Page 14 of Unleashed
And I don’t make the call.
Chapter 5
ISAIA
It’s the middle of the night when my phone rings, and my first thought as I jolt awake is that it’s her. That her name’s gonna light up my screen and maybe—just maybe—she still wants me. My chest seizes, hand frozen mid-reach like the world might split in two if I touch it. I’m not breathing. I can’t. Because if it’s not her... I don’t know what the hell I’ll do with what’s left of me.
I wipe my palms over my eyes, trying to swallow down whatever emotion it is that’s hammering against my ribs, then reach for the phone.
My heart does this thing where it tears loose and dives straight into the fucking ground. “Caelian,” I grind out like his name’s a curse. And sometimes it is. “What the fuck do you want?” I bark into the phone.
“I’ve forgotten what a ray of sunshine you can be.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Wait.”
I exhale. “What?”
“We got a problem. I’m texting you an address. Get your ass and that ugly car of yours here asap.”
A wave of impatient rage swells within me, but I hold it down, smother it. I hang up without saying anything more. The covers are off in one shove, my feet hitting the cold floor, body tight with everything I’m trying not to feel. Images of her face flash in my head, taunting me, like they do every waking hour while I’m not with her. It took damn near a whole bottle of bourbon to even pretend I didn’t feel her absence rotting me from the inside out.
Caelian’s text lights up my phone’s screen, and twenty minutes later, I pull into the lot at the address he sent.
The place is an estate—one of those towering, over-the-top mansions that scream old money and new crimes.
It belongs to Rowan De Luca, a regular at Myth. Rowan’s our go-to guy when Gabriel needs help with clearing customs on shipments, the one who smooths over any legal snags or bribes the right officials when things get tricky.
The mansion looms ahead, a beast of stone and glass, exuding arrogance and wealth. As I step out of the car, a gust of wind cuts through my jacket, and the chill seeps into my bones.
Caelian’s outside, leaning against the wall with a cigarette hanging from his lips, his posture casual, but his eyes tell a different story.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask as I approach.
He exhales a cloud of smoke, flicks the cigarette into the gravel, and crushes it underfoot. “Oh, brother. You gotta see it to believe it.”
“See what?”
“Just brace yourself.” He turns, pushing open the front door, motioning for me to follow.
Inside, the place drips with luxury—a gaudy display of wealth that reeks of desperation to impress.
Golden chandeliers hang from high ceilings, glistening with a sickeningly ostentatious glow. The air smells of aged whisky and expensive cigars, a cocktail of old money and escapism. There's a sinful decadence to it all, a bold flaunting of illicit dollars.
We move past the grand staircase, each step amplifying the sense that something’s off. There’s a tension here, thick, clinging to every surface. A dark wrongness hanging in the air, something you can almost taste. But nothing could have prepared me for what greets us in the living room.
My breath hitches as my gaze locks on the grotesque scene before me. “What. The. Fuck?”
Caelian doesn’t even flinch. “Told you,” he says, his voice flat, as if the horror in front of us has numbed him.
In the center of the lavish living room, tied to a Victorian-style pillar, is Mrs. De Luca. Naked.
Dead.
My pulse stammers, pounding in my ears as I absorb the gruesome details. “Jesus Christ.”
The once pristine white pillar is now streaked with thick smears of red still dripping down in thin rivulets, pooling at her feet like some twisted, macabre waterfall. The stark contrast between the blood and the room's elegance creates an almost surreal, nightmarish image—like someone tore open a vein in a goddamn cathedral.
