Page 46 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

TWENTY

THE TRUTH IN HER HANDS

JAKOB

The Aston Martin eats Manhattan streets, Chanel beside me, the space between us electric with shared terror.

Not touching. Not speaking.

My hand shifts gears with mechanical precision while my mind calculates kill points, exit strategies, contingencies that end with Jaden safe and Latanya broken.

"Faster," Chanel whispers, the first word since we left the museum.

I push the engine harder, threading through traffic with cold precision. Yellow lights become suggestions. Horns blare in our wake. I drive like the predator I've always been beneath bespoke suits and boardroom smiles.

My phone rings through the car system. Tyson.

"You're on speaker," I say, voice stripped to function. "Chanel's with me."

"We've started the trace on Latanya Davis," Tyson says, all business. "I need to know what devices to target."

Chanel answers immediately, mind sharp despite the fear radiating from her skin. "Her personal iPhone. MacBook Pro for school planning. iPad. And—" her voice catches, steadies "—she has keys to my apartment. For emergencies."

I glance at her, the implication landing cold. "How long?"

"Three years." Her eyes meet mine, realization dawning. "Since right after the divorce."

Something clicks—a puzzle piece I should have seen sooner. I press harder on the accelerator.

"Tyson, pull everything. Not just today's movements. Go back months. Years if you can. Focus on patterns around Chanel's schedule and Jaden's activities."

"Already on it." Keys click in the background. "Where are you headed?"

"Her brownstone in Fort Greene first." Chanel leans forward, fingers white against the dashboard. "If she's not there, check my apartment. She has access to both."

"Sending Collins to the apartment as backup," Tyson says. "I'll call when I have the first data sweep."

The call ends. Silence rushes back, heavy with possibilities too dark to voice. Chanel stares ahead, profile carved from marble—beautiful, unyielding, terrified beneath perfect composure.

"I never saw it," she says finally, voice barely above the engine. "Four years, Jakob. She was with me through everything. The divorce. The nights I couldn't breathe. Jaden's nightmares. All of it."

I don't offer empty reassurance. Don't say what we both know is meaningless—that she couldn't have known, that obsession wears perfect disguises. Instead, I give her the only thing that matters.

"We'll get him back."

My phone rings again. I answer before the first ring completes.

"First ping on her devices," Tyson says. "Her phone's at her residence in Fort Greene. Been there approximately forty-three minutes."

"Security feed?" I ask, already recalculating approach vectors.

"Working on it. But there's something else." His voice drops. "Partial access to her cloud backup. There's a folder. Encrypted, but the file names are visible."

The car fills with the sound of his typing, the soft clicks somehow ominous against the engine's growl.

"What kind of files?" Chanel asks.

"Photos. Thousands of them. Dating back four years. File names are dates." A pause. "Most include 'C' or 'J' in the naming convention."

Chanel's breath hitches. I glance at her, catch the exact moment understanding blooms across her face—horror and betrayal crystallizing into certainty.

"She's been tracking us," she says. The words fall like stones. "For years."

"There's more," Tyson continues. "Calendar entries. Daily logs. Something labeled 'contingencies ' that I'm still trying to decrypt."

I take the next corner too sharply, tires protesting. "Financial records?"

"Working on it. Her spending patterns changed eight months ago. Regular withdrawals, two thousand dollars monthly. Cash."

The implications stack like bodies. Eight months—when Chanel and I first reconnected professionally. When the audit began. When whatever fragile hope Latanya harbored started to fracture.

"How did I miss this?" Chanel's voice holds no self-pity, just clinical assessment of a threat incorrectly gauged.

"Because she was perfect," I say, the truth simple and brutal. "She made herself exactly what you needed. When you needed it."

"Incoming data from her laptop," Tyson interrupts. "Searches on Jakob Giannetti going back years. Detailed tracking of your movements, business dealings, relationships."

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Personal files?"

