Chapter 8 #2
His jaw tightens. The muscle in his cheek jumps.
His knuckles go white where his fingers grip his crossed arms, tendons standing out against the tattoo ink, and his breathing changes.
Not faster. Slower. Controlled. The deliberate inhale of a man forcing himself to stay still when every instinct screams at him to move.
The mask slips for half a second and something raw surfaces underneath. At first it appears to be anger. Nah. What I am looking at is deeper than anger. His reaction is one that comes from recognition, from knowing exactly what those shipping containers smell like from the inside.
My journalist brain flags it, files it, tucks it away for later. There's a story behind that reaction. A personal one. And someday I'm going to ask him about it.
But not today. Today, his pain isn't my focus.
"Has your family always been into trafficking?"
"I don't know." I force myself to hold his gaze when the shame of the stains to my name threatens to pull my eyes to the floor.
My fingers tighten around my coffee mug, the ceramic biting into my palms, and I use the small pain to anchor myself.
"Ever since I understood where my father's wealth comes from, I've wanted to stop him and my uncle. "
I swallow hard. The words taste sour, the way they always do when I say them out loud, when the reality of sharing blood with monsters sits heavy on my tongue.
"Now that I know there's a whole other level of depravity, my determination goes beyond snagging a coveted journalism job.
" My jaw sets. Something hot and sharp climbs up my spine, straightening my posture, pulling my shoulders back.
"I want blood. I don't want to just hurt my family and put a dent in their operations. "
My hand is shaking. I set the mug down before he notices, pressing my palm flat against the cool granite to still the tremor. But my voice comes out steady, harder than I've ever heard it.
"People are dying, Kon. Women are being sold. They have to be stopped permanently."
The last word splinters on its way out, cracking down the middle, and I hate myself for it. Heat rushes behind my eyes, the burn of tears I refuse to shed, and I blink fast, jaw clenching until my molars ache. I will not cry in front of this man. Not about this.
"I had evidence. Shipping manifests, financial records, witness statements.
Enough to put Seamus away for life." I press my lips together and exhale through my nose, slow, controlled, forcing the tremor back down where it belongs.
"At the time I thought it was maybe stolen goods and weapons.
Now I know the truth." My throat tightens around the next words and I have to push them through.
"But I had to leave it all behind when I ran. "
His brow draws down a fraction. "All of it?"
"Yeah. Months of work. I cut out a piece of drywall behind my bed and stuffed, it inside before sealing it up." I push my plate away, appetite gone. "What I have on my laptop is the framework. Preliminary research. Public records. Enough to rebuild from, but nowhere near what I had."
"Names. Who does Seamus use on the ground?"
"A fixer named Brennan handles the dirty work. He's the one who grabbed me from the alley." My fingers tighten around my coffee mug. "And there's a port captain in Baltimore who looks the other way when the containers come through. I never got his name, but I have the schedule."
"Luca can find the name. Give us the schedule and he'll have the rest within a day."
"Of course he will." I almost smile. "Your intelligence guy is terrifying."
"He prefers 'thorough.'" The corner of his mouth twitches. As usual, it's gone before it fully forms.
“There’s nothing I can do about the proof unless I sneak back in and cut it out of the wall. I stayed with my father long after I should have left because it’s easier to hunt your prey from within. Now that I am out, I’ll just have to–”
"We rebuild," he cuts in matter of fact. "It's that easy. What else?"
"Easy? I risked my life on more than one occasion to gather my intel.”
“And now no one will get within one hundred yards of you.”
I don’t know what to say to that so I grab the cooled mug of coffee and take a swallow.
“What else do you know?”
I watch his mouth move over the question and take in the way he leans forward on the kitchen counter, those beautifully tattooed hands and strong fingers splayed out.
Remnants of yesterday filter through my mind.
It’s hard not to let my brain fall back on the moment we shared.
He felt good on top of me and it’s easier to think about that than all the nasty shit my family does.
But instead of stating the truth running through my brain, I opt to stay on topic.
I push the mug toward him and he refills it with the poison I’m starting to like.
“When I was being held for the auction I overheard a few things and the women were free with whatever information they had once they learned I am a journalist.”
