Enzo's face hardened, the professional concern turning to a cold fury. He opened the folder, his eyes scanning the documents inside—likely the guard's file and a preliminary report. "How?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"I caught them trying to escape through the panic room tunnels," Xavier explained, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. He picked up the silver letter opener again, examining its point. "Put a fucking bullet through the fucker's eyes."
Enzo slammed the folder shut. The sharp crack made the air in the room vibrate. He looked up, his eyes burning. "And do you know who sent him? Are your enemies trying to get to you through her?"
Xavier finally set the letter opener down, a flicker of something akin to interest in his eyes. "He refused to say," he admitted, then a slow, predatory smile touched his lips. "But my wild guess is that it's her sister." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, menacing whisper. "Her father doesn't give a shit; he did fucking sell her to me. It's the sister." He said the last word with a mix of annoyance and a newfound, thrilling sense of a new target.
Enzo's expression hardened, his mind already shifting to offensive measures. "Do I need to go pay her a visit? Remind her what's what?" he asked, his voice low and lethal. He was already anticipating the command, ready to be the blunt instrument of Xavier's will.
"No," Xavier said, his voice dropping to a possessive, chilling finality. He turned from the cabinet, the file still in his hand. "This is between me, my wife, and my in-laws." An evil, slow-growing smirk spread across his face, a look of dark, private satisfaction that made Enzo's own curiosity spike. "And I'm sure Naomi won't be trying something like that ever again."
The smirk was all the confirmation Enzo needed. He knew his boss. "What did you do?" Enzo asked, his voice a mix of professional inquiry and genuine morbid curiosity.
Xavier just shrugged, a gesture of dismissive finality. "I handled my wife," he said, the words a simple, terrifying statement of fact. He slid the papers back into the file, closed it with a sharp snap, and tucked it under his arm. He headed for the door without another glance, leaving Enzo to follow, his questions unanswered but his imagination running wild.
As they walked down the hallway, Xavier's demeanor shifted, the personal matter shelved and replaced by cold business. "Enzo, is the rat taken care of, or do I need to come and handle him myself?" he asked, referring to a prisoner they'd acquired.
Enzo fell into step beside him. "Honestly, boss, we haven't gotten shit from him," he admitted, his tone frustrated. "He's tough. But maybe your presence will scare him into speaking."
Xavier gave a single, curt nod. "Very well."
They reached the grand front entrance, and a guard immediately pulled open the heavy oak doors. Bright morning light flooded the hallway, forcing Xavier to squint for a moment. A black, gleaming sedan was already waiting at the bottom of the stone steps, its engine a low, powerful purr. Xavier descended the steps with Enzo right behind him, his mind already moving on to the next problem, the next piece on the board to be controlled or eliminated. The matter of his wife was, for now, settled.
The black sedan's door was held open by another guard, who stood with a posture of rigid deference. Xavier slid into the plush leather passenger seat, the cool, expensive material a familiar comfort. Enzo got in on the other side, and the doors closed with a solid, expensive thud, instantly sealing them in a world of quiet luxury. The car began its silent glide down the long, winding driveway, the mansion shrinking in the rearview mirror until it was just another imposing structure behind iron gates.
As soon as they were clear of the estate, Xavier pulled out his phone. His thumb moved with practiced ease across the screen, tapping a single contact. The call connected after half a ring.
"It's me," he said, his voice low and devoid of warmth, cutting through any potential pleasantries. There was a pause as he listened to the voice on the other end. "Clear my schedule for the day. Handle all office-related matters. I won't be coming in." He didn't phrase it as a request; it was a command, absolute and final.
He didn't wait for a lengthy confirmation or a list of questions. He simply ended the call, the screen going dark before he tossed the phone onto the empty seat beside him. The day's business, the mundane world of meetings and emails, was officially someone else's problem.
A heavy silence fell in the car's opulent interior, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the faint whisper of tires on the asphalt. Enzo knew better than to speak. He sat still, his hands resting on his knees, his gaze fixed forward. He was a weapon, and he was waiting to be aimed.
Xavier stared out the tinted window at the blurred scenery flashing by. His jaw was set, his eyes distant and unfocused. The matter of his wife was settled, a closed chapter for now. His mind had already moved on, sharpening its focus on the next piece of business. It was time to go have a little chat with their rat.
The sedan's smooth glide came to a halt in the shadow of a decaying waterfront warehouse. The air that rushed in when Enzo opened his door was thick with the scent of salt, rust, and the briny smell of the low tide. The cries of seagulls echoed overhead, a lonely sound against the lapping of water against the pier. This was a place forgotten by time, a perfect location for things that needed to be forgotten.
They stepped out onto cracked road, and one of the guards who had been waiting by a side entrance immediately pulled open a massive, corrugated iron door. It groaned in protest, revealing a cavern of shadows and dust. The interior was vast and hollow, shafts of grimy light piercing the gloom from high, grime-caked windows, illuminating the swirling dust mites in the air.
