Chapter 6 - The Vanishing Act
The jolt of the van accelerating hard into the rain-slicked timberland threw Liya against the metal ribs of the cargo bay.
The air inside smelled of stale ozone, wet canvas, and the cheap cologne of the two men sitting on either side of her. Her wrists were zip-tied behind her back now, the plastic biting sharply into her skin every time the vehicle bounced over a hidden rut in the access road.
"Keep your head down," the guard on her left muttered, shoving her shoulder roughly downward.
Liya didn't cry out. The shock of Miller's betrayal had cauterized her panic, leaving behind a cold, sharp rage that burned hotter than fear. Miller had been the shadow behind Adrian for years. If Miller had flipped, it meant Vincent hadn't just infiltrated the household—he had completely hollowed out Adrian’s inner circle from the inside out.
Tell Adrian that if he wants to see you alive again, he has to surrender his seat on the board by midnight.
Midnight.
How long did they have? Looking through the narrow gap between the front cab and the cargo area, Liya watched the digital dashboard clock glow a harsh amber: 11:04 PM.
They had less than an hour. And Adrian was back at the estate, fighting off a tactical strike team with half his guards compromised.
"Where are you taking me?" Liya demanded, her voice cutting through the hum of the engine.
The guard on the right laughed, a dry, grating sound. "Quiet, sweetheart. You’re just the delivery note. The boss wants to make sure Adrian reads it clearly."
The van slowed down, tires crunching over loose gravel before coming to a complete halt. The engine idled for a moment, then cut out. The side door slid open with a metallic screech, letting in the damp, freezing air of the Virginia woods.
Instead of a warehouse or a safehouse, Liya was hauled out into a clearing surrounded by dense pine trees. In the center sat an old, abandoned hunting lodge, its windows dark and boarded up.
A lone figure stood beneath the overhang of the porch, smoking a cigarette that glowed a bright ember in the dark.
As the guards dragged Liya toward the steps, the figure turned. It wasn't Vincent. It was a woman with sharp, angular features, wearing an immaculate Burberry trench coat that looked entirely out of place in the mud. She had ice-blonde hair pinned back into a severe chignon and eyes that studied Liya like an entomologist inspecting an unusual specimen.
"So," the woman said, her voice smooth, cutting, and entirely devoid of warmth. "This is the waitress who managed to stop a multi-million-dollar deal and start a civil war in a single evening."
Liya lifted her chin, refusing to let her knees buckle despite the cold. "Who are you?"
The woman took a slow drag of her cigarette, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke into the rain. "Elena Moretti. Vincent’s sister. And the person who is going to teach my nephew what happens when you let sentimentality cloud a bloodline."
Elena stepped closer, her heels clicking on the rotting wood of the porch. She reached out with a gloved finger and tilted Liya’s chin upward.
"You think you're special, don't you?" Elena whispered, her eyes narrowing. "You think because he rescued you from a ballroom that you belong in our world? Let me enlighten you, child. Adrian doesn't save people. He collects penances. And tonight, his penance is you."
Before Liya could snap back a reply, Elena’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and a slow, triumphant smile spread across her painted lips.
"Speak of the devil," Elena murmured, holding the screen up so Liya could see the caller ID.
Adrian.
Elena hit speakerphone and pressed it against Liya's ear.
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"I know you have her, Elena," Adrian’s voice came through the speaker, tight, breathless, and carrying the unmistakable roar of an idling engine in the background. "Name your terms. But if a single hair on her head is touched, I won't just step down from the board—I will burn every asset the Moretti family owns to the ground."
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