CHAPTER 8:

RAVEN'S POV

The car rolled to a stop at exactly 11:58 p.m. outside a hulking, windowless structure on the far edge of Red Hook, Brooklyn, former meatpacking plant turned fortress.

No signs, Just razor wire curling over chain-link, floodlights sweeping the perimeter like searchlights in a prison yard, and four armed bouncers at the gate who looked like they ate nails for breakfast.

The driver didn't speak. Just nodded once toward the entrance.

I stepped out, no weapons, that would be a very deadly idea. Just black jeans, long-sleeve thermal, boots, hair in a tight knot.

My heart was a war drum in my chest, but I kept my face blank.

I'd kissed Lila goodnight three hours ago.

Told her I had a late meeting.

Maya the only friend that i have had from horrible days at darkar, stayed over, eyes sharp with worry.

"If you're not back by dawn," she'd said, "I'm coming for you." I nodded once, didn't argue.

The bouncers didn't ask for ID. One of them, very huge, neck like a tree trunk, earpiece glinting looked me up and down, then jerked his head. "Boss is waiting."

They flanked me as we walked through the gate. Metal clanged shut behind us.

The air changed immediately, heavy with diesel, sweat, cheap perfume, and something metallic underneath. Blood, maybe.

The main entrance opened into what they called the clubhouse. Dim red lighting, bass so deep it vibrated in my teeth. Concrete floors sticky under my boots. A long bar lined with men in suits and leather jackets.

Girls moved through the crowd, collared, barely dressed, eyes vacant. Some on leashes. Some kneeling at feet, mouths working.

One girl was bent over a high-top table, skirt hiked, a man taking her from behind while his friends watched and laughed.

She wasn't moaning. She was rather making muffled broken sounds swallowed by the music.

I kept my eyes forward, trying to shut the memories of my horrible past here. The bouncers didn't let me slow.

We passed the main stage, three poles, three girls, all naked, twirling and shaking asses in perfect rhythm.

One dropped low, thighs spread, fingers sliding between her legs while men threw bills.

Another climbed the pole upside down, legs splitting wide, holding the pose while a client reached up and slapped her ass hard enough to leave a red handprint.

She didn't flinch. Just smiled, the empty, practiced smiles all girls were tortured into learning here.

The third girl was on her knees in front of a man in a booth. He had her hair fisted, forcing her head down, thrusting violently into her mouth. She gagged, tears streaming, but he didn't stop. His friends cheered. Money changed hands like it was a show.

My stomach turned. I'd killed men like these.

Seeing this all laid bare, raw, brutal, again made me remember the past.

What they had done to maya.

This horrible place wasn't anything like Velvet reservoir.

This was a slaughterhouse for girls.

The bouncers pushed me through a side door marked PRIVATE. The music muffled. The corridor narrowed. More doors lined the walls, some closed, some cracked.

Moans leaked out. A girl's scream cut off abruptly. A whip cracked somewhere. Flesh slapped flesh. Chains rattled.

We passed an open room, two girls on their knees, naked, hands cuffed behind backs.

A man in a white coat, doctor, maybe, examined them like livestock. Flashlight in one girl's mouth. Gloved fingers between another's legs. "This one's tight," he said. "Good price." The girls didn't move. Didn't look up. Just stared at the floor.

Another room, a girl tied to a cross, lashes across her back, fresh red welts overlapping old scars. She was shaking, sobbing quietly.

A man stood behind her, belt in hand, stroking her hair like he loved her. "You'll learn," he murmured. "You always learn."

I swallowed bile, and kept walking.

The corridor ended at a heavy steel door.

One bouncer knocked twice, opened the door and pushed me inside.

Oscar waited inside.

The room was larger than the others, high ceilings, massive bed in the center draped in red silk, chains hung from the ceiling, leather couch, bar, dim red lighting that made everything look bloody. No way to escape this deadly place except the door behind me, and the tiny window, big enough for a seven year-old to fit in.

He sat on the couch, legs crossed, same black silk shirt from last night, a big cigar in hand. Just him.

"Pet," he said, voice low, pleased. "You came."

I stood in the doorway, arms loose at my sides. "You didn't give me a choice.

Oscar laughed softly. "I always give you a choice. You just never make the smart one."