"Journal entries. Still decrypting. But the fragments I'm seeing—" He hesitates, unusual for a man who's delivered the worst news imaginable without blinking. "They're fixated on Chanel. Possessive. Detailed plans for a future together. With Jaden."

Without me.

The words hang unspoken. Unnecessary.

Chanel's spine straightens, something shifting in her posture. The initial shock receding, replaced by something colder. More focused. The warrior beneath the auditor emerging.

"Tell me about today," she says, voice steady. "What triggered this?"

Tyson's typing accelerates. "Pulling location data. Her phone was at your apartment yesterday, then at the school this morning for pickup. I'll have security camera footage shortly, but—wait."

The pause stretches too long.

"What?" I demand.

"Bank alerts just came through. She emptied her accounts three days ago. All of them. And there's a property outside Baltimore purchased six months ago. Cash transaction, shell company, but I'm seeing utility connections in her name."

The pattern clarifies, horrifyingly complete. This wasn't impulse. Wasn't triggered by yesterday's conversation. This was the activation of a long-constructed plan—waiting only for the right moment.

"She was always going to take him," Chanel says, the realization flat and terrible. "She just moved up the timeline when she realized I might go back to you."

I don't correct the assumption about us reconciling. Truth is a luxury we can't afford until Jaden is safe.

"We're five minutes out," I say to Tyson. "Keep digging. And Tyson?—"

"I know." His voice drops lower. "Full containment protocol."

The call ends as we turn onto Latanya's street. I park half a block away, engine idling. The brownstone sits mid-row, lights visible through front windows. Nothing visibly wrong. Nothing screaming danger.

Everything screaming trap.

"Her car's there," Chanel notes, eyes fixed on the silver Audi parked directly in front. "But that doesn't mean?—"

My phone vibrates. Text from Tyson: Security cam from school confirmed she picked up Jaden. He went willingly. No signs of distress.

I show Chanel the screen. Her fingers brush mine as she takes the phone—the first contact since the museum. The touch anchors me, pulls me back from the edge where calculation blurs into bloodlust.

"Of course he went willingly," she says, voice hollow. "He's known her his whole life."

Another text arrives: GPS confirms her phone in the house. No movement for 40+ minutes. Brownstone has rear exit to alley. No security feeds available.

I assess the building, calculating entry points, blind spots, potential witnesses.

The strategic part of my brain—the one that built Novare, that dismantled Megan—processes the physical architecture of threat while another part registers Chanel's breathing beside me.

Too measured. Too controlled. A woman holding herself together through sheer force of will.

"I'm going in," I say, already reaching for the door handle.

Her hand catches my arm, grip surprising in its strength. "No."

I turn, meet her eyes—dark with fear but steady with purpose.

"Let me go in first."

Every instinct rebels against the suggestion. Every cell demands action, demands I become the shield between danger and what's mine. "Absolutely not."

"Jakob." My name in her mouth stops me. Not soft. Not pleading. Certain. "She took him because of us. Because she thinks I chose you. If you go in?—"

"She's dangerous, Chanel." The words scrape my throat. "This isn't a negotiation with RSV. This is someone who's been planning to take our son for years."

"I know exactly what she is." Something shifts in Chanel's expression—grief hardening into resolve. "That's why it has to be me. She wants me. Has always wanted me. Jaden is..." She swallows. "A way to keep me. Not his target."

Logic wars with protective rage. The tactical assessment is sound—Latanya's obsession centers on Chanel, not Jaden. His safety likely depends on maintaining that fixation. But the husband, the father in me recoils from sending her toward danger alone.

"I'll be right behind you," I say finally. Not a request.

"No." Her voice drops lower. "You'll be outside until I signal. If she sees you, if she thinks this is some coordinated attack?—"

"If she touches him—" The threat rises unbidden, muscles tensing with violent intention.

"I know." Her hand slides from my arm, voice steady.

"No." I catch her gaze, let her see what I've kept carefully contained. "You don't. I'll kill her."

