Page 49 of One Rule

“What does that mean, Lionel?” My voice cracks and tears still fall from my eyes, but I don’t wipe them away. Instead, I’m focusing on that phrase. How three different people have said the same thing in such a short span of time? What am I missing here?It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.How the hell will any of this ever be okay? “Explain yourself because I cannot handle any more surprises. I’m a mess.”

“I can’t explain ityet, but I do need a favor in the meantime.”

“A favor? Are you kidding me?” An incredulous huff leaves me and so does the fight, I take the seat beside his bed while he grips my hand. “Unless it’s food, water, or to pick up Beatrice to come take care of you…”

“You’d say no to me after just waking up?” Lionel’s trying to soften me up by teasing me, but I’m not buying it. None of it.How long was he actually awake before they called me?He’s too refreshed and not a single hint of drowsiness in him. “That’s not very nice of you.”

“I’m never nice according to you.” My eyes narrow at him. “Now, are you going to continue hiding things from me?” Instead of answering my question, he points toward a manila envelope I hadn’t paid attention to sitting atop a rolling table against the opposite wall. It’s nondescript. No real reason to draw the eye in a situation like this, but now that I’ve seen it, it’s like a beacon. “What’s that?”

“I’m assuming you’ve already seen Thiago and Luna?”

My head snaps back to him.Something is definitely wrong here.“How the hell do you know that?”

“Because I need your help, Lili. So does Micah.”

Chapter19

Micah

PRESENT…

I’ll be there in twenty. Handle the parcel with care. ~Royce

It’s been twenty minutes since that text came in and I’m on my way to the docks where I keep Esmeralda. Isaac is already there and waiting, keeping watch over three people who have a lot of explaining to do.

I want to hear the excuses.

I’ll wait for the tears.

And then I’ll create a human sacrifice in her honor because she is my Goddess.

Pulling into the company's private port, I find the gates already open and drive straight through, only rolling my window down long enough to send a quick wave to the night guard on duty. He’s been with my family for years, understands discretion, and immediately rushes to close the metal electrical doors right behind me.

The next thing I notice is how dark it is. Not a single lamp post is on, and the only source of light is coming from right above the hangar’s door. That’s it. The building itself has blacked-out-windows, you can’t see inside, and it sits close to the area where cruise ships are dry-docked and worked on, housing at times the materials used and mechanical parts needed for repairs.

Today, though, it’s nearly empty. Esmeralda is three-quarters of the way complete and while the interiors of a project of this magnitude consume a lot of space, my contractor has a creative solution. Where this place can house a few large vessels at once, one of the occupants at the moment is a container ship with everything needed to refurbish Esmeralda and a crane to make moving each pallet easy.

It’s changed the speed in which the tradesmen can move, having thing accessible from different ports of entry, helps depending on what floor you’re on.

A shout in the distance comes through clearly, the sounds from the Port of Miami now filling the night. Lost in my thoughts, I’d somehow muffled the screech of moving containers and the clang from unloading shipments. Then, there’s screaming out of orders and the heavy machinery—how it all creates a havoc-filled symphony for my guests to enjoy.

Something, that makes the way I forced the doors to open, how they slam into the walls behind them—reverberate throughout the large warehouse—a bit chilling. So close to help, but they won’t be heard.

No one to hear your cries for help.

Three head snap in my direction, each with a varying expression of the same emotion. Doesn’t deviate from that shared feeling that’s causing their airways to constrict for a moment as if someone wrapped their hands around their throat.

Fear. Unadulterated fear.

It’s in the way their eyes widen and bodies start to shake within the limits of their binds, each body strapped to a metal post by their arms. How they sweat inside a well-air-conditioned room, the open space well-lit and smells clean. Like Pine sol, but beneath it there’s a touch of piss that makes me look down and I find the man to the right standing bare foot in a puddle of his own making.

“Isaac.”

“Good evening, boss.” He’s never been one for a lot of words, but I see amusement on his face.

“Interesting night?”

“You can say that.” Isaac relaxes in his seat while I take the one across from him, a little table between us. He’s been playing solitaire, his last card facing up, but it’s not placed yet. “They have some incredibly entertaining stories to tell. So much rich bullshit.”

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