Page 6 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

five

Kade

" Y ou know why you're here. Make this easy on yourself and tell me who you've been talking to." Damian's voice, low and menacing, filters through the speakers.

The harsh fluorescent lights flicker over the interrogation room. I stand motionless behind the one-way mirror, eyes fixed on the scene.

Damian "Reaper" Wolfe, our resident interrogator and cleaner, looms over Thompson, a weaselly little shit who's been leaking sensitive information from Centurion Protection Group. But that's not what's got my blood running cold.

What does this rat know about Nightfall?

Nightfall Syndicate. My creation. Mine and Roman's. The organization we built from nothing, hidden behind the legitimate facade of CPG. And now Roman's missing, leaving me to deal with this clusterfuck alone.

My phone buzzes against my thigh. I fish it from my pocket and study the secure app's live feed showing the exterior of a Lower Pacific Heights apartment building.

There she is—Alina's heading inside. Still wearing that dress from earlier tonight. She moves with tired steps after our "chance" encounter at the restaurant, where I deliberately crossed her path before making my exit.

My lips curl as she unlocks her door, steps inside her unit, and pulls it closed behind her.

"That's right," I murmur, satisfaction warming my chest. "Lock up tight, sweetheart."

I tap the screen, switching camera angles to ensure she's settled in for the night. Everything proceeding exactly according to plan.

Focus on the immediate threat.

Thompson's gaze jumps around anxiously while Damian stalks the table like a wolf tracking prey. Moisture collects on his brow, and his fingers shaking uncontrollably.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," he stammers.

Damian slams his hand on the table. "Bullshit. We traced the data breach directly to you. Who are you working for?"

I lean closer to the glass, breath fogging the surface. Let it just be corporate espionage. Don't let him know about Nightfall.

"Start talking, or things are going to get very unpleasant for you." Damian's voice drops to a whisper that barely registers on the mic .

Thompson blanches, his complexion going ashen. He breaks faster than I expected.

"It was just a few details," he whimpers. "They offered so much money. I didn't think—"

"No, you didn't think," Damian cuts him off. "Who are 'they,' Thompson? Names. Now."

I stare blankly while Thompson falls apart, spilling his guts in a desperate rush of confession. Names. Dates. Locations. The rat squeals, throwing everyone under the bus to save his own skin.

My decision is made before he finishes his confession. No deliberation needed. My voice is calm, detached when I activate the comm.

"Reaper, clean this up. All of it. Thompson included."

Thompson's panicked screams pierce the air. The mirror conceals me, but I can see the terror etched on his face as the reality sinks in.

I don't wait for acknowledgment. My footsteps echo in the corridor as I make my way to the elevator. The steel doors slide open with a soft chime.

A muffled pop reaches my ears just as the elevator doors close. One less loose end. One less threat to everything we've built.

No remorse crosses my mind. Just a mental checkmark—problem solved, move to the next one. This is the world we operate in. Sentimentality gets people killed.

The elevator opens to the 40th floor. I stride down the hallway, my reflection following me along the polished surfaces. Roman's office looms ahead.

The panoramic views of San Francisco greet me as I enter. Beyond the Financial District towers, afternoon fog rolls in over the Golden Gate Bridge .

Where are you, Roman?

The thought nags at me, as it has for weeks. His disappearance leaves a void that I'm expected to fill. But the shoes of a man like Roman "Shadow" Thorne aren't easily stepped into.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, allowing myself a moment of vulnerability in the privacy of this office.

My mind drifts to other unfinished business—bright green eyes, challenging me even as I had her pinned to concrete. The journalist who walked into the wrong warehouse... or maybe the right one.

What does she know? And why can't I get her out of my head?

"Fuck," I mutter, rolling my shoulders. How many more Thompsons are out there, ready to sell us out for the right price?

My reflection stares back, blue eyes hardened by years in this ruthless world. I straighten up, squaring my shoulders. There's no time for self-doubt. CPG needs a leader, and until Roman resurfaces—if he resurfaces—that leader has to be me.

Leaning back in Roman's chair, I replay our last conversation in my head.

"Kade, we need to talk." Roman's voice was low, urgent. "It's about one of our clients."

I raised an eyebrow. "What's the problem?"

"I think they might be involved in human trafficking. And by extension, us too."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "Who?"

Roman shook his head, expression grim. "I can't say yet. I need to be sure."

"So what's the plan?" I asked, leaning forward.

"I've found financial discrepancies in their quarterly reports. Money disappearing into shell companies, then reappearing as 'consulting fees' for cargo ships that don't match any legitimate shipping records."

"That could be anything. Tax evasion, money laundering—"

"I found photos, Kade." Roman's voice dropped even lower. "Young women. Documentation with different names than their passports."

His knuckles whitened around his tumbler. "And it traces back to a warehouse near Pier 70. I'm going to do some digging on my own. Off the books."

