Page 15 of At Your Mercy

I unfolded the old news clipping. The grainy print photo looked like it had survived worse decades than me. A small boy stared up from the page, his pale hair distinctive even in the low-quality ink, eyes so light they looked silver in black-and-white.

But what made me pause was the boy’s beautiful, carefree smile.

It was him—the same man I’d had on my lap, only smaller, softer, untouched by the things I’d already seen in his eyes. Happiness clung to that photo like an echo. I pressed my thumb hard into the corner of the clipping, as if that might steady me, ground me.

Andreas Hoff. Missing. Presumed dead.

So how the hell had he ended up here, two decades later, and in my sights—in my bed with a gun in his mouth?

I exhaled slowly, a sound closer to a growl than a breath. I’d been asking myself the same question over and over again. Why hadn’t I done what I always did when someone dangerous wandered too close?

And he was dangerous—as much as I’d teased him for his missteps, I’d seen it in his posture, the reflexes in his body, the calculation behind his stillness. I could tell he’d survived people better than me trying to end him. Men like him didn’t make it this long unless they’d learned to kill back.

And yet… I’d let him walk away. Twice now.

I told myself it was practicality, but that wasn’t it, and I knew it.

The truth was harder to swallow.

When I’d looked at him, I’d recognized something in his eyes—that same hollowness I saw in the mirror every morning, but worse. A lot worse, actually.

And now I had proof that his life had been soaked in blood from the very start. He was a child cut out of a massacre.

I stared at the photograph until my wine glass was empty.

I shouldn’t have felt anything about this. He was just another stray, not mine.

But that smile—God help me—that smile in the photo lodged itself in my chest, sharper than any blade.

The clipping stayed on the table long after my drink was gone. I forced myself to close the folder, but I didn’t put it away. Couldn’t.

Instead, I turned toward my laptop. If I were already this far down the rabbit hole, I might as well keep digging.

Elias Craig.

The search of his name yielded neatly packaged headlines: boardroom triumphs, acquisitions, charity galas, and ribbon cuttings. Every image was a polished smile, a tailored suit, and the kind of applause money buys.

But nothing else.

No wife, no children, no mistresses with lawsuits. No divorces, no messy custody battles, no drinking scandals. It was all too clean. No one that powerful lived without dirt.

Not unless they’d buried it so deep you’d need a backhoe to find it.

I leaned back, rubbing at my neck. The lack of personal history told me more than if there’d been a dozen affairs to pick through. He kept himself spotless on purpose and controlled the narrative.

So, what the hell was his connection to Ro?

My mind circled back to the massacre report. A missing boy. A vanished trail. Then, years later, an apartment in Elias Craig’s name with Ro living in it.

Had Elias taken him back then? Was he involved with what happened to Ro’s family? Or had Ro run away that night,survived over the years, and crossed paths with him later, two predators recognizing one another?

What exactly was Ro to him? A protégé? A weapon? A possession? A partner?

My fingers hovered over the keys, but for once, I didn’t know what I was searching for. My questions weren’t about Elias anymore.

Why did it matter?

I told myself it was because every unanswered question was a weakness in my perimeter, but the truth gnawed at the edge of my mind.