Page 16 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
"You 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 behindthe legitimate façade 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.
