Five
1544 Words
Esmé
“Well then, he’s pissed.”
I shrug, switch off the pump, and pour the warm milk into labeled bags. The scent is clean and faintly sweet—proof of life, proof that my body still believes my daughter is close. I seal each one, lay them flat, and place the parts of the pump in the basket to wash later. When the routine is finished, I smooth my blouse, gather the sealed bags, and slip them into the fridge until they can be frozen.
The small tasks keep me from shattering. I feel different this morning—like the version of me that woke yesterday finally died during the night. If I’m going to survive this, I have to think like the woman my father raised, not the mother the universe tried to break.
Yesterday I had the men pull the complete list of every person inside that hospital the day Aaliyah was taken—patients, staff, visitors, janitors, even the food-service drivers. I demanded detailed background checks and financial records. People will do anything for money, and debts make faster traitors than fear ever could.
The desk is buried beneath files. It will take me the entire day to finish them, but I will not leave this chair until I do. When Mason stops sulking long enough to come back, I’ll give him half the stack. We’ll divide and conquer.
I open the first folder.
Name: Kai Brown
Age: 21
Relatives: None alive
Finances: Savings $0 | Debt $132 000 | Checking $200
Employment: Shannon’s Bar, 7th Ave – three years. Hired at Easton Hospital six months ago.
Education: High-school dropout. No college records. State-raised.
I close the folder slowly. A twenty-one-year-old nurse? No diploma, no license, no family. That alone reeks of fabrication. She’s young, desperate, broke, and—if my gut is right—bought.
I set the file aside just as Mason walks in.
“I hope you’re feeling better?” I lace my fingers, pretending calm. His stare from the doorway is molten, the kind that makes my stomach tighten and my pulse misbehave.
“I guess not,” I sigh, pushing half the pile toward the edge of the desk. “That’s your stack. Sit in the corner like a child.”
He arches a brow. “Esmé.”
“Mason.”
He crosses the room in three long strides, all muscle and irritation, bends, kisses my forehead, and steals the stack I meant for myself.
“You mother fucker,” I mutter, tossing another file aside and grabbing a new one.
His low chuckle rumbles through the room as he drops into the chair opposite me. “What’s that pile?” He nods toward the smaller stack—Kai’s file resting on top.
“Suspects,” I answer, clipped.
He extends a hand. “Let me see.”
I throw the folder across the desk. He catches it, flips it open, frowns. “Why her?”
“She was there that day,” I say, voice flattening as memory rushes back. “I asked for something to dull the pain. She came back with an injection. Minutes later I couldn’t move. I heard the gunfire. I saw her shoot me before everything went black.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “When did you ask for it?”
My heart stutters. Lying would be easy, but lies rot trust—and trust is the only weapon we still have. “As soon as you left.”
He slams the file shut, palm hitting the desk hard enough to rattle pens. “You told me you were fine! That’s why I left!”
“You could’ve been killed, Mason!” I fire back. “They slaughtered our men! You walking into that room would’ve meant one more body on the floor!”
“I could’ve helped,” he growls, but the words crumble into regret. He turns away, stalking to the bar, pouring three fingers of Scotch even though it’s barely ten a.m.
He downs it, sets the glass down with a dull clack. “Have you considered this wasn’t hospital staff?”
The question catches me. “What are you saying?”
“You run the largest cartel in New York. Every rival wants a piece of your throne. You’re looking at nurses and janitors when you should be looking at capos with grudges.” He gestures to the sea of files. “You’re chasing the wrong ghosts.”
Damn him—he’s right. I hate when he’s right.
I exhale. “We need Javier.”
I snatch my phone, dial, and press it to my ear. “Office. Laptop. Now.” I hang up before he can respond and blow Mason a sarcastic kiss. “I love you.”
He smirks despite himself. “I love you too—but you’ve got to learn to trust me.”
“I do.”
A knock cuts through the tension. Mason chuckles as he opens the door. Javier stands panting, laptop clutched to his chest.
“Did you run here?” I ask, incredulous.
He nods, still catching his breath.
“Why?”
“Thought I found a break,” he huffs. “God, I need Thomas back. I don’t know how he juggles this. Keep me on security detail only.”
His complaint drags a laugh out of me for the first time in days. “You’ll get a month’s vacation when we bring Thomas home.”
“Deal.” He drops into the chair, opens the laptop. “What do you need?”
“I want lists of every capo we’ve crossed lately—men we’ve killed, their families, bastards they’ve hidden. Anyone with a reason to come after my bloodline. Mason thinks this might be bigger than the hospital.”
“Got it.” He starts typing, fingers flying.
Mason leans against the edge of my desk, the picture of calm control, but I see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “Start with the last five we took out,” he adds. “See who’s been whispering since.”
Javier nods. The screen glows with data streams, names, dates, deaths. The room fills with the sