Snow flurries whip across the penthouse windows as I stride through the hall, each step echoing like a countdown. The entire floor feels tighter, smaller, as if the walls themselves know I’m about to detonate.
My security team lines up near the elevator, tense, alert. They’ve seen me furious before—but not like this. Not with Luna Vega’s name hanging like a loaded gun in the air.
“Which cell?” I demand.
“Sector West,” my head of security replies. “They’ve deployed watchers near her garage. Two bikes, one unmarked sedan. Thermal scans show armed personnel.”
“Intent?”
“Capture,” he answers grimly. “Not kill.”
Capture.
Which means torture.
Which means leverage—against me.
My pulse spikes, but my voice stays deadly calm. “They move on her?”
“Not yet. They’re waiting.”
Waiting.
For