His expression morphs from pure business to something pretty damn close to what I think is pride.
“You’re a brave woman.”
To keep my fingers from shaking, I wrap them around the mug. “I was desperate to keep my wits about me and doing my job when I could allowed that.” I pause a moment. “You have to understand something about me, Kon. I won't give up.”
Dark, understanding eyes meet mine. “I’m counting on it."
I latch onto that detail and file it away too before continuing.
“There's a warehouse. South side, near the old stockyards.
Seamus uses it as a waystation. The women come in through the ports, get processed there, then shipped out to buyers.
Only at the time, I thought it was anything else besides humans in those containers.
" I swallow hard. "I photographed it. Documented the schedule, the guard rotations, the vehicles. That's on my laptop.”
“What pushed your uncle to put you through the Society?”
I lift a shoulder. “I honestly do not know how he found out about me gathering intel to expose him and my father, but he did. And my father didn’t put up an ounce of a fight in my defense."
He goes predator-still. That dangerous quiet I'm learning to recognize, the one that means violence is being calculated behind those dark eyes.
"How many guards?"
"At the warehouse? Six on rotation. Two at the perimeter, four inside. Shift changes at midnight and noon."
"Cameras?"
"Three that I spotted. North entrance, loading dock, and the main floor. But Seamus is cheap with security tech. They're older models. Blind spots everywhere. He relies on his lethal reputation to do most of the heavy lifting."
He nods once, filing it all away. "We'll take the warehouse. Free whoever is being held there. We have contacts within the police department. They’ll help get any women out.”
"And Seamus?"
"Seamus will be dealt with." The promise in his voice sends a chill skating down my spine. "That I can guarantee."
Silence settles between us. Morning light catches the scar bisecting his eyebrow and the beard trimmed close along his jaw, neat and deliberate. A man this dangerous who grooms himself with this much care is a man who pays attention to details. I file that away.
He pushes off the counter and rolls his shoulders, the henley pulling tight across his back. "My office. I need to cross-reference what you're giving me with Luca's files."
I scoot off the stool and follow him down the hallway, my boots quiet on the polished concrete.
The Foundry is different in the morning.
Warmer. Sunlight cuts through the tall windows and catches on the exposed brick, turning the inside of the beast’s lair from cold industrial to almost cozy.
I pass one of his typewriters sitting on a narrow table against the wall, a half-finished page still curled in the carriage. My fingers itch to read it.
His office is smaller than I expected. A massive oak desk dominates the center, stacked with folders and loose papers and a laptop he never seems to use given there’s a stack of books pinning it in place.
Bookshelves line the far wall. A silver flask with… I squint to read what I think is Cyrillic script engraved in the silver.
The whole room smells like leather and old paper and him.
He drops into his chair. Gestures to the one across from him. I don't sit.
"Why did you volunteer?" The question has been on my mind since last night.
He raises an eyebrow.
"At the auction. Rafael could have sent anyone. Why you?"
An easy smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "I handle acquisitions."
I shake my head. "Bullshit." I move around his desk toward him. "I’ve studied the Syndicate. You're the enforcer. The one they send when they want something destroyed. Why would they send you to buy a woman?"
"Does it matter?"
A moment of silence passes between us. This is about power as much as it is about understanding the enemy, even if he is a good lay. "It matters to me."
We're close now. Close enough that the scent of his cologne fills my lungs with every breath. My body responds without permission, heat pooling low, my pulse climbing.
"Yesterday." I keep my voice steady. "I offered payment on a wish and you collected. Deal done. I get that, but why are you acting like I'm a stranger who wandered into your kitchen?"
His eyes darken. The muscle in his jaw flexes. "What do you want me to do, Onyx? Pin you against the counter and remind you?"
For starters…
"I want you to stop pretending you weren't affected." I know it’s hard for most people to speak the truth, but my world revolves around words and the emotions attached to them. I need to hear people use their words. It’s just how my brain works.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Onyx."
"I'm not playing anything. I'm clarifying terms. One secret per encounter. That was the deal. I fed you a truck load this morning but it was only the tip of what I really know. So if you want more information..."