Chapter 44
Consciousness returned to Lachlan in waves, each crashing against his mind with increasing intensity. His eyelids felt weighted, but he forced them open. A single bulb cast unforgiving shadows across the room.
A slow blink. Then another. His surroundings came into focus gradually—bare concrete walls stained with rusty discolorations he knew weren't rust at all.
Exposed pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping condensation in a steady, maddening rhythm.
The air smelled of saltwater and something coppery and organic. Blood.
Lachlan tried to shift his weight, only to be rewarded with searing pain.
His wrists were secured behind his back with zip ties cutting into his flesh.
Similar restraints bound his ankles to the legs of a heavy metal chair that didn't budge when he tested it.
Bolted to the floor. The cold steel pressed against his bare back—they'd stripped him to the waist, likely searching for weapons or tracking devices.
He took inventory of his body with clinical detachment. Dislocated right shoulder that had been roughly forced back into its socket while he was unconscious. Multiple contusions to his face and torso. Nothing immediately life-threatening, but the night was young.
Despite the fog of pain, his mind sharpened with each passing second.
Training and experience kicked in—absorb information, analyze the situation, identify potential advantages.
Industrial lighting, no windows, a single metal door with heavy bolts.
From the distant muffled sound of waves, he guessed he was in a building near the water.
But he could be anywhere. He had no idea how long he’d been out.
The memory of the attack returned. Britt and Paloma had to be safe at the Stingray Security compound by now. Protected by his friends, who were no doubt canvassing the islands to find him. His only focus—stay alive long enough to be found.
The heavy door swung open with a grating metallic groan.
Two men entered first—Quattro enforcers in black tactical gear, faces expressionless behind designer sunglasses.
Professionals, not street thugs. They positioned themselves on either side of the doorway, hands resting casually on holstered . 45s.
Then Alejandro Cerundolo stepped into the room.
If the concrete chamber was a torture cell from a bleak, forsaken nightmare, Alejandro was a visitor from another world entirely—tailored Brioni suit in charcoal gray, platinum cufflinks catching the harsh light, Ferragamo loafers gleaming despite the dusty floor.
His dark hair was styled with precision, stubble perfectly maintained along his jawline.
Everything about him exuded wealth, power, and calculated control.
Everything except his eyes.
Those were wild, haunted. The eyes of a man consumed by something that all his money and power couldn't satisfy. Lachlan recognized that look—grief mixed with vengeance, a dangerous cocktail that had driven stronger men to madness.
Three more enforcers filed in behind him, closing the door with an ominous thud. Unlike the first two guards, these men carried themselves with the casual confidence of experienced killers.
Alejandro circled him slowly, steps echoing off the concrete walls. His cologne—something expensive and subtle—was jarring in the brininess of the room. After completing a full circuit, he stopped directly in front of Lachlan, hands clasped behind his back.
"Lachlan Ritchie,” Alejandro pronounced the name as if tasting it. "Finally, we meet face to face. On my terms. Not yours. I hope you don’t mind.”
Lachlan maintained eye contact but remained silent.
He'd been on both sides of this equation as a pilot for the ALF flying special ops missions. He’d heard the opening moves of an interrogation designed to establish dominance, to make the subject feel powerless.
Engaging too early was a rookie mistake.
He needed to hear what Alejandro had to say, determine their plans for Britt, and figure out the best way to save her life with the intel Stingray stole from the PISCOs.
"Nothing to say?" Alejandro raised an eyebrow.
“This meeting was inevitable. I never expected you to roll out the red carpet, but kidnapping me from my home is a bit much,” Lachlan said. “How about we not waste each other’s time? Why are you looking for me?”
A flicker of something—respect, perhaps—crossed Alejandro's face. "Direct. I appreciate that." He moved to the metal table and leaned against it, crossing his ankles in a posture of casual confidence. "I brought you here for answers. And justice."
"Justice for what?" Lachlan asked.
“Britt.” Alejandro's voice softened on her name, a lover's caress. "For the woman I loved and lost because of you.”
The accusation hung in the air between them.
Lachlan's expression remained neutral, though his mind raced to process what he was hearing. He hadn’t expected Alejandro to know about his relationship with Britt, them falling in love.
Was that what drove him to fake her death and hold her hostage for three years?
Was that driving Alejandro to hunt her down and kill her now that she’d found her way back to him?
Lachlan bit back a surge of anger, forcing himself to remain composed.
"You know," Alejandro continued, "when I first reviewed the files, I couldn't quite believe it.
The military pilot who rescued Britt from the yacht explosion, only to become obsessed with her.
" He shook his head slowly. "Following her to Dove Island.
Watching her. And then ..." His voice dipped lower.
"The car bomb that took her from me. From all of us. "
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lachlan's stomach clenched. His plans to convince Alejandro to spare Britt’s life faded away.
