Page 15 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Old-man Holt used to own the other half of the docks, though his operation was nowhere near as well-oiled as Jonathan’s.

After a string of betrayals and strategic deaths in the last couple of years, the docks are now under Cillian’s control.

It was never his intention or desire to handle the operations, but they basically fell into his lap.

After months of battling with the impact of the previous ownership’s loss, he reached a more peaceful stage. But in order to make this business thrive, he requires experience he doesn’t have.

Two hours or so later, Cillian and Jonathan strike a deal—a silent partnership that benefits them both. Morrigan’s brother gets experienced support, a few profitable clients transferred to him, and more importantly, The Ghost’s endorsement.

“He seems like a good kid,” Jonathan says as he watches Cillian leave Midnight.

“He’s proven himself to us.”

“To his sister too, I hear.”

I nod in acknowledgment. Morrigan was an island inside her own family for so long.

A pawn in her father’s master plan, until she struck a deal with Vincent.

We didn’t know Cillian was working in the background until the moment was just right, and he helped get her out and take down everyone involved. Their own parents included.

“Thank you for hearing him out and taking him on,” I say to him.

“It’s for my benefit too. I waited years to have a decent neighbor. Having the opportunity to groom him is an added bonus. I get to shape him to my liking. Plus, he sounds like a decent man, unlike his late father.”

“I’m glad it worked out for you.”

“Now it’s time for me to go. I have a mole to hunt down.” He rises, gently spreading his arms for me to hug him once more. “I’ll see you soon, my boy. Good luck with your own problem. ”

I swallow a rumbling grunt as that last word brings forth the mental image I just about managed to bury in the last hour or so.

I briefly wrap my arms around Jonathan. Such an awkward, unnatural interaction.

I understand its significance at a social level, but I feel only absence in the hollowness beneath my ribs that probably houses one’s soul. I do it for Jonathan either way.

As he heads toward the exit, a cramping tightness swells through my hands, heating its way up my arms. And just like that, Scarlet’s dark eyes pierce through the back of my mind once again.

This is getting ridiculous.

No matter what I do, she still finds her way back in. This should have been a clean, cutthroat resolution to a problem that has dragged on far too long.

I make my way toward the back entrance, since even Midnight, my sanctuary away from home, doesn’t seem to be able to fix me.

Five long steps later and the reinforced back door stares back at me. Only, my hand hovers mid-air in front of the keypad as a frozen breath lodges behind my sternum.

Apprehension cuts up my spine, excruciatingly slow as it crests over each vertebra.

My gaze turns toward the silent disturbance glimmering under the dim light in the corner of my eye.

Before I change direction, I pause, holding my breath to listen for motion as I count ten of my heartbeats. Nothing.

Spinning on my heels, I rush toward the office door and stop a pace away from the silver object that caught my eye. Ringing fills my ears as all scenarios rush through my mind, and I wonder if I’ll be lucky enough for this to be a simple object that fell out of one of my staff’s pockets.

Only, as I squat down and get a better view of the shiny, grooved cylinder, I realize that the reality is so much more dire; it’s another fucking puzzle box. Not only is it in my speakeasy that requires a membership and password to get into, but it’s also in a secure fucking area.

Right in front of my goddamn office!

This. Is. War.

On a sharp breath, I grab the offending object and slam my way into the office. Fire and brimstone course through my veins with a vengeance that threatens to demolish this building around me.

They were here . . . in my motherfucking space. My goddamn sanctuary.

The desks shake as I drop into the chair and turn toward all my screens, angrily punching keys to get the hallway cameras up.

“This can’t be...” I whisper to myself, strain tugging between my brows as my fingers fly over the keyboard, bringing more and more cameras up from all around the speakeasy.

But the result repeats itself. Over and over.

Until the air refuses to find its way back into my lungs and the blood in my veins reaches a threatening temperature.

They’re wiped. Every single motherfucking camera in this joint is wiped clean for today.

I want to ask myself how it’s possible, because I cannot fucking fathom who would have the guts to pull something like this.

To mess with The Sanctum in our own fucking house.

But I know exactly how it was done. I just didn’t think someone in this city who’s not under my wing would be this good at coding.

Because they had to dig deep into my network and bypass so many walls, time would have been a problem. Which means they didn’t do it here.

Somehow, someone hacked into this network remotely, then broke in.

My heartbeats run rampant behind my ribs, so loud I hear them in my ears.

My stomach hollows, and blinding pressure presses against my temples.

None of these visceral sensations stops there.

With gritted teeth and curling fists, I realize that what I’m feeling is fury .

Blood-red fury rushing like violent river rapids.

I’ve experienced this before, but never like this. Never so strong.

My first thought is her —Scarlet.

Who the fuck else would dare mess with me? With my Sanctum!

No one is stupid enough.

Or maybe you just want it to be her.

“Fuck the puzzle box.” I’m going after her.

Grabbing my keys, I shove off the chair and rush straight out the office door.

I’m about to walk into the parking lot when I realize the dark-haired kitten is clouding my judgment, and I’m already making mistakes.

I spin on my heels, and with determined steps I’m urging to move calmly as I walk back into the bustling speakeasy, I signal a waitress to follow me as I head behind the bar toward the bartender on duty.

“Did you see a solo person here today?” I ask them.

“Several,” the waitress answers.

“Yes,” the bartender agrees.

“Any of them suspicious? Any of them disappeared out of your sight and went toward the back door?”

“I didn’t notice anything,” the bartender explains, “but there were a few occasions when I was busy with customers and wasn’t able to watch the door.”

Pushing back a sigh, I try to rationalize with myself that killing him would be pointless since I can’t blame him for serving our customers and tending the bar.

I turn my attention to the waitress, noting how tense she is as she fumbles with her hands.

“I haven’t seen anything either. But I’ll ask Heather, the other waitress.”

“What about a woman on her own?” I ask them both.

This time they exchange looks for a moment. Their expressions aren’t of knowing, but slight confusion and a touch of curiosity.

“Only Mrs. Reinhardt,” the bartender says, but I doubt the former beauty-queen heiress in her late fifties is who I’m looking for.

“I served a blonde woman. Long, luscious waves. She looked to be in her forties, maybe.”

Scarlet could have been wearing a wig, but no way she looks to be in her forties. Late twenties, at most, with soft, glowing skin, far too perfect to the touch.

Christ’s sake!

“Okay. Go through all memberships scanned in the last four hours. Pinpoint the solo orders you remember, and text me those names.” We don’t use actual payments here.

Our customers simply scan their membership card, and the money gets pulled out of the card or bank account they have on file.

This will come in handy. “Do your best to identify all of them.” I turn to leave, throwing them a knowing look over my shoulder.

Their widening eyes suggest they understand the importance of this.

And it is so fucking important. Because if I find out that wretched minx had anything to do with this, sinking my teeth into her will be so much sweeter.

If it wasn’t her...Well, that’s an even bigger problem, because I have no idea who it could be.