In the center of this desolate space, a single figure hung from a thick iron beam, like a forgotten piece of meat in a butcher's window. His hands were bound with coarse rope, pulled taut above his head. His body dangled, his toes just barely scraping the dirty concrete floor, forcing him into a perpetually strained, awkward position. His clothes were little more than torn, blood-stained rags clinging to a lean frame. Bruises in every shade of purple and black bloomed across his exposed skin, and his head was lolled forward, his face obscured by a curtain of matted, dirty hair.
Two of Xavier's men stood on either side of the prisoner, their expressions impassive, their postures relaxed but ready. As Xavier and Enzo approached, they straightened and bowed their heads in a show of unwavering deference.
Xavier stopped a few feet away, his hands in his suit pockets, and let out a soft, contemptuous scoff. The kid couldn't have been more than twenty, maybe twenty-one at most. At that age, Xavier mused, there was a particular brand of stubbornness—a fool's belief in their own immortality and conviction.
He probably thought he was playing some noble game, that he had the upper hand because he hadn't broken yet. He had no idea that in this world, youth and idealism weren't strengths; they were liabilities. He had everything to lose—his future, his family, his life—and he was gambling it all away for a cause that had already discarded him.
Xavier took a slow step forward, the sound of his expensive shoe on the concrete echoing in the oppressive silence. The game was about to change.
A sound that broke the heavy silence was a low, ragged chuckle. The prisoner lifted his head, the matted hair falling away from a face that was a swollen, bruised mess, but his eyes burned with a defiant, youthful fire. He looked from Enzo to Xavier, a sneer twisting his split lip.
"You couldn't do it," he rasped, his voice a hoarse mockery of strength. "So you got the big bad boss to come and hold your hand." He spat a glob of blood onto the concrete near Xavier's polished shoe. "I'm not telling you nothing."
Xavier said nothing. His expression remained a mask of cold, detached curiosity. He took a step forward, ignoring the taunt, and grabbed the boy's chin, his grip like iron. He forced the young man's head from side to side, his eyes scanning the bruised flesh with the dispassionate interest of a scientist examining a specimen. He checked behind his ears, his fingers rough against the skin. Still nothing. With a look of disgust, Xavier shoved his head away, letting it loll forward again.
"Tear his clothes off," Xavier instructed, his voice quiet but carrying absolute authority. "Look for any tattoos, branding marks, or odd scars."
One of the guards moved forward, producing a sharp-looking knife. He didn't bother untying the boy's hands; he simply sliced the rags from his body until they fell in tatters to the floor, leaving him completely exposed and vulnerable. They examined him with methodical thoroughness, turning his limp body. Finally, one of them grunted, pointing. "Here, boss."
On the boy's left hip, partially obscured by a fresh bruise, was a small, intricate tattoo—a coiled serpent with a stinger for a tail.
Xavier pulled out his phone, aimed the camera, and snapped a clear, close-up picture. He sent it to a number saved in his contacts with a single microscope emoji. He then looked at the boy, who was now watching him, the defiance in his eyes slowly being replaced by a dawning fear.
"You didn't have to tell me anything," Xavier said, his voice dangerously soft. "Your body said it all." He turned his back on the prisoner, his business here concluded, and began walking away with Enzo falling into step behind him.
"Cut off his dick, and let him go," Xavier said to the guards without looking back, his voice as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. "He thinks he has nothing to lose now. We'll see about that."
The door groaned shut behind them, leaving the boy in the dim light. The smirk on his face had vanished, replaced by a deep, horrified frown as the true, terrifying nature of his situation finally crashed down upon him.
Naomi
My eyelids felt like they were glued shut, weighted with sand. It took an immense effort to pry them open, and the world that swam into focus was wrong. The soft, calming blue of my bedroom was gone. In its place were walls of a deep, charcoal grey, and heavy black furniture that loomed like silent sentinels. The air was thick with a masculine scent—clean soap, a hint of expensive cologne, and something else… something dark and uniquely him. Xavier.
My gaze fell on the alarm clock on the nightstand. 01:37 PM. I had slept for half the day.
A wave of panic pushed me to move. I had to get up, to get out of this room that was so clearly his. I tried to push myself up, but a searing, blinding pain ripped through me, centered deep between my legs. A sharp, involuntary cry escaped my lips, and I collapsed back onto the mattress, my body trembling.
And just like that, it all came rushing back. The forest floor, cold and damp beneath me. The brutal weight of his body pinning me down. His cruel words hissed in my ear. The utter helplessness as he… as he… The memory was a physical blow, and tears immediately stung my eyes, blurring the grey room into a watery mess.
Another thought came through. I had to know. I had to see. With a shaking hand, I gripped the edge of the black silk duvet and pulled it down. I looked at my body, bracing myself for blood, for filth, for some visible sign of the horror he had inflicted. But there was nothing. I was clean. My skin had been washed. The horror of it was worse than if he had left me bloody and broken. He had me cleaned. He had erased the evidence, as if my violation was just another mess to be tidied up.