Chapter 16
Jenna
Three days.
It’s been three fucking days since the breach, and we have nothing.
I stand in the operations center, staring at the wall of monitors displaying empty holding cells, blank surveillance feeds, and spreadsheets tracking shipments that have vanished into thin air.
Gone. All of it.
Twelve girls. Three high-value targets. Two shipments that were supposed to move to Miami and Vegas.
Gone.
And the worst part?
Silence.
No news coverage. No police report. No federal raids. No bodies turning up.
It’s too quiet. Too fucking quiet.
My father sits at the head of the conference table, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. Cesario stands beside him, tablet in hand, scrolling through footage for the hundredth time.
“Anything?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
Cesario doesn’t look up.
“Nothing new.”
I slam my hand on the table.
“That’s not good enough.”
My father’s eyes flick to me, calm and cold.
“Jenna.”
His voice is a warning.
I don’t care.
“We lost twelve girls, two shipments, and millions in product,” I snap. “And you’re telling me we have nothing? No leads? No suspects? No—”
“We’re working on it,” Cesario interrupts, his tone measured.
I turn on him.
“Work faster.”
He doesn’t flinch. He never does. That’s what makes him valuable. But right now, I want to put a bullet in his skull just to feel something other than this gnawing panic in my chest.
I pace back and forth, my heels clicking against the polished concrete floor while my mind spins.
Who hit us? How did they know? How did they get in and out without leaving a single trace?
It was professional. Military-grade. Precision timing. Explosives. Extraction. No casualties on their side. Just ours.
And the girls.
Gone.
I stop pacing and turn to my father.
“What if it’s federal?”
He doesn’t react.
“It’s not federal,” he says calmly.
“How do you know?”
“Because if it were federal, we’d already be in custody.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But that doesn’t make me feel better.
If it’s not the feds, then who?
A rival family? Someone with a vendetta? Someone we crossed?
The list is too long. Too many enemies. Too many people who want to see us burn.
I glance at the monitors again. Empty cells. Blank feeds. Nothing.
“Pull the footage again,” I say.
Cesario sighs. “We’ve already—”
“I said pull it again.”
He exchanges a look with my father. My father nods.
Cesario taps the tablet, and the monitors shift to surveillance footage from the auction night—the warehouse exterior, the loading docks, the perimeter.
I watch frame by frame, looking for something. Anything. A face. A license plate. A mistake.
But there’s nothing.
The vehicles that hit us had no plates. The men who breached were masked, dressed in tactical gear with no identifying marks.
They knew what they were doing. They knew exactly what they were doing.
“Whoever did this,” I say slowly, “they’ve been watching us.”
My father’s expression doesn’t change.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough to know our schedule. Our security. Our buyers.”
I feel my stomach twist.
“So we have a mole.”
Silence.
Cesario shifts his weight. My father’s eyes narrow slightly.
“Possibly,” he says.
Possibly.
Possibly.
I want to scream.
Instead, I turn and walk out of the room.
I find Izzy in the recovery suite on the second floor. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, a fresh bandage wrapped around his shoulder where the bullet grazed him.
He looks up when I enter.
“Hey.”
His voice is flat. Distant.
I close the door behind me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
He shrugs.
“I’m healing.”
I walk closer, studying him. There’s something off. Something in his eyes. A distance. A distraction.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He looks away.
“I’m not lying.”
But he is. I can see it. I’ve known him long enough to know when he’s hiding something.
“Is it her?” I ask quietly.
His jaw tightens.
“Who?”
“Becca.”
He doesn’t answer.
That’s answer enough.
I feel the jealousy flare hot and sharp in my chest.
“She’s gone, Izzy.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look like you’re mourning her?”
He stands abruptly, wincing as the movement pulls at his wound.
“I’m not mourning her.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing, Jenna. Just drop it.”
But I can’t. I won’t.
Because I see it now. The way his eyes linger on nothing. The way his mind drifts. The way he flinches when I touch him.
He’s still thinking about her. Still wondering where she is. Still caring.
And that makes me want to burn the world down.
“You still love her,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.
“I don’t.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Then prove it.”
He turns to face me, his expression hard.
“How?”
I step closer, my hand sliding up his chest.
“Forget her.”
“I already have.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
His eyes meet mine.
But there’s nothing there. No heat. No desire. Just emptiness.
I pull my hand back.
“You’re useless to me like this.”
He doesn’t respond.
I turn and leave.
Sarah.
The thought hits me as I’m walking down the hallway.
Sarah.
My best friend since grade school. The one person I’ve trusted for years. The one person who’s been around the operation longer than anyone except my father.
She’s seen things. Heard things. Been at events. Met buyers. Watched shipments move.
And she’s never asked questions. Never pushed. Never seemed curious.
But what if that was intentional?
What if she was listening? What if she was watching? What if she’s been feeding information to someone?
The feds. A rival. Someone.
I stop walking, my heart pounding.
Could it be Sarah?
I pull out my phone and dial her number.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, Jen,” she answers, her voice bright and cheerful.
Too cheerful.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Home. Why?”
“I need to see you.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
There’s a pause.
“Is everything okay?”
“Just come to the estate.”
“Jenna, what’s—”
“Now, Sarah.”
I hang up.
An hour later, I’m in the interrogation room.
It’s a small, windowless space in the basement with concrete walls, a single metal table, two chairs, and a drain in the floor.
I’ve been here before. Many times.
But tonight feels different.
Tonight, I’m not looking for information.
I’m looking for blood.
Cesario brings in the first man.
Marco.
Mid-thirties. Works security on the loading docks. He’s been with us for three years. Loyal. Reliable.
Or so I thought.
He sits across from me; his hands folded on the table.
“Marco,” I say calmly.
“Miss Lionetti.”
“You were on duty the night of the breach.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
He shifts in his seat.
“I already gave my report to—”
“Tell me again.”
He swallows.
“I was stationed at the east entrance. Around 9:47 PM, the power flickered. Then the alarms went off. I tried to radio in, but the comms were down. By the time I got inside, it was chaos. Smoke. Gunfire. I—”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Masked men. Tactical gear. They moved fast. Professional.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Maybe six? Eight?”
“You don’t know?”
“It was dark. There was smoke. I—”
“Did you recognize any of them?”
“No.”
“Did you see their vehicles?”
“No.”
“Did you see anything useful?”
He hesitates.
That’s his mistake.
I pull the gun from my waistband and shoot him in the head.
The sound is deafening in the small room. His body slumps forward, blood pooling on the table.
Cesario doesn’t flinch.
“Bring in the next one,” I say.