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.

Damien's POV:

Pain yanked me back to consciousness like a chain wrapped around my ribs.

For one merciful heartbeat everything was numb, body, mind, the world reduced to a dull gray hum.

Then reality slammed into me: fire in my left shoulder, ribs screaming with every shallow breath, the metallic taste of old blood coating my tongue, the cold bite of concrete under my back.

I was lying down, no longer on the iron chair, but on a bed.

I forced my eyes open.

The room was dim, lit only by a single bare bulb hanging from a frayed cord in the ceiling.

Dust motes drifted in the weak yellow beam.

Concrete walls, peeling paint the color of old bruises, a cracked window boarded from the inside with plywood and nails. The air smelled of mildew, rust, old furniture, and something sharper, blood, definitely mine.

This was not my penthouse, not a hospital, not even the concrete basement where I'd last remembered fists, batons, mocking laughter, I was still alive.

The thought hit harder than the pain, i should be dead, yet here I was, breathing, heart beating, shoulder bandaged, neatly, professionally, white gauze taped tight over the bullet wound.

Someone had cleaned it, stitched it, even applied antiseptic; I could smell the faint sting of alcohol under the gauze, feel the pull of sutures when I shifted.

Who?

I tried to sit up, and a sharp pain lanced through my shoulder and down my spine.

A low groan escaped before I could choke it back. I collapsed against the thin pillow, sweat breaking across my forehead, the sheet slipped lower and looked down.

I was naked.

Completely, gloriously naked!! Just the thin sheet barely clinging to my hips.

"Fuck," I rasped, voice rough, cracked from disuse and pain.

My mind raced, trying to stitch fragments together. The ambush, gunshot, pain, then nothing.

Now this, a hideout, and a captor who didn't want me dead... yet.

I scanned the room again. One door, heavy steel with no visible lock from this side, one boarded window, one rickety wooden chair in the corner, a small metal table with a first-aid kit, a half-empty bottle of water, and a folded towel.

No phone, no clothes, just me, the bed, and the knowledge that whoever brought me here had chosen to keep me breathing.

Gratitude and dread twisted together in my gut. I was really alive.

I tested my arms, and it had no cuffs, no ropes, just the ache of old bruises and the fresh pull of stitches. I could move.

Slowly, painfully. I pushed up on my good arm, ignoring the way the room tilted.

The sheet slipped further. I caught it, and held it in place. I wasn't staying in this bed like a lamb waiting for slaughter.

Then i heard footsteps, soft, and barely audible, coming from the only other door, that looked every inch like the bathroom.

The handle turned.

The door opened.

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

RAVEN'S POV

I sat on the rickety wooden chair in the corner, knees drawn up, watching the slow rise and fall of Damien Blackwood's chest.

He looked smaller like this, stripped of the tailored suits, the power, the aura of untouchable control.

Just a man. Pale skin, bruises blooming purple and yellow across his ribs, the neat white bandage on his shoulder already spotting red again.

His face was swollen, lip split, but even unconscious he looked dangerous, dangerously beautiful in a way that made my stomach twist with hate and something darker I refused to name.

My own body ached, exhaustion clawed at me, muscles trembling from dragging his dead weight from the warehouse, from the drive here, from stitching him up with shaking hands.

I needed sleep, needed a shower, needed to think.

I stood quietly, bare feet silent on the cold concrete, and headed for the only bathroom in the tiny space, a narrow cubicle with a tub, a handheld showerhead, and a single thin towel hanging on a nail.

I turned the faucet, water sputtered, then steadied, lukewarm. I stripped quickly, letting my clothes fall in a heap, and stepped into the tub, lowering myself until the water swallowed me whole.

A loud sigh escaped my lips as the heat soaked into my tense muscles.

For the first time in hours the knot in my chest loosened, I scrubbed slowly, mechanically, letting the water rinse away the sweat, the blood, the smell of Damian's cologne that still clung to my skin from carrying. My mind drifted.

Where would I sleep tonight?

The only available bed in the room, Damien was in it. The bastard shouldn't be awake yet, I'd dosed him with enough painkillers to keep him under for another six hours at least. I would rather sleep standing than share that bed with Damien Blackwood.

But i really needed to stretch my body, i badly needed to.

I stayed in the tub until the water cooled, until my fingers pruned and my mind stopped spinning.

I stood, letting the water drip down from my breast to my pussy, i reached for the towel, the only one available, threadbare and pink.

I wrapped it around myself, the towel barely reaching mid-thigh.

I pushed the bathroom door open gently.

And froze.

Damien Blackwood was fully awake.

Eyes open, stormy grey eyes fixed at my direction.

The towel slipped from my grip.

It fell to the floor in a soft heap, leaving me standing naked before him.

Time stretched, one heartbeat and then two.

The air between us crackled, electric, dangerous, thick with something neither of us would name.

His gaze dragged over me, slow, deliberate, hungry Hungrier than I'd ever seen in the club, even when he watched me take a client down my throat.

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticked in his cheek, his eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide.

I didn't move to cover myself. I stood there, chin lifted, letting him look. Letting him see every scar, every curve, every inch he'd never been allowed to touch.

My pulse raced under my skin. Heat pooled low in my belly,unwanted, unwelcome.

His voice came out rough, cracked from pain and disuse.

"You." he said to me.

One word.

I stepped forward, naked, unashamed, closing the distance until I stood beside the bed. Water dripped from my hair onto his chest. He hissed at the cold.

"How did you know? Why are you involved? Who the fuck are you?" he asked, heart beat increasing.

"Easy Mr billionaire, you wouldn't want to die of heart attack, would you?" i replied leaning down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside his head. My hair fell forward, brushing his shoulder. My scent, soap, water, something darker, filled my lungs.

"I don't know how you involved yourself in this, but thats for saving me raven." He said, his voice barely a whisper.

I looked at him, saying nothing to him.

His good hand moved, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing my wrist.

My pulse jumped under his fingertips.

He felt it.

His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

Darkened. Pupils blew wide.

"What now, Raven?" he asked, voice rougher than intended.

I didn't answer.

I didn't have to.