I frowned. "Is that wise? We could use the team—"

"No," Roman cut me off. "The fewer people involved, the better. If this goes south..."

"I get it," I nodded, understanding the gravity. "How can I help?"

Roman's eyes met mine, conviction burning in them. "Keep things running smoothly here. I'll be in touch when I can."

That was the last time any of us saw him.

Damn it, Roman. Where the hell are you?

I stand up, pacing the length of the office. My gaze falls on a framed photo of the original team. Roman stands next to me, his arm around my shoulders, a rare smile on his face. Asher and Cole on either side of us.

Human trafficking.

The words echo in my mind. The thought that we might have unknowingly protected someone involved in something so heinous makes my jaw clench.

I press the intercom button. "Gather the team in Roman's office. Now."

My voice echoes through the building, summoning the primary team of Nightfall Syndicate. The unease gnawing at my gut reminds me of that warehouse—the one near Pier 70 where I encountered that woman. One of the last places Roman was investigating before he vanished.

The door opens, and I straighten up, watching as my team files in. Asher "Frost" Cross enters first, his dark brown eyes scanning the room with laser precision. His lean frame moves with quiet efficiency as he takes a spot near the window.

Cole "Blade" Tanaka follows, his features set in a thoughtful frown. He nods at me, settling into a relaxed stance against the wall.

"What's the situation, Ghost?" Cole's voice is low, measured.

I hold up a hand as the others arrive one by one: Damian, his hands clean but his eyes still cold from the interrogation; Jax "Nitro" Ryder, restlessly pacing; Remy "Saint" Vance, finding a spot near Cole; and finally Xander "Chaos" Holt, his powerful frame filling the doorway before he closes it behind him.

I look at each of them—my team, my family. The confession I'm about to make presses down on my heart like a concrete slab.

"We've got a situation," I begin, voice deliberate, each word weighted. "Roman's missing."

The reaction is immediate. Jax stops pacing. Asher's eyes narrow. Cole pushes off the wall.

"What do you mean, missing?" Cole's voice is sharp .

"He's been gone for three weeks. No contact, no trace."

"Why are we just hearing about this now?" Damian's voice is a low growl.

"Because officially, he's on his annual 'off-grid' vacation. But he was supposed to check in once a week through our secure channel. He's missed three check-ins."

Asher's eyes narrow. "And you kept this from us why?"

"Because Roman's contingency protocol was clear—investigate quietly first, full team mobilization only if there's confirmed trouble." I meet each of their gazes. "And because I hoped he'd resurface. But now we've got bigger problems."

"What kind of problems?" Xander asks, his deep voice rumbling through the room.

I take a deep breath. "Before he disappeared, Roman told me he suspected one of our clients might be involved in human trafficking."

The room goes deathly silent. Shock and anger ripple through my team.

"Who?" Remy's voice is tight with controlled fury.

I shake my head. "He didn't say. He wanted to be sure before he brought it to the team."

"And now he's gone," Asher says quietly, his sniper's eyes sharp with understanding.

"Our priority is locating Roman and exposing the facts about this client. We've got to move with precision. If this information leaks..."

"CPG goes down," Jax finishes.

"And Nightfall with it," Cole adds, his tactical mind already churning through strategies .

I look at each of them, these men I trust with my life. "I need your full focus on this. Whatever it takes, we find Roman, and we shut down this trafficking operation."

"Until we hear otherwise, I'm taking the lead." The words taste bitter. I don't want to believe the worst has happened, but we can't afford to be rudderless.

"Any leads on where he might be?" Jax asks.

"Roman was tracking unusual shipping containers coming through Pier 70. Manifests listing electronics that weighed far more than they should. Financial records showing payments to security personnel at times when no official shipments were scheduled."

"Why didn't he bring us in?" Remy asks, voice tight with concern.

"He wanted to keep it off the books. Protect us if things went south."

Damian steps forward. "The leak's been contained. Thompson was the only one compromised, as far as we can tell."

I nod at him, face impassive. One problem solved—permanently. "Good. But we need to stay vigilant. If Roman's suspicions are correct, we could be in deep shit."

"What's our next move?" Asher asks.

"We keep digging. Quietly. I want every scrap of intel on our high-profile clients. Anything that might point to what Roman was investigating."

The team nods, conviction replacing uncertainty.

"And Roman?" Jax asks.

I meet each of their gazes, jaw set. "We find him. Whatever it takes. "

I gesture toward the door. "Head down to the command center. See what we can pull from that warehouse near Pier 70."

My phone vibrates as the team files out. I hang back, pulling it from my pocket. The surveillance feed shows Alina exiting her apartment building.

Gone is the black dress from the restaurant, replaced by jeans and a dark hoodie, her hair tied back in a ponytail.

My eyes narrow.

She's on the move, dressed for another break-in.