Page 15 of In His Name

"Rivera?" I ask simply.

"Inside, sir. As instructed."

I nod, turning to Hannah. "You will remain silent throughout what follows. You will observe only. Any attempt to intervene will result in consequences for both you and Rivera. Do you understand?"

Fear has entered her eyes now—real fear, not the wary caution from earlier. She nods, unable to speak past whatever emotion has closed her throat.

"Say it," I demand, needing her verbal confirmation, her conscious acknowledgment of what's about to happen.

"I understand," she whispers. "I'll be silent."

Satisfied, I open the door, guiding her inside with a hand at the small of her back. The room is sparsely furnished—a metal table bolted to the floor, three chairs, bright overhead lighting that leaves no shadows. Rivera sits in one chair, his posture tense but not yet afraid. He doesn't know why he's here, hasn't connected his interaction with Hannah to whatever has triggered this unusual summoning.

His expression changes when he sees Hannah enter with me—confusion, then alarm, then the beginnings of understanding. His eyes dart to the tattoo on her neck—my initials, my mark of ownership—then back to my face, reading the rage there with increasing clarity.

"Sir," he begins, rising from his chair. "If I've done something?—"

"Sit down," I instruct, my voice cold enough to freeze the air between us. He complies immediately, training overriding instinct. I position Hannah slightly behind me but where shecan still observe everything that happens, can witness the consequences of the boundary violation.

"Do you know why you're here, Rivera?" I ask, circling the table slowly, like a predator assessing prey.

"No, sir," he replies, though the lie is evident in his voice, in the sweat now beading on his forehead. He knows. Maybe not specifically, but he understands that he's crossed a line, violated some rule of my carefully ordered world.

"You spoke to my wife," I say, stopping directly across from him. "Not to report, not to inform, but to connect. To express concern. To establish a personal interaction that was neither authorized nor appropriate."

Rivera swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Sir, I meant no disrespect. It was just courtesy?—"

"Courtesy," I interrupt, the word like poison in my mouth. "The same justification Hannah offered. As if courtesy were relevant, as if social niceties applied in a situation defined by clear hierarchies, by established boundaries."

I move to stand directly behind him, placing my hands on his shoulders. He flinches slightly but doesn't dare pull away. "Hannah is not your concern," I continue, my voice dropping lower. "Her comfort is not your concern. Her privacy is not your concern. She exists in your world solely as an asset to be secured, a possession to be protected on my behalf."

"Yes, sir," Rivera says quickly. "I understand. It won't happen again."

"No," I agree, my hands tightening on his shoulders. "It won't."

The movement is swift, practiced—a sharp twist of his head, a sickening crack as vertebrae separate, and Rivera slumps forward onto the table, life extinguished between one heartbeat and the next. Clean, efficient, final.

Behind me, Hannah gasps, the sound quickly stifled by her hand. I turn to face her, watching the horror bloom across her features, the realization that a man has just died because he spoke to her with compassion, with human recognition. Her face drains of color, her body swaying slightly as shock sets in.

"This is what happens," I tell her, stepping away from Rivera's body to approach her. "This is the consequence of inappropriate connections, of boundaries violated, of possessions touched without permission."

Tears fill her eyes but don't fall—she's learned to control even this basic emotional response in my presence. Her gaze remains fixed on Rivera, on the unnatural angle of his neck, on the life extinguished for the crime of speaking to her as a person rather than an object.

"He has a family," she whispers, breaking the promise of silence but unable to contain her horror. "A wife, children?—"

"Had," I correct her, gripping her chin, forcing her eyes to mine. "And his family will be compensated appropriately. Their financial needs will be met. But his life was forfeit the moment he presumed a connection with you that exceeded his position."

I turn to Marco, who has observed the execution without reaction. "Dispose of this," I instruct. "The usual arrangements for staff casualties. Ensure his family understands the generous settlement comes with expectations of discretion."

"Yes, sir," Marco replies, already moving toward communications equipment to summon the cleanup team.

Hannah sways again, her face now ashen, and I catch her elbow to steady her. "Breathe," I command, not unkindly. "This wasn't your fault, Hannah. You didn't cause his death. His own failure to understand boundaries did."

This is true, in my mind. I don't blame Hannah for Rivera's inappropriate familiarity—she has been trained to respond to questions, to interact as instructed. The fault lies entirely withRivera, with his presumption, with his failure to maintain professional distance from what belongs exclusively to me.

I guide Hannah from the interrogation room, her steps unsteady, her body trembling beneath my hand. The lesson has been effective, perhaps too effective—she's on the verge of shock, of a breakdown that would serve no useful purpose.

"Back to your suite," I tell her, signaling for one of my personal guards to take over escort duty. "Rest. Process what you've witnessed. Understand its significance."

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