Page 4 of Mine

“It’s been five years, Mr. Stone. If you don’t find a way to deal with the trauma, it is going to manifest into something that will never be cured. It’s time. You have an empire to run. Your mother would want?—”

“That’s enough!” The words echo down the hallway.

As if summoned from the depths of hell, Cillian breezes into the room, unaffected by my childish outburst. Or used to them, perhaps.

I throw out my arms. “Jesus! It’s one in the morning. What the hell is everyone doing awake?”

Cillian is as alert as ever, still wearing the same suit he wore during our last meeting hours earlier. But now the top button is loose, and the sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He’d almost pass for a respectable businessman if not for his tattoos, criminal record, and ability to kill a man using only his thumbnail.

Though Cillian left the life of a mercenary years ago to work directly under me, the fight still burns inside him. The old adage is true: you can take the man out of the war, but you can’t take the soldier out of the man. He’s the one who needs therapy.

“I hate to break up this little lover’s spat,” he mocks, “but something’s come up.”

I squint at Prishna. “It’s time for you to retire to your room.”

On a long, dramatic sigh, she turns and disappears down the hall, leaving a trail of attitude so thick you could grab it.

Cillian closes the door behind her and locks it.

Three

Astor

“What’s going on?”

Cillian clicks a button on my desk, sending the shades sliding over the windows to ensure privacy.

Something’s up.

“Power up your monitors.” He joins me behind the screens, but we don’t sit. “Now bring up your personal email.”

Cillian has access to my entire life. Every email, text, and phone call is filtered through him before it reaches me. I trust the man with my life—and I have.

“There.” He points to an email with no subject. “That one. Open it.”

The face of a pale, stunningly beautiful blonde fills the screen. The woman is gagged, mascara-stained tears rolling down her face. A thin line of blood runs from her left nostril, puddling on a severely swollen upper lip. She’s wearing a white nightgown and is tied to a metal chair. She’s staring directly into the camera.

Into me.

My stomach drops to my feet.

“Read the message.”

I blink, tearing away from the photo and focusing on the words of the email. It reads:

Your wife misses you, Astor. I know this because she calls out for you in her sleep. She cries for you when I hit her. She screams for you when I fuck her.

Meet me tomorrow in Vegas, at the Dungeon, at ten p.m. The doorman will be expecting you.

Come alone.

If you alert the police, the Feds, or send any of your mercenaries, I will slit your wife’s throat and live stream her bleeding out on social media for the entire world to see.

I look forward to seeing you, Astor. It’s been a long time.

“Is the picture real or generated by artificial intelligence?”

“It’s real,” Cillian confirms. “I ran it through multiple programs. It’s definitely not AI. That’s Valerie for sure.”

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