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“Right now, every file in that folder is being duplicated to a secure whistleblower network, set to release if I don’t check in by 9:00 a.m. with a voice ID. You kill me, you burn. Your family burns. Everyone on that list goes down.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Then I lean in, slow and deliberate, my voice dropping—a low rasp of gravel and venom. If I could wrap my hands around his throat, crush the air right out of his lungs until his soul clawed for release, I would. God, I want to. But I can’t. Not without triggering consequences so big they’d bury me in them. So I hold it in. Teeth clenched. Fists tight. And let the threat simmer between every word I say.
“I don’t need you arrested, Dorsey. I need youneutralized.”
He flinches like I slapped him.
“I can’t touch you legally. But Halbridge can. And if he doesn’t? Someone else most definitely will. The choice is yours—exit strategy or obituary.”
He looks down at the files again. This time, there’s sweat on his brow.
“I suggest you run,” I say. “Because the next time I see you, I won’t bring a file. I’ll bring a bullet with your name on it.”
59
MAXINE
My phone rattles on the nightstand, the harsh buzz cutting through the silence without ceremony. It’s Tayana. Her voice rushes through the speaker — breathless, electric.
“Turn on the TV, Max.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.I’m heading your way now.”
I fumble for the remote, fingers shaky, stomach knotted. The screen flickers to life. And the world explodes.
The footage is already everywhere — split across news channels, blasting through social feeds, stamped on every headline like a brand no one can scrub off.
Ninety seconds. That’s all it takes. Faces I recognize. Faces I don’t. The city’s most powerful — judges, politicians, executives, cops — their names are rattled off, their crimes laid bare, their sick smiles frozen on screens they’ll never escape.
Human trafficking. The cost. The fallout. It’s all there in plain sight for the world to see. In black and white. Sordid deals inked in blood. The Aviary is unravelling slowly, thread by crooked thread.
My stomach lurches. I press a hand to my mouth as the anchors scramble to catch up, their words tumbling over each other —
This just in —
Leaked footage —
Explosive revelations —
Massive arrests underway —
It’s chaos. Pure, beautiful, brutal chaos.
My chest heaves, sharp and unsteady, as the headlines scream from the television.
Every breath feels like a blade — cutting, scraping, raw. There’s a hollow drumbeat in the back of my skull, this gnawing, rising panic.What if they name me?What if my face flashes across that screen, caught in the endless loop of survivors, of victims, of broken girls turned into a public spectacle?
But…no. Nothing. There isn’t any hint of my involvement. My anonymity holds like a miracle, an invisible shield in a world that loves to tear survivors open and parade their scars.
Mason. The Gatti brothers. They did this — quietly, ruthlessly, efficiently. When I was missing, they moved mountains to find me. They turned the city inside out, scorched every lead, every name, every whisper. But when they got me back? They didn’t let the world turn me into a headline. They didn’t let me become “the girl who survived.” They buried my story so deep only they and the ones I chose to tell would ever know.
I swallow hard, throat tight, eyes stinging. I owe them everything for that, because my future will be free from prying eyes and curious glances. And now, even as the cameras blaze and the reporters howl, my name is still missing from the headlines.
But his name? His presence?God, Saxon.I whisper his name into the quiet like it’s a lifeline.
Saxon. Saxon.He kept his word. He told me he’d make thempay. He promised me justice — brutal, bloody, merciless—and here we are.