Seven months ago, the strategy was designed—and put into motion.
The first step: Rhett assumed a new identity, one tailored to the shadows of the criminal world—a place he'd studied, infiltrated and outmaneuvered before.
He embedded himself within the ranks of a notorious drug lord's operation, operating under him while pursuing his true objective. The disguise held.
The scrutiny was minimal, the system lax enough to move quietly. But time dragged like a slow knife—each day without a trace of her carved deeper than the last.
Still, in the underworld, no operation exists in isolation. The networks are vast but interconnected—a living, breathing organism with arteries that pulse information if you know where to cut. So he followed the flow. From low-level syndicates to major cartels, he mapped it all, compiling patterns and whispers until the picture sharpened.
That's when he found it.
Raka's lair.
The center of the web.
Little was known of Raka—almost nothing in recent years.
But wolves always leave a trail. All animals do.
And Raka was no exception.
The elusive leader of the Lavallière Cartel, he was linked to drug trafficking, political assassinations, bombings—and all the while, operated under the guise of legitimacy.
He legally owned a string of casinos, fronted several weapons manufacturing firms, and had built an empire of contradictions: part businessman, part ghost.
His closest confidants were Jacob Lewis and Lukas Ito—men with reputations nearly as brutal as Raka.
Then came word of a high-stakes baccarat game hosted by Raka himself. Not an open event—invitations were delivered like veiled threats, sent only to a chosen few.
The drug lord Rhett was embedded under received one.
Unfortunately, his interest was minimal.
But Rhett's wasn't.
His sights were already locked on Nicholas Green—a name hidden in the fine print, but not from him.
For the past six months, Nicholas Green had been a regular at Casino River Reign—one of Raka's establishments in Las Vegas, and the exact location where the annual baccarat game was set to unfold.
It made Green the perfect bait to hook the big fish.
A compulsive gambler, Nicholas clung to baccarat like it was salvation.
To him, this invite-only tournament wasn't just a game—it was his shot at redemption, fortune, and recognition.
Raka's annual high-stakes event had a reputation: it drew in the desperate and the dangerous.
The more antsy the gambler, the higher the profit—and Raka profited massively.
After Nicholas was abducted, Rhett ensured he was well taken care of—with duct tape and rope.
Then, Rhett assumed his identity. The disguise was seamless.
And just as expected—the big fish took the bait.
After the game of baccarat, Rhett finally shook hands with Raka.
What Raka didn't notice was the transparent GPS tracker discreetly affixed to the inside sleeve of his dinner jacket—a prototype designed to merge seamlessly with fabric, nearly invisible to the naked eye.
From that moment on, Raka was monitored.
The trail began at the airport.
A 70 mph drive over fifteen minutes, across twenty miles of road and sprawling acres of vineyard led to a private estate—one registered under a shell corporation, but unmistakably owned by Raka.
Now, a grey Bentley idles at the edge of that world, its tires resting on a narrow pavement carved through the woods.
The engine hums low, but steady.
Then it stops.
At the towering iron gate, one of four armed guards steps forward, eyes scanning, weapon slung.
The guard lowers himself and knocks on the tinted window.
Inside the Bentley, Rhett rolls it down.
The guard's brows lifts in recognition—then he dips his head in a silent apology and steps back.
The car eases forward through the gates. Moments later, a second checkpoint appears, identical in design, with the same number of armed guards.
The pattern repeats. No questions. No delay. The gates opens.
Now, surrounded by ripened autumn woods, a white manor emergs ahead—the kind of estate that whispers old money, buried secrets, and power passed through bloodlines.
Another step closer.
He is in Finland now—the country Raka had chosen to disappear into.
The Bentley comes to a stop in a gravel-lined parking lot.
Rhett rolls down the window of the Bentley, now parked in the gravel lot.
He feels it in the air.
A tug in his chest.
Pulling him in like the ocean's currents, deepening with each passing second—a force, a current of gyre that drags him toward a part of him.
To someone, who possesses the whole of him.
His eyes scan the scene.
A lone guard leans against a car, scrolling through his phone, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette.
Rhett calls to him. The man looks up, puzzled, but obliges and walks toward the Bentley.
"Get in the car," Rhett orders, his voice flat.
The guard hesitates, a momentary flicker of confusion, but he obeys—compelled.
Shortly after, Rhett switches into the guard's uniform: a black suit jacket, a black shirt.
With the help of his team, Rhett finally cracks Raka's AI-powered surveillance system.
Each moment of the hack was precise, orchestrated from the shadows, but they still can't get a clear image of Raka's whereabouts. The cameras were either turned off or rerouted, as if the system itself is aware of their breach.
Frustration gnaws at Rhett's patience, but he keeps his focus sharp. His agents are guiding him through the encrypted data, filtering the feeds, but the location of Raka remained elusive. His eyes flicks from screen to screen on the laptop resting on his lap, searching for any hint, any clue.
Then, something unexpected catches his ear.
Rhett pauses.
A low tension surges through him, his instincts sharpening. The sound doesn't belong here. It isn't just static.
He mutes the screen and listens intently. The laughter grows clearer.
The noise is coming from outside—the backyard garden.
Rhett doesn't hesitate.
He steps out of the Bentley, armed—and with the mask on.
