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K issing my wife goodnight— chaste, soft, just enough to remind her I’m here —is all I can manage before the weight of what I have to do drags me away.

Because if I don’t pull myself free, I’ll forget everything.

Forget the stakes.

Forget the war I’m waging just to keep her safe.

But I can’t climb in after her.

Not when there’s work to do.

For her.

For us.

I slip quietly into my home office, the place where my mind sharpens into a weapon.

The setup is everything.

Multiple monitors, encrypted connections, the fastest internet I can throw at any problem.

It’s necessary.

Because while I’m a good employee on paper, I’m still what I’ve always been at my core.

A hacker. Obsessed, relentless, calculating.

First on my list— that photographer.

The man my wife’s mom is so fond of.

Javier DeSoto.

Older now, late fifties, if I’m guessing right.

I read it all.

Everything I can find about him in seconds.

His name once lit up the fashion world when he captured supermodel Esme in all her raw beauty.

The last shoot I found—Esme was pregnant, draped only in a bolt of green silk.

The pictures? Stunning. But I wondered how her husband let that happen.

From what I gathered, the couple still lived somewhere called Maccon City down the shore in New Jersey.

A rabbit hole I don’t have time to chase tonight.

DeSoto is a slave to his art.

Dedicated.

Single.

But not a danger to Lucy.

She’s not even on his radar until the Volkovs make a request for him to handle the shoot.

I growl.

Marat fucking Volkov should’ve warned me.

But I don’t have time to be pissed at my father-in-law.

Next, I dive back into El Tigre’s world.

He’s off the list.

No question.

That man’s obsession belongs to his own family, tangled up in some twisted version of loyalty.

But the real question that keeps gnawing at me is this. Who the hell is using that singer’s name to get close to my wife?

And then, like a goddamn thunderclap, it hits me.

Was he there this whole time? Right fucking in front of me.

Fuck.

Fury rattles through me. It’s so raw, it shakes me down to my very core— like an earthquake tearing through my chest.

The answer was right under my nose the entire time.

When I break into this fucking creep’s digital life— pull back the veil, trace the cracks and shadows that no one else even knows exist —I make one promise.

That son of a bitch is going to wish he never laid eyes on Lucy Cruz.

I’m coming for him.

And I’m not stopping at siphoning his assets into offshore accounts for his ex-wife and the kids he neglects— which I do, with fucking relish, sending an anonymous email to her with the account numbers and passwords.

Nope. Not done.

That’s just the beginning.

I’m sending evidence— all of it —to a local reporter with a reputation for ruthless exposes.

Someone I trust.

Someone I worked with before.

Someone who will bury this slime where no one forgets.

Photos, videos, transaction records—this asshole kept everything.

And I send it.

All the filthy truth.

Sex workers, many looking underage judging by the photos this sick fuck keeps locked away on his hard drive.

Bank records.

Videos.

Chat receipts.

I keep digging, hunting, clawing deeper.

And then, I find it.

The moment he first noticed her.

A clip from some online newspaper— young Lucy, barely nineteen, glowing at some gala with her parents.

His file on her is massive.

Really fucking massive.

But I force myself to be thorough.

Slow.

I open every image.

I watch every video.

I examine every fucking document.

Disgust bubbles up, scorching my insides.

Anger boils.

Rage ignites like gasoline.

Wrath consumes me.

So much wrath it burns through every vein.

This bastard has been stalking her every move for years. Fucking years.

He’s written her letters, detailing how beautiful she is, what he wants to do to her.

Motherfucker.

He’s got her schedule down to the second. All of it outlined in a spreadsheet with time stamps.

It’s such a fucking violation.

And it is thorough.

When she leaves that old apartment.

When she returns.

How long she sleeps.

What food she orders.

Who she dates.

He’s got every email, every social media DM logged—right up to the moment I started watching over her.

I should’ve been there sooner.

Should’ve protected her from the start.

But even I know this isn’t my fault.

I couldn’t protect her when I didn’t even know her.

But I am here now, and I won’t stop.

Not until every threat is crushed.

Not until she is safe.

Not until this sonofabitch is cold and bloated, torn apart by the motherfucking sharks I plan to feed him to.

Piece by fucking piece.

I snatch up my phone, thumb sliding over the screen with brutal purpose.

“Boss?” Onyx answers, voice steady, but alert.

“Get the team.” My tone leaves no room for argument.

“Yes, sir.”

I hang up, anticipation burning in my gut.

But then, all my plans go up in flames.

The motherfucker isn’t home.

He isn’t anywhere.

I spend the entire night tearing through data, hunting every lead, stalking every digital shadow.

Cross-checking security cams, scouring surveillance grids, interrogating contacts.

But he’s a ghost.

A shadow slipping through cracks I thought were sealed tight.

Frustration twists into rage.

But the hunt? It’s only just begun.

And I’ll find him.

No matter how long it takes.

No matter where he hides.