4. Collateral
Chapter four
Collateral
The private elevator glided upward, leaving the bustling city lobby dozens of floors below. The drive from the damp, echoing concrete of the warehouse had passed in a tense, guarded blur. The mechanical lift vibrated beneath my feet.
Warm air rushed into the steel cabin from the overhead vents, carrying the faint scent of polished wood. The stoic syndicate lieutenant stood beside the control panel, watching the digital floor numbers climb.
“End of the line,” he said, as the doors parted with a soft chime. “Step out.”
I crossed the threshold into a sprawling living room, dragging the hem of my dirt-stained cashmere coat over a pristine, plush carpet.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a panoramic view of the city skyline.
Thousands of distant streetlights glittered across the vast grid below.
The quiet, steady hum of a climate control system vibrated through the floorboards.
The extreme shift from the desolate warehouse to this sterile luxury made the sheer reach of the syndicate impossible to ignore.
I wrapped my arms around my stomach, pressing my bare palms against the fabric of my coat.
The skin on my hands burned from scraping against the gritty concrete.
Whoever ran this operation possessed a terrifying amount of resources.
Yet, standing in this sanctuary, the vastness of the opulence held no power over me.
The true monsters were not the men in this building.
The true monsters were waiting for me back at the estate.
I refused to act like prey in this room.
The lieutenant walked past me, gesturing toward a wide leather sofa in the center of the room.
He did not wait to see if I obeyed. He stepped behind a curved mahogany wet bar, uncapped a heavy crystal decanter, and poured a measure into a matching tumbler.
Clear liquid sloshed against the cut glass.
He crossed the room and held the glass out to me. “Please, sit down, Mrs. Stanton,” he said. “The boss will be out in just a moment. Drink the water slowly, it will help you calm down.”
I reached out and took the glass. The faceted crystal pressed cold against my raw skin.
My fingers trembled, threatening to spill the water over the rim.
I stood tall in the center of the Persian rug, squeezing the hard tumbler until the shaking in my hands stopped.
I raised the rim to my lips and took a single, deliberate sip to clear the dry, metallic taste from my tongue.
I lowered the glass, holding the lieutenant’s gaze. “I prefer to stand,” I said. “And I don’t need water, I need the man in charge.”
The lieutenant studied my posture, his eyes dropping to my tight grip on the crystal. “Suit yourself,” he said, taking a step back. “But I’d advise keeping a respectful tone when he gets here.”
The brass handles clicked in the quiet air, and a set of solid oak doors on the far side of the room swung inward.
A broad-shouldered man strode into the room.
He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that draped over his imposing frame.
He did not spare a single glance for the sweeping skyline or the luxury furnishings.
His gaze fixed immediately on me, assessing my dirt-stained coat before meeting my defiant stare. I tightened my grip on the faceted crystal glass. The cool condensation collected against my raw palm.
“Stand down, Marcus,” the man said. His low, resonant voice rumbled through the silence of the room. “You’re dismissed to the hall.”
“Yes, boss,” the lieutenant replied. He backed away, moving toward the private elevator without a hint of hesitation.
The metal doors chimed and slid shut, sealing me inside the penthouse with the syndicate boss.
The man continued his approach across the polished hardwood.
The click of his dress shoes rang out over the ambient hum of the climate control system.
He stopped several feet away, leaving a wide physical buffer between us.
Even with the distance, his sheer size made the sprawling living room feel like a cramped hallway.
A faint scent of sandalwood and expensive wool reached me, overriding the lingering smell of warehouse mildew clinging to my clothes.
The tailored cut of his jacket failed to conceal the rigid lines of a shoulder holster strapped beneath the fabric.
Under any other circumstance, realizing a man was armed would have made me retreat.
I planted my boots into the thick fibers of the Persian rug and refused to step back. I was simply too exhausted by the betrayal to care how dangerous he looked. The people who orchestrated my kidnapping were cowards.
Tobias hid behind his tailored suits and his empty country-club promises. Lavinia hid behind her high-society luncheons and maternal smiles. They dealt in poison and whispers.