He gestured to the couch opposite him. "Sit."

I refused his offer, standing instead. "What do you want?"

He studied me for a long moment, eyes roaming my body like he was cataloging every inch.

Then he stood, slow, deliberate. Crossed the room, and stopped inches from me, close enough I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and the cigar on his clothes.

"I want obedience," he said quietly. "I want loyalty. I want you to remember who owns you.

His hand moved fast. Fingers closed around my throat, not choking yet, just holding, firm, possessive.

His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling it race. With his other hand he caressed, slow, deliberate, down my side, over my hip, up my waist, tracing the curve of my breast through the thin thermal.

His touch was light, almost gentle, but the threat was in the grip on my throat.

"I own you," he whispered, mouth close to my ear. "Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every secret you think you're hiding. You want to work for him. But you forget, you belong to me."

His fingers tightened slightly blocking my air-way.

My vision edged black. I didn't fight, not yet.

I let him feel the pulse under his thumb, fast, but steady.

"You think you can get Blackwood by whoring for him?" Oscar murmured, lips brushing my ear. "He will end you the moment he figures out who you are. He will take your precious daughter away from you pet. But i? I will protect you, the girl who crawled through broken glass at fifteen. The girl who killed for me. The girl who still comes when I call."

His hand slid lower, cupping between my legs, firm, possessive.

I stiffened, but didn't pull away. He pressed harder, rubbing once, slow.

"You're wet," he said, almost surprised. "Even now, in this situation, your sweet, sweet body keeps producing fluids. That's why I keep you, i can never get enough of you, my sweet pet."

I swallowed against his grip. "Let go."

He tightened instead. "Beg again. Like last night."

"Please," I forced out, voice hoarse. "Let go."

He smiled, slow, cruel. Released my throat, and stepped back.

I sucked in air, coughing once, hand rising to touch the red marks he'd left.

"Good girl," he said, returning to the couch. He sat, legs spread, glass in hand. "Now sit. We have business to discuss."

I stayed standing. "What business?"

"A contract job, i clean kill tomorrow night." Oscar sipped, eyes never leaving mine. "Client want's it as fast as possible.

Other details will be sent to you by morning.

I didn't react. This was what i do. Who i am.

A sharp tool, in Oscar's hand.

"Also, Raven, about mr Blackwood, something has to be done."

My stomach dropped. "No, nobody touches him except me."

"No?" He laughed, low, dangerous. "You forget. I own your daughter's life too. One word, and she disappears. Or worse. She completes your contract. Ten years old. Old enough to learn the trade."

Cold rage flooded me. "You touch her, I kill you slow."

Oscar smiled wider. "Then do what I say. Blackwood will be eliminated, you will back to me. Or lose everything."

I stared at him, heart pounding, fury twisting together. The room felt smaller, air thinner. I thought of Lila, her trusting face, her innocence.safe in her bed right now.

Oscar stood again.

Crossed to me, grabbed my throat once more, harder this time. Choked me with one hand while the other caressed down my chest, over my stomach, between my legs again. Pressing, rubbing, claiming.

"I own you," he whispered, lips against my ear. "Every inch. Every breath. Every tear.

After you mission, you will come back here. On your knees. Where you belong."

He released me. I gasped, coughing, vision spotting. He stepped back, satisfied.

"Ohhh sweet pet," he said, voice soft, almost tender, grinning wide. "I kept a surprise for you."

Chapter 9:

Raven's POV

The contract landed in my encrypted inbox at 2:17 a.m.

three days after I walked out of Darkar with Oscar's grin still crawling under my skin and his last words ringing like a death knell: "I kept a surprise for you."

Target: a woman.

Age: 68.

Location: private residence, Southampton, Hamptons.

Payment: $750,000 on confirmation.

Notes: advanced dementia, make it clean, no witnesses, no trace.

A photo of a woman was sent, a basic floor plan, security rotation, and a single line: "She's kept on the second floor, east wing, white room."

I didn't hesitate.

Another message popped up my phone, another photo Oscar sent me, i opened it and it was an image of Lila asleep in her bed, taken from outside her window. A reminder, one wrong move and my daughter becomes payment.

