up to something useful and don’t.
His address is marked, crossed out, already cleared.
His workplace is the same. IT. Capable. Skilled enough to disappear if he needed to, to wipe his own traces, to reroute anything that could lead back to him.
Too clean.
Not luck.
Not coincidence.
My hand presses flat against the table, my fingers spreading slightly against the surface as I go over the same information again, even though I already know what it says.
He didn’t just vanish.
He planned it.
Or someone planned it for him.
“He didn’t do this alone,” Christian says from across the table, his voice low, steady.
Zach shifts slightly beside him, his attention still on the same documents.
“He could cover his tracks,” Zach says. “If he knew what he was doing, he could stay off anything obvious long enough to move.”
“Not like this,” Christian replies.
I don’t look at either of them.
Because the part that matters isn’t whether he could.
It’s why.
Why Vargas.
The question sits in my head without answer, the frustration that comes with it pressing into the same place the anger already occupies.
Five days.
Almost six.
Every hour that passes without something to act on stretches that pressure further, pulls it tighter, makes it harder to ignore the fact that she’s still out there and I don’t know where.
Christian’s phone vibrates against the table.
The sound cuts through everything else.
He glances down at it, reads, and something shifts in his expression, not surprise, not relief, just recognition.
“The Blackbird has a package.”
I straighten slightly.
“Where.”
“Motel. Ten minutes out.”
I’m already moving.
Jackson steps into the room as I grab my jacket, his energy sharp, restless, like he hasn’t stopped moving since we left.
“I’m coming,” he says.
“You don’t need to—”
“I’m not staying here,” he cuts in. “I’m not doing nothing.”
There’s no hesitation in it.
I nod once.
“Move.”
Lucian stays. Zach stays. Evelyn is already pulling more files toward her, her focus shifting as we leave.
The drive is short, the road stretching out in front of us with nothing in it but distance and the weight sitting in my chest.
I don’t fill the silence.
Neither does Christian.
Jackson shifts in the seat beside me, his knee bouncing once before he stills it, like he’s forcing himself to stay controlled.
The motel looks exactly like I expected when we pull in, half-lit, empty, the kind of place no one looks at twice.
Christian gives the room number.
We don’t hesitate.
He knocks once, then opens the door.
The woman inside smiles when she sees him.
It’s not warm.
Not polite.
There’s something sharp under it, something that sits just below the surface and doesn’t need to be shown fully to be understood.
“Apologies on the delay,” she says, stepping back. “They were more jumpy than I expected. This one especially didn’t trust anyone.”
Her gaze moves to me. Then to Jackson.
There’s recognition there, not surprise.
“You wouldn’t believe the things I had to do to get him to trust me.”
I look at her properly then.
Not because of the words.
Because of how easily she stands in front of us.
No tension.
No hesitation.
Like this is her element.
“The Blackbird,” I say.
Her smile sharpens.
“Elijah,” she replies, stepping past me, close enough that I can feel her presence without her touching me. “Good to see you’re finally stepping into the family business.”
There’s no mockery in it.
Just fact.
She glances at Christian.
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
Then she leaves.
Just like that.
Jackson exhales behind me.
“That was her?” he says. “She’s a woman?”
Christian doesn’t look at him.
“Don’t underestimate the power of a woman in our world,” he says. “She may look fragile, but she can kill you in more ways than one before you even know what’s happening.”
His gaze flicks briefly toward the door.
“She’s been doing it since she was a girl.”
I don’t follow it. Because I’ve already seen him.
Luis.
He’s on the bed, unconscious, his body slack, his chest rising slowly. Something in my chest tightens.
Not relief.
Not satisfaction.
Something closer to anticipation.
This is something I can use.
“Get him,” Christian says.
We move.
His weight is dead as we haul him up, his head rolling slightly as we drag him out, his body unresponsive in a way that doesn’t matter.
By the time we reach the warehouse, the pressure has settled into something clear.
Focused.
We drag him inside and force him into the chair, binding him tight enough that there’s no movement left in him when he wakes.
Jackson lingers near the edge of the room.
“You sure you want to stay,” I say, not looking at him.
“I’m not leaving,” he replies. “Not until I get answers.”
I nod once.
That’s enough.
Christian hands me the salts.
I crack them under Luis’s nose.
His body jerks hard, his head snapping forward as he drags in a breath, his eyes opening wide and unfocused before locking onto us.
“Fuck,” he chokes, pulling against the restraints. “I’ll kill you...”
I hit him.
The impact snaps his head to the side, the sound of it sharp in the space.
“Where is my wife.”
He laughs, blood already starting to gather at his mouth. “Fuck you!”
I step in closer and hit him again, harder this time, my knuckles connecting with bone in a way that travels up my arm.
“I said,” I repeat, “where is my wife.”
He keeps talking.
Keeps pushing.
Keeps holding onto something that doesn’t exist here.
So I stop asking.
The knife is in my hand before I think about it.
I press it into his thigh first, not deep enough to end anything, just enough to tear through muscle cleanly and make his body react.
His breath shatters into a scream.
“Talk.”
“I don’t know...”
I pull the blade free and drive it in again, slightly higher this time, watching the way his body jerks against the restraints, the way his head drops forward as the pain cuts through whatever he was holding onto.
“You looked into her,” I say. “You knew who she was.”
“We—” he chokes, his voice breaking. “We looked into her...found her past...”
“Who.”
“Her ex... Paul—”
I don’t stop.
“You used him.”
“We didn’t have to,” he rushes. “He was already watching her, already stalking her, we just...used it.”
The knife presses in again, slower this time, the edge dragging as I lean closer.
“How.”
“We told him to take her,” he gasps. “Said we’d pay him...use her against you...against the Bellandi’s.”
The words settle into place.
“And where is she.”
“I don’t know!”
The blade slides deeper.
He screams again, his entire body straining against the chair.
“I don’t know!” he shouts. “He was supposed to deliver her...warehouse...outside Houston...he didn’t show...he kept her...we don’t know where he went.”
I hold there.
Watch him.
Wait.
Nothing else comes.
“Address,” I say.
He gives it immediately. No hesitation. No resistance left. I step back. Pull the gun and shoot him.
The sound cuts through the space clean and final.
Behind me, Jackson shifts, the movement sharp, the reaction immediate even though he doesn’t say anything at first.
“We go to that warehouse,” he says finally, his voice tight, controlled around something heavier.
I nod once.
Because now, we finally have something real.
Somewhere to go.