The man standing before me wore his violence openly. A thin, pale scar cut directly through his left eyebrow, interrupting the severe lines of his face. I stared at the harsh line. I needed answers, and he held them.
“Mrs. Stanton,” he said, halting his approach. “I understand you wanted to speak to me.”
“I wanted to speak to whoever was in charge of those men, yes.”
I shifted the weight of the water glass to my other hand, planting my feet a little wider to steady myself and the baby.
I took a measured step forward, cutting right through the polite distance he had tried to establish, closing the gap until I stood mere inches from his chest. He watched me move, his expression remaining an impassive mask. He did not retreat a single inch.
“Understandable,” he said. “Normally, I wouldn’t have agreed. But the situation being as it is… My name is Bastien Kavanagh.”
Bastien Kavanagh. I committed the name to memory. I tipped my chin up to maintain unbroken eye contact, refusing to let his looming presence force me to back down.
“My men took a blind contract without my authorization,” Bastien continued. “And through sheer stupidity, they nearly let you die in that warehouse. But that’s not really why you’re here, is it?”
He dropped the polite pretenses, cutting straight to the point. I appreciated the lack of manufactured sympathy. I did not want an apology for the damp concrete, the zip ties, or the anaphylaxis. I wanted ammunition. I wanted the men and women who sold me out to burn.
“That’s right,” I said. “I don’t care about your thugs. Someone paid them. Who? Who wanted me tied down and roughed up?”
Bastien crossed his arms over his chest. “Mrs. Stanton…”
“I said, give me the name. I heard your man on the phone, but I need you to look me in the eye and confirm it.”
Bastien studied my face in silence. The ambient hum of the overhead vents thrummed through the floorboards. The quiet stretched out, isolating the two of us in the center of the vast penthouse. He tracked my rigid posture, noting the white-knuckle grip I kept on the tumbler.
“You’re locking your knees, Mrs. Stanton,” Bastien said. “Don’t pass out on my floor.”
I shifted my footing on the thick rug, deliberately unlocking my stiff knees. The heavy glass in my hand grew slick with condensation. A drop of freezing water tracked down the side of the tumbler and dripped onto my ruined cashmere.
“I am not going to pass out,” I replied. “Give me the name.”
Bastien took a measured step backward. He moved toward a thick glass side table and leaned his hip against the edge. The tailored wool of his suit jacket shifted, pulling taut across his shoulders. Beneath the expensive fabric, the leather of his concealed holster let out a faint, tight creak.
He folded his arms. He didn’t offer a polite preamble or a sympathetic grimace.
“Your husband, Tobias Stanton,” Bastien said.
The name echoed in the dead air. I squeezed the heavy tumbler. The icy condensation seeped between my bare fingers, stinging the fresh scrapes on my palms. I stared at the water swaying against the rim.
Tobias.
The man who kissed my forehead every morning. The man who rubbed my pregnant belly and promised to protect our growing family. I kept my expression blank, determined not to let Bastien see the shock.
“Why?” I asked.
“He approached one of my fixers last month, looking to clear a massive gambling debt,” Bastien explained. “He needed a ransom scenario to bypass the legal guardrails on your trust fund.”
The cold financial math of it made perfect sense.
The trust fund. My late father’s ironclad stipulations mandated that the principal could only be touched for my direct, lifesaving benefit.
A ransom demand bypassed every legal wall Pieter Vandeveer had built.
Tobias engineered a violent nightmare just to access a loophole, treating my life and the life of his unborn child as collateral.
I passed the heavy glass to my left hand. The freezing moisture transferred to my opposite palm, the sudden chill pulling my focus back to the room. I kept my gaze locked on the syndicate boss.
“And my mother?” I asked.
Bastien held my gaze. The furrow of his brow deepened, contorting the scarred tissue.
“Lavinia provided the schedule and the exact location for the ambush,” he said.
The air in the penthouse suddenly felt suffocating. The memory of the boutique’s valet stand rushed back to me. Lavinia screaming on the concrete. Lavinia begging the thugs to take her instead.