The house was a fortress pretending to be a beachside estate. White stone, manicured lawns rolling down to the Atlantic, windows that caught moonlight like knives.

Perimeter cameras every twenty feet, motion sensors buried in the grass, eight armed guards on rotation, two Rottweilers patrolling the grounds.

I spent two nights in the dunes with binoculars and patience, memorizing patterns.

The woman never left the second floor, curtains always drawn, no visitors, only a maid who brought trays and left with them untouched.

I took the maid on the third night.

She was leaving through the service gate at 11:43 p.m., trash bag in one hand, phone in the other. I came up behind her in the shadows of the hedge, arm around her throat, blade to her kidney. "Scream and I open you from the back," I whispered.

She froze, muffling down a scream down her throat, trembling like a leaf.

I dragged her into the dunes, zip-tied her wrists, taped her mouth, pressed the blade against her throat until she nodded frantically.

"Where is she kept?" I asked, pulling the tape down just enough.

Tears streamed. "Second floor... east wing... blue room... please... I have kids..."

"Code to the service door?"

"7-4-9-2."

"Guards on that floor?"

"Two. One outside the room. One in the hallway."

I taped her mouth again, zip-tied her ankles, left her bound behind a dune. She'd be found in the morning, alive, i don't kill innocents unless I have to.

The service door code worked, i slipped inside, kitchen dark, stainless steel gleaming under moonlight through the window.

I moved up the back stairs, avoiding cameras, sticking to shadows. Second floor hallway marble, crystal chandelier, oil paintings worth more than my life.

One guard at the far end, back to me. I came up behind him, arm around his throat, knocking him out blade pressed to his kidney.

He dropped without a sound. I dragged him into a linen closet, zip-tied him, gagged him with a towel.

The white room door was unlocked. I pushed it open.

The woman was in a wheelchair by the window, facing a small portrait on the nightstand.

Thin white hair, frail shoulders under a pale blue robe, hands folded in her lap like she was praying.

An elderly?

The room smelled of lavender, old paper, huge bed in the corner, IV stand empty, She didn't turn when I entered. Just stared at the portrait, a soft, vacant smile on her lips.

I stepped closer, knife low, one cut, quick, clean, that's all it would take.

As i got closer and took a proper look at her, She looked... harmless. Plain, lost, dementia, the brief said.

She didn't even know I was there. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a portrait, a boy maybe eight years old, dark hair, serious eyes, storm-gray gaze staring straight at the camera.

My breath caught.

The eyes.

Lila's eyes.

The same shape, same intensity, same impossible gray. But a younger male.

The woman whispered something soft, broken words I couldn't catch. She stroked the frame like it was alive. Eyes glistering with unshed tears. "My boy... my sweet boy..."

I looked around the room. No other photos.

Just this one boy. And a single silver frame on the dresser, the name "Eleanor Blackwood." Inscripted on the frame.

the elderly woman but, younger, smiling, arm around a man who looked like an older version of the boy in the portrait. The man's face was scratched out, deliberately, viciously.

The realization hit like a blade between my ribs.

Eleanor Blackwood.

Damien Blackwood.

The uncanny resemblance between the young boy in the portrait and my daughter Lila.

She was Damien's mother.

The contract was to kill Damien's mother.

I stood there, knife in hand, staring at the woman who had no idea who i was or what i was about to do.

Lila's life was along the line, and i can't let anything happen to my daughter!

*******************************************

DAMIEN'S POV

I woke up with a sharp pang of pain on my entire body.

Blood had soaked through my shirt, drying in stiff patches that pulled every time I breathed. My wrists were tied behind an iron chair, cold metal biting into skin.

The room was concrete bare bulb overhead, no windows, smell of rust and damp and old blood. A basement, or a warehouse.

I tested the ties, too tight, my gun was gone, phone gone, jacket gone, shirt torn open, wound exposed.

bullet entry, no exit. Through-and-through. Bleeding had slowed, but infection would start soon if it hadn't already.

I felt my head banging terribly, like I fell into a ditch head down.

I heard Footsteps approaching, faintly at first but it grew louder with each steps and within seconds, the door flew opened.

Two men stepped in, masks pulled down around their necks. One tall, lean, scar across his cheek. The other shorter, heavier, knuckles scarred. They carried batons and knives.