He ocks the Bentley with a casual flick of the key, the tinted windows sealing off the view.
Inside, the guard's body lies slumped, lifeless—a brief but necessary sacrifice.
His boots press silently against the floor as he makes his way toward the rear of the estate, following the faint sound of the children's laughter.
He hears the voices clearer now, the giggling growing louder as he reaches the corner of the mansion.
The audio feed from his earpiece is active, but Rhett barely acknowledges the communication.
He taps into his team, speaking in clipped code.
"Target location, you're clear. Keep monitoring." His voice is steady, his eyes scanning the yard ahead.
The giggling voices of children lead Rhett to the garden in the backyard.
He stands under the shade of a large tree at a distance, hidden in the shadows.
There, he sees Raka with two children.
They seem around the same age. One is a boy, and the other is a girl.
A large pink play kitchen takes up the space by the fountain in the middle of the garden.
The children are playing around the play kitchen, their laughter filling the air.
But when Rhett hears them call Raka their father, his grip on the semi-automatic rifle tightens. A pulse of raw rage shoots through him, quick and sharp.
It's not fair.
Raka is laughing. He is living.
He doesn't deserve this—doesn't deserve happiness.
Not after what he's done to him. To Neva.
It isn't fair. After everything. After all the pain he's caused. He doesn't deserve any of this.
Rhett lifts the gun, his finger hovering over the trigger.
His aim is steady.
But then—
He grits his teeth and lowers the gun.
No matter how much he hates him, he cannot.
For corpses do not speak.
Not yet.
"Mumma!" A voice calls out.
The girl waves at someone across from her.
Rhett follows her gaze, but from where he stands, his view is obstructed by the bushes of flowers and the tree.
He shifts slightly to get a better angle.
And there, under the ripened, rustling leaves of an oak tree, he sees a woman on a swing.
She's waving back at the girl.
A gasp—so faint.
His heart skips a beat.
And time seems to stop.
Just like that autumn evening when their eyes first met.
Was it years ago? Or was it just days ago?
He can't move. He can't tear his eyes away from her.
All his senses freeze.
And like every time, every moment with her, everything fades away.
All that remains is his erratic, beating hear—and Neva.
His Angel.
His beloved wife.
He stands there for what feels like an eternity, an unknown span of time lost in a trance.
He doesn't know if he's blinking, or breathing anymore.
Afraid she might vanish, like she does, everytime.
Is it another illusion?
A beautiful dream, one he will be tragically woken from at any moment?
No. He sees her there. In peace.
Reading, as she always loved.
Resting on the cushioned swing, leaning gently against the backrest.
Her legs dangle, swaying lightly with the rhythm of the swing.
She hasn't changed. She hasn't aged. Always beautiful.
And, for a moment, he's in heaven.
Her long, mermaid-like hair, smooth strands dancing softly with the wind, catches the sun's rays from the gaps in the tree above, glimmering like golden threads.
She's adorned in a long-sleeved white couquette dress, the sweetheart neckline embracing her bosom, just like she always loved.
As angelic as he remembers.
Then, suddenly, the squeals of the children breaks him from the chasm.
And just as quickly, the weight of reality crashes down on him.
The gravity of the earth pulls him, dragging him toward its core, burning him with the agonizing realization.
Mumma?
His pupils constrict. His legs weaken.
Then panic surges through him.
He feels light-headed as he turns to look at Neva.
He sees her relaxed, serene.
Not a trace of stress in her features.
His mouth shrivels up. His stomach twists.
Immediately, he regrets expecting her face to contort in agony.
He hoped to see some sign of trauma, something—anything—to justify the suffocating weight in his chest.
His mind becomes a blank canvas.
A white buzz hums in his ears.
Waiting...
Waiting...
For a stroke of color.
A conclusion.
A reason that will soothe this sharp ache, this agony in his chest.
And then, a pull. A tug.
The world falls silent.
Every wonder is quiet.
Everything feels dreamlike.
The birds chirp softly in the golden hush of evening.
The air is warm, touched by the rustle of leaves and the scent of sweet flowers.
He takes a step—slow, uncertain.
Butterflies drift by, orange leaves swirling around him on the breeze, like a quiet procession.
She pulls him toward her—with an invisible string tied deep to his soul.
His mask and gun lie forgotten.
Discarded.
Buried beneath the gathering autumn leaves.
Achingly slow, he takes a step toward her.
And another.
A connection—two souls drawn into one as their eyes fasten.
She just stares at him, her gaze swirling with elusive, unreadable emotion.
His legs give out, and he drops to his knees before her.
Her warm palm grazes his cheek.
His hands rise, covering hers as if afraid she might vanish.
Tears trace quiet lines down his face.
"Angel," he breathes.
And his heart aches in pleasure as she hums in response—her voice a lullaby, a music to his heart.
But suddenly, almost frightened, she pulls her hand away—as if his coldness has burned her.
She rises to her feet, a frown creasing her brow as she looks down at him.
"Who are you?"
And in that moment, his heart drops.
Brain connecting dots...
Numbness.
No, he doesn't want to believe it.
This had to be a dream—a beautiful illusion veiled in a nightmare.
Or worse…
Was she the one trapped in iillusion?