Page 134 of Shadow Waltz
“That's where you're wrong,” I said, the knife sliding across her throat with deliberate slowness, opening vessels that would ensure she had minutes rather than hours to contemplate her mistakes. “Ash was worth everything. My empire, my power, my life—all of it was meaningless compared to what we built together.”
I watched the light fade from her eyes as blood pooled beneath the chair, as fifteen years of partnership and shared violence came to an end in a warehouse that smelled like gunpowder and betrayal. But there was no satisfaction in her death, no sense of justice served or accounts balanced.
There was only the hollow understanding that killing her wouldn't bring Ash back, wouldn't undo the damage her betrayal had caused, wouldn't restore what we'd lost when international task forces carried away the only person who'd ever made me feel like more than just another predator feeding on human misery.
“Sir,” Troy said from the doorway, having witnessed the execution with professional detachment that came from years of understanding that leadership required the willingness to make terrible choices. “We need to move. Now.”
I stood up from Carina's corpse, wiping blood from the knife with mechanical movements that spoke to muscle memory rather than conscious thought. Everything felt distant, muffled, like I was experiencing the world through several layers of thick glass that distorted sensation and emotion alike.
“Where?” I asked, though the question felt academic when everywhere we might go would be empty of the person who'd given location meaning.
“Safe house in Queens,” Troy replied, but his tone suggested he understood that safety was a relative concept when half the world's law enforcement agencies were coordinating our systematic destruction. “Mason's there with whatever intelligence we've been able to gather about where they might have taken him.”
The drive through Manhattan felt like traveling through a foreign country, familiar streets transformed into alien territory by the understanding that Ash was no longer somewhere within reach. Every building we passed might contain him, might be the place where federal agents were conducting whatever psychological torture they'd devised to break his resistance and turn him against me permanently.
The safe house in Queens was a study in controlled chaos, our remaining people moving with the kind of urgent competence that came from understanding that failure meant death or worse. But I could see the fear in their eyes, the recognition that losing Ash had cost me something essential, that the Prince they'd served for years was gone and what remained might not be capable of the strategic thinking required for our survival.
“Intelligence report,” I said, settling into the chair that offered the best view of both the monitors and the room's exits, though the precautions felt academic when my world had already ended.
Mason looked up from banks of computers with the kind of exhaustion that came from eighteen hours of trying to accomplish the impossible. “Limited success,” they admitted, voice carrying frustration at their inability to provide the answers I needed. “International task force, rotating safe houses, communications protocols that exceed anything we've encountered before.”
“Where is he?” I asked, the question coming out sharper than I'd intended.
“Unknown,” Mason replied, and the admission hit like a blade between ribs. “They're using diplomatic immunity and international cooperation to maintain operational security that we can't penetrate through normal channels.”
Normal channels. As if anything about this situation fell within the boundaries of normal, as if the systematic destruction of everything I'd built could be addressed through conventional intelligence gathering and strategic planning.
“Abnormal channels, then,” I said, though I wasn't sure what that meant when our enemies held every advantage except my willingness to sacrifice everything to get Ash back.
“Sir,” Troy said quietly, moving closer so his words wouldn't carry to the others, “we need to discuss operational priorities. The organization is hemorrhaging resources, federal pressure is increasing daily, and without clear leadership?—”
“Ash is the operational priority,” I cut him off, voice carrying the kind of authority that had built an empire and would destroy it if necessary. “Everything else is secondary. Everyone else is expendable.”
Troy nodded, but I could see calculation in his expression, the professional assessment of someone recognizing that their leader had moved beyond rational decision-making into territory where emotion trumped strategy and survival instincts.
“What about the others?” he asked carefully. “The people depending on organizational protection, the operations that require immediate attention, the alliances that need maintenance to prevent collapse?”
“Fuck the others,” I said, the words coming out flat and final. “Fuck the operations, fuck the alliances, fuck everything that doesn't involve getting him back.”
The silence that followed was heavy with implications that everyone in the room understood but no one was willing to voice. I was choosing Ash over everything else I'd ever built, prioritizing one person's welfare over the survival needs of dozens of others who'd trusted me to protect them.
But I didn't care. Couldn't care. The thought of Ash in federal custody, subjected to whatever psychological torture they'd devised to break his resistance, was like acid eating through everything that had once seemed important. Power, money, reputation—all of it was meaningless without him.
“Get me locations,” I said, standing and moving toward the weapons cache that would provide everything necessary for whatever came next. “Every federal safe house, every international facility, every black site they might use for high-value prisoners. I want targets, timelines, and assault plans for each one.”
“Sir,” Mason said carefully, “the resources required for that kind of comprehensive intelligence gathering would expose us to?—”
“I don't care about exposure,” I interrupted, selecting weapons with the methodical care of someone preparing for war. “I don't care about resources or operational security or any of thecareful planning that's kept us alive for fifteen years. I care about getting him back.”
I could feel the weight of everyone's attention, could see them processing the implications of what I was proposing. This wasn't strategic thinking or calculated risk assessment—this was emotional desperation driving me toward actions that would likely result in death or capture for everyone involved.
“What if he doesn't want to be rescued?” Troy asked quietly, voicing the fear that had been eating at me since the moment those helicopters disappeared into the darkness. “What if he's decided that federal protection is safer than staying with you?”
The question hit like a blade finding its mark, because it forced me to confront the possibility that Ash might choose safety over love, that the life we'd built together might seem less appealing than whatever normal existence federal agents were offering him.
“Then I'll accept his choice,” I said, though the words felt like swallowing broken glass. “But first I'm going to make sure it really is his choice, that he's not being coerced or manipulated or tortured into saying what they want to hear.”
The preparations took six hours, six hours of gathering intelligence and coordinating resources and planning operations that would either reunite me with the only person who'd ever mattered or end with both of us dead in federal custody. But it was time I couldn't afford to waste, because every hour that passed was another hour of whatever psychological torture they were subjecting him to.