"Ohhh, the prince of Manhattan is awake," the taller one said, grinning. "Look at him. All tied up like a present."

The short one laughed. "Pretty boy thought he owned the city."

I didn't answer. Just watched them, calculating how i would gut them if i ever broke free. The door was steel, bolted from outside. One way out.

Tall one walked closer. Baton tapping his palm. "Boss says you're valuable. But not so valuable you can't bleed a little."

He swung. Baton cracked across my ribs.

Air exploded from my lungs. Pain flared white-hot. I bit down on a grunt.

Short one grabbed my hair, yanked my head back. "You like pain, rich boy?" he asked.

Another swing. This one to the thigh, my muscle cramped, and i tasted blood as i bit my tongue.

Tall one leaned in. Breath hot. "You fucked with the wrong people. Now you pay."

He drove a fist into my wounded shoulder. I roared couldn't stop it. Vision tunneled. Blood seeped fresh.

Short one laughed. "Look at him. Bleeding like a stuck pig."

They took turns. Baton to the kidneys. Knife tip dragged across my chest, shallow cuts, just enough to sting. Fists to the face. Blood in my mouth. Vision blurring.

I kept my mind sharp, counted blows, waited for an opportunity.

When they stepped back, breathing hard, I lifted my head. Met their eyes.

"You're dead," I said quietly, spitting out blood.

They laughed hard.

I opened my mouth to speak again, then the door flung open.

Gunshots, sharp, fast. Tall one dropped first, head snapping back. Short one spun, reaching for his gun, but he was too slow.

Two more shots and he fell, dead.

Silence.

A figure stepped in, dark silhouette, gun raised.

I squinted through blood and sweat.

A woman's voice "you belong to me." She said.

Darkness rushed in again.

I lost consciousness.

Chapter 10:

OSCAR'S POV

The red lighting in Darkar pulsed like a heartbeat, casting long shadows across the velvet walls of my private suite.

The air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke, and the faint musk of sex from the girls in the clubhouse below.

I leaned back on the leather couch, legs spread, one arm draped over the shoulder of ruby, one of the girls that worked at the club house

She sat beside me fumbling with my buttons as I maintained an eye level with the much older woman sitting opposite me.

The woman had a long dark wavey hair, and deep green eyes just like the ocean.

Ruby's body pressed against mine in a way that was all performance. Asides Raven, Ruby was my best girl.

She was a perfect distraction, a warm body to celebrate with.

My thoughts ran back to Damien Blackwood. The untouchable CEO, the man who thought he owned Manhattan. Captured like a rat in a trap by me.

The ambush had been perfect, and my men had hauled him out of the wreckage, unconscious, and now he was mine.

Locked in iron, I can't wait for the fun to begin.

Ruby straddled my lap, grinding slow to the muffled bass from downstairs. Her lips brushed my ear, in careful kisses.

"So what now?" The older woman opposite me asked.

I chuckled, low and dark, hand sliding up Ruby's thigh.

" By morning, he'll sign everything over." i said to her.

She tilted her head, fingers tracing her wine glass.

"Everything?" She asked.

"Everything." I replied, giving her a throaty smile. "The documents are ready. Political gold. Blackwood Enterprises has ties to half the city council. Contracts for development projects, backroom deals with senators, offshore accounts tied to election funds.

He signs them over to me, and we own the city.

The mayor, the police commissioner, all of it.

Just one fucking signature, and Damien Blackwood hands me the keys to the city."

She laughed, a throaty sound. "And after that, what next?"

"Then I kill him.

Slowly, I'll Make him beg for his life."

The TV in the corner was on mute, but the news ticker caught my eye. "BREAKING NEWS: DAMIEN BLACKWOOD KIDNAPPED IN AMBUSH. POLICE TAPE CRIME SCENE. REPORTERS SWARM MANHATTAN STREETS."

I unmuted it, channels flipped, CCN, FOZ, MCNBS, all the same. Reporters crowded the taped-off street, lights flashing, police tape fluttering in the wind.

"The billionaire CEO of Blackwood Enterprises was abducted in a violent shootout. Witnesses report multiple vehicles involved. Police are investigating, but no leads yet."