The panic, the screaming—it was all completely fake. My own mother looked me in the eye, linked her arm through mine, and marched me into a trap.
“She also instructed my men to be rough with you,” Bastien continued, his tone completely flat. “To make the trauma look convincing to the police.”
My stomach turned. I dug the heels of my boots into the rug. She authorized monsters to break my skin just to sell a lie. She wanted me bruised.
They sold you out.
I walked toward a polished mahogany console. I set the crystal tumbler down. The faceted glass landed with a harsh clink. A ring of moisture seeped into the immaculate wood.
I took two steps away, stopping at the edge of the expansive glass. The city traffic formed a grid of glowing headlights down below. I stared at my own reflection in the glass.
The police would require a paper trail. The only thing tying Tobias to the kidnapping was a tinny voice bleeding through a cheap cell phone speaker.
Without hard evidence, I knew the detectives wouldn’t dare touch a man with Tobias’s money. I turned away from the window and faced Bastien. I pressed my damp left palm against the lapel of my cashmere coat, rubbing my hand down the dry fabric to wipe away the lingering moisture.
“I have no proof,” I said. “If I walk into a precinct looking like this, it is the word of a hysterical pregnant woman against a respected financial executive.”
“I am going back to that house,” I added.
Bastien uncrossed his arms. He pushed off the thick glass table, bridging the distance between us by a single stride. His dark eyes scanned the warehouse dirt on my hem and the raw scrapes on my hands.
“You are in no condition to step back into that environment,” Bastien said. “They nearly got you killed today.”
“They think I’m weak,” I said, lifting my gaze to meet his. “They think I’m a docile little piggy bank. I’m going to smile in their faces, I’m going to find the proof of what Tobias has done, and then I am going to ruin them.”
I let my hand drop from my lapel. I stared at the pale line bisecting his brow. He operated entirely outside the law, but right now, he was the only weapon I possessed to break the people who sold me.
“But I need your help to do it.”
The dark fabric of his suit shifted softly as he took another step forward. He didn’t bother keeping a polite distance. He closed the physical gap, halting mere inches away. His towering frame eclipsed the soft light of the room, suddenly plunging me into his shadow.
I refused to give ground. Digging my boots into the rug, I squared my shoulders, determined not to flinch as the lethal man loomed over me.
I tipped my chin up, forcing myself to hold eye contact with the scar cutting through his brow.
Bastien studied my posture, his gaze searching for any sign of hesitation.
“We can’t just drop you at the front gate,” Bastien said. “Tobias is expecting a call from my fixers to confirm the drop. If you show up on your own, he panics and covers his tracks.”
I looked up at him. Tobias is expecting his payout. The man I married assumed this nightmare would be wrapped up like a cold business transaction.
“We’ll go through with the ransom plan exactly as Tobias wished it,” Bastien continued. “My men will leave you at a gas station across town. Someone will spot you there eventually. You cry, and you tell them you were taken and blindfolded the entire time.”
I listened to the grim reality of his plan. I would sit on a dirty curb in the winter wind and beg strangers for help. The police would launch a manhunt for faceless thugs and a damp warehouse they would never find.
Meanwhile, my husband would rush to the precinct in a tailored suit, playing the devastated hero for the cameras. The mere thought of letting Tobias wrap his arms around me made me sick, so I drove the heels of my boots harder into the rug.
“Then what?” I asked. “How will I be able to reach you?”
Bastien maintained his unyielding stance. A low mechanical vibration thrummed beneath my feet, the only sound filling the space between us. He offered no encrypted numbers or burner phones.
“Let me handle that,” Bastien said. “Just give the police nothing. Play the victim, go home, and I will find a way through your front door.”
He dictated the terms. I studied his face, tracing the hard lines of his jaw.
A few hours ago, I was selecting nursery blankets with a mother who hated me.
Now, I was relying on a syndicate boss to break into my own estate.
He was a ruthless criminal, but his blunt honesty made him the only reliable ally I possessed. I gave a single nod in grim acceptance.
I stood alone in the penthouse, the dangerous alliance struck, and began to rehearse the exact, trembling lies I was about to feed the police.