The moment Vincent stepped through the front doors of the mansion, something felt off.
The silence wasn't the usual kind. It was weighted. Too still. Too neat.
He paused in the foyer, eyes narrowing as he scanned the hall. The maids were gone. Lily wasn't in sight. The air had a strange chill to it, the type that clung to the back of the neck and whispered that something had shifted.
He loosened the top button of his shirt, rolled his sleeves higher.
"Adriel," he called.
His brother appeared from the hallway, jaw clenched.
"She's not here," Adriel said flatly.
Vincent's fingers twitched.
"What do you mean, not here?"
"Her room was locked. Now it's not. No one saw her leave, and Lily swears she was just upstairs not long ago."
Vincent's eyes swept the room, dissecting everything in silence. Every breath that wasn't taken. Every sound that didn't exist.
He strode toward the stairs.
Her room door was open, the bed untouched. Her knife—gone. A window cracked.
The corner of his mouth tightened.
"She left on foot," he muttered.
He stood there a moment longer, then turned to Adriel. "Track her phone. Crosscheck any outbound calls. Especially to Riley."
Adriel nodded once, disappearing again.
Vincent stared out the window, hand gripping the sill so tightly the wood creaked. His jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.
She had left.
Worse—she had run.
It wasn't fear that gripped him.
It was the knowledge that someone, somewhere, had made her think she had to.
That made this personal.
He moved like a shadow through the house until he reached his office, unlocking the drawer beneath his desk. He pulled out a secure line, dialed a number.
"Get eyes on Riley Wilder. Now. I want every move she makes tracked, every call tapped. If Blossom went to her, she's involved."
He ended the call without waiting.
Within five minutes, Adriel returned.
"She called Riley. Voice logs confirm it. Riley sent an address—East district."
Vincent didn't blink.
"Get the car."
But just as Adriel turned, Vincent's burner buzzed.
No number.
Just a file.
He opened it.
And froze.
For a solid ten seconds, Vincent didn't move. Not even a blink.
The screen glared back at him, cruelly playing a loop of Blossom. Tied. Bleeding. Gagged.
Rion's voice in the background.
Mocking.
Vincent ended the video.
Then he moved.
Quick. Controlled. Deadly.
"Gear up," he said to Adriel, voice like black steel. "Rion just started a war."
No theatrics.
No roar.
Just the promise of violence in the way his coat snapped over his shoulders and his pistol clicked into place.
He would find her.
And he would make sure Rion never touched another living thing again.
Not with hands.
Not with eyes.
Not even with breath.
Because Vincent Marino didn't beg.
He burned.
---
But Rion didn't make it easy. He was erasing his footprints faster than they could follow.
Each address they tracked was a ghost site—used, emptied, scrubbed. Blood spatters. Burned rope. Empty syringes. Nothing fresh. Nothing useful.
Three nights passed. No sleep. No breaks.
Vincent sat in the Valkry Arms surveillance hub, monitors casting a cold light over his face. His empire's crown jewel—his weapons company—was now under threat. Rion's message was becoming clear:
Take the girl. Then take the guns.
Two attacks on Valkry's transport lines in forty-eight hours. The shipments were intact—but barely. Mercenaries. Clean tactics. Rion's people.
Vincent studied the logistics screen. He memorized every truck route, every warehouse rotation. He watched the playback of Rion's assaults again and again.
He wasn't just lashing out.
He was planning to hit something bigger.
"He wants Valkry," Vincent muttered.
Adriel looked over from across the table. "Why now?"
"Because Blossom's the leverage," Vincent said coldly. "He thinks I'll bleed trying to find her. He's not wrong. But he underestimated how much I'm willing to spill."
His knuckles cracked.
He turned to the map, tapped three zones.
"These warehouses—all unprotected. If he's dumb enough to go for one, we catch him."
"And Blossom?"
Vincent's stare didn't waver.
"He'll bring her. He wants me to chase him. So I will. But on my terms."
He turned to the screen again, the image of her face—bloodied but unbroken—etched behind his eyes.
"And when I get her back," he said quietly, "this city won't forget what I did to get her."
The next move would be his.
And it would be devastating.