I fumed. "What's so fucking important about him? What's so fucking special?"

My phone rang, i looked at the caller ID and answered immediately.

The voice on the other end hesitated. "Boss... Mr Damien escaped."

"What the fuck do you mean Damien escaped?" I asked anger vibrating through me, hot and electric. My fist clenched, knuckles turning white.

"We were attacked, and our men were taken down."

My body tried absorbing the shocking news which i found absolutely absurd.

"Whatever you do, find him. Capture him back or you are all dead." I yelled into the phone.

I hung up, and smashed the phone against the wall.

Damien Blackwood. Slippery bastard. But I'd find him. And when I did, the torture would be legendary.

*********************************************

RAVEN'S POV:

I sat on the armchair in the dusty corner of my secret hideout, an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city,

The old bed creaked under Damien's weight, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Shirtless, skin pale under the single bare bulb, wounds stark in the light.

The bullet hole in his shoulder oozed fresh blood, the flesh around it swollen and red.

Bruises bloomed across his ribs, cuts from knives crisscrossing his chest, face swollen from fists, lips split, cheekbone bruised purple.

He looked broken, vulnerable, human, and not the monster image of him plastered in my mind

I'd called Maya hours ago. "Take care of Lila. Take her to your apartment. I won't be back for a few days." i had said to her.

Maya's voice had been sharp, worried. "What's going on?" she has asked.

"Don't ask much questions, it's better you don't know anything, Just do as i said." i had replied her to ease her worries.

She paused. "You in trouble?" she asked.

"Not yet. I replied.

"Be safe. I'll keep her safe." she said at last, knowing that pressing any further won't yield any positive result.

I hung up, speeding up my car, one direction in mind.

**********************

After my mission earlier, i craved home, craved the warmth of my daughter's hug.

I had turned on the radio in the old truck I'd stolen to get here.

And the news was everywhere: "Billionaire Damien Blackwood kidnapped in a violent ambush.

Reporters swarm the streets. Police investigating, but no leads.

My mind flashed back to Oscar in Darkar. The "little surprise" he mentioned, grinning like a wolf. "That son of a bitch," I cursed, anger seething through me.

Damien was mine.

Mine to torment.

Mine to kill.

No one else was permitted to hurt even a hair on his body.

Having worked for Oscar so long, I knew all his hideouts. The perfect one to hide a whole Damien Blackwood was the warehouse in Queens, remote, guarded, but I already knew the blind spots.

I'd gone there undetected, slipped past the patrols, took out two guards with silenced shots, hauled Damien's unconscious body into the truck. Because he was mine.

Now he lay on the bed, breathing ragged. The bullet wound on his shoulder looked so bad and ugly, infection setting in. Other wounds, knife cuts, baton bruises, oozed. I cursed out loud. Inviting a doctor was way risky, i had no choice but to treat him myself.

The first aid kit was in the corner, stocked up for emergencies: gauze, antiseptics, forceps, sutures, painkillers. I washed my hands in the rusty sink, gloved up.

Damien stirred slightly, eyes fluttering but not opening. "The bastard better not die yet," I muttered. "He's only permitted to die in my hands."

I cut away the remaining shirt fabric.

The shoulder wound was ugly, entry hole ragged, exit clean, but muscle torn, blood crusted.

I poured antiseptic over it, bubbles foamed. Damien groaned, body twitching.

I ignored it, probing with forceps, metals clinking.

The bullet was lodged deeper than I thought. I spent hours digging through his shoulder, sweat beading on my forehead.

Damien's body arched, a low groan escaping. I pressed down on his chest with my forearm. "Stay still bastard."

The forceps gripped.

I pulled, slow, steady. Damien grunted, eyes still tightly shut. The bullet came free with a wet pop, and blood welled fresh.

I packed the wound with gauze, pressing hard. Fatigue washing all over me.

I sutured fast, needle piercing skin, grateful he wasn't awake.

I bandaged tight, then moved to the knife cuts on his chest, cleaned them, stitched the deep ones. Bruises I iced.

When I finished, his breathing was a getting back to normal.

Finally done, i let the fatigue get complete hold of me, i sat back and stared at him intently again.

The bastard better not die yet. He's only permitted to die in my hands.