The narrative Alejandro laid out was a corrupted version of reality but with enough truth to seem plausible.
Yes, he'd been the pilot who'd rescued Britt from the yacht explosion.
But that rescue had led to them falling in love, not to a twisted obsession.
They'd moved to Dove Island together after she became pregnant, entered the PIIB witness protection program to be safe as she waited to testify against her father and his cartel.
“Titus was on to you. Gathering evidence to prove his suspicions,” Alejandro thundered. “You killed Britt!”
Lachlan swallowed hard.
"And then, you conveniently appeared in Miami days before Titus was burned alive with white phosphorus.” Alejandro’s rant continued.
Another thread of truth twisted into a lie. He'd been in Miami before Titus's death—taking Paloma to see places her mother had loved, sharing stories of Britt with their daughter, trying to keep her memory alive. Not to murder her grandfather.
The claims left Lachlan momentarily speechless. The bizarre version of events and warped accusations were absurd. Nothing in the strategic sessions with the Stingray team had prepared him for the shocking fabricated narrative spewed by Alejandro.
“It wasn’t enough that you murdered Britt!
You had to finish off the family by murdering him, too!
He was like a father to me! And now everyone I ever loved is dead …
” Alejandro’s voice turned ice cold. He moved closer, his controlled facade slipping just enough to reveal the raw emotion beneath.
“And you’ll die tonight for taking their lives. ”
"Your information is wrong," Lachlan said, each word measured. “I didn’t kill Britt or her father. If that’s why you’ve been hunting me down, you’ve wasted your time. You got the wrong man.”
Alejandro's expression hardened. He nodded once to one of the enforcers standing behind Lachlan. The blow came without warning—a precise strike to Lachlan's kidney that sent white-hot agony radiating through his body. He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out, tasting fresh blood.
“You think I’m stupid! Titus had enough proof of your crimes to fucking bury you … but you beat him to it. You murdered him before he could kill your sorry ass for killing his daughter,” Alejandro said.
The enforcer struck again, this time targeting Lachlan's head.
Starbursts exploded behind his eyelids. Through the agony, clarity struck Lachlan with unexpected force.
Alejandro's rage, his conviction—they were genuine.
The grief in his eyes when he spoke of Britt and Titus wasn't feigned.
Quattro hadn't been behind Britt's faked death or her captivity.
Alejandro truly believed she was dead, believed Lachlan had killed her.
So, who had orchestrated it all? Who had manipulated events to turn Alejandro against him? The same person who had taken Britt, who had kept her imprisoned for three years?
The answers were still beyond his grasp, but one thing was certain—Alejandro was as much a pawn as Lachlan had been.
"Wait," Lachlan spoke through gritted teeth. “You … are being manipulated. We were all tricked—”
Another nod from Alejandro, another series of methodical blows.
"I didn't kill Titus,” Lachlan said, spitting blood onto the concrete floor. “I never went near his house in Miami. It wasn’t me.”
“And Britt?” Alejandro scoffed. “You expect me to believe you didn’t kill her, either?”
"I didn't kill Britt,” Lachlan repeated, his voice dropping to a quieter register, thick with emotion. "I love her too much to ever hurt her. She means everything to me.”
The room went utterly silent. Even the dripping pipes seemed to pause.
Alejandro's expression transformed—shock, confusion, and then pure, undiluted rage breaking through his composed exterior.
He lunged forward with unexpected speed, grabbing Lachlan by the throat.
Gone was the elegant cartel leader, replaced by a man consumed by raw fury.
“You took her!” Veins throbbed on his forehead as spittle flew from his mouth. "You've had her all this time. Fucking obsessed monster! You kept her from us all this time!”
His fist connected with Lachlan's jaw with sickening force. Unlike the calculated violence of his enforcers, Alejandro's attack was frenzied, uncontrolled. Blows rained down on Lachlan's face and body, driven by grief and betrayal.
"Where is she?" Another blow. "WHERE IS SHE?" His hands returned to Lachlan's throat, squeezing with murderous intent.
The room began to swim before Lachlan's eyes. He felt consciousness slipping away, darkness encroaching from the periphery of his vision. In a distant corner of his mind, he wondered if this was how it would end—strangled by a man who loved the same woman he did. Both of them deceived as to the real threat to Britt’s life, focusing on each other instead of the one who truly wanted her dead. A shadow lurking to destroy her.
Lachlan's consciousness was fading fast. The pain in his body seemed distant now, replaced by a spreading numbness. His thoughts turned to Britt—her smile, the scent of her hair, the sound of her laughter. To Paloma—her tiny hand in his, her trust in him to keep her safe. He had failed them. Failed to anticipate Quattro’s true motives.
Failed to protect himself so he could return to them.
The door crashed open, the sound barely registering through Lachlan's fading awareness. A voice cut through the chaos like a blade, clear and commanding.
"Stop! Don't kill him!"