Not hyperbole. Not exaggeration. Simple, cold fact. If Latanya Davis has harmed one hair on our son's head, I will end her with the same methodical precision I've applied to corporate enemies—without hesitation, without remorse.

Chanel holds my gaze. Not shock. Not horror at the monster she glimpses beneath my control. Understanding. Acceptance. Partnership in its darkest form.

"And I'll let you."

Four words that redefine us. That acknowledge the darkness we both carry—the lengths we'll go for what's ours. That tell me she sees me completely—the violence and the love, inseparable, one feeding the other.

She reaches for the door handle. I catch her wrist, not restraining, just connecting. Skin against skin. Pulse against pulse.

"Two minutes," I say. "Then I come in."

She nods once. No argument. No false bravery. Just calculation of necessary risk.

"If I can get him out quickly, I will. If not—" Her eyes meet mine. "Be ready."

The air between us thickens with unspoken truths. With the knowledge that four years of careful distance has collapsed in crisis. With the certainty that this moment will either break us completely or forge something unbreakable from our ruins.

"I love you," I say. Not manipulation. Not performance. Just truth she deserves before walking into danger.

Her eyes close briefly, pain and strength mingling in her expression. When she opens them, I see everything I've missed for four years—the woman who rebuilt herself from the wreckage I left. The woman who never needed my protection, only my truth.

"I know," she says. Then she's gone, door closing quietly behind her.

I watch her walk toward the brownstone—back straight, steps measured. No hesitation. No glances back for reassurance. Just focused purpose carrying her toward the woman who betrayed her. Toward our son. Toward the confrontation she's claiming as her right, not my responsibility.

My phone vibrates. Tyson again.

We got into her journal files. It's worse than we thought. She's convinced Jaden is somehow her child with Chanel. Has been constructing elaborate fantasy for years. Documented plans to ‘create space’ between you and Chanel. Detailed surveillance of your interactions.

I close the text, eyes never leaving Chanel as she climbs the brownstone steps. My hand slides to the gun holstered at my back—a precaution I've carried since Megan's first threat against my family. A promise of protection I've never needed to fulfill.

Until now.

Another text appears:

Security cams from street near school show her stopping at pharmacy two blocks from pickup. Purchased something with cash. Can't confirm what.

My blood chills. The tactical assessment shifts,. Not just emotional instability. Possible chemical threat. Possible intent to sedate.

I open the car door, decision made. The risk matrix no longer favors Chanel's approach. No longer supports my restraint.

Then I see her at the brownstone door. Not knocking. Not announcing herself. Withdrawing keys from her purse—Latanya's spare keys, the ones she'd trusted her friend with. The ones that represent years of calculated infiltration.

Chanel pauses, key in hand. Her shoulders rise and fall once—a single deep breath. Then she slips the key into the lock and turns it with quiet precision.

I stand frozen beside the car, tactical assessment warring with something deeper. Something harder to name.

Trust.

Not in Chanel's physical capability to subdue a threat—Latanya has four inches and twenty pounds on her. Not in her strategic approach, though her logic is sound.

Trust in her right to face this betrayal directly. In her capacity to protect what's hers without my intervention. In the fierce, unflinching strength I glimpsed when we presented to the board together—when she stood her ground without flinching, without needing me to defend her.

The door closes behind her. I count seconds, each one stretching like hours. My body vibrates with contained violence, with the need to move, to act, to destroy whatever threatens what's mine.

But I remain still. Because for the first time in our history, I see Chanel not as something to shield, but as an equal force. Not something to protect, but someone to stand with. Not a vulnerability, but a strength parallel to my own.

One-minute passes. My hand remains on the gun. My eyes never leave the door.

Trust doesn't mean abandoning vigilance. Doesn't mean relinquishing the capacity for necessary violence. It means allowing her the space to demonstrate her own power before I assert mine.

The lessons of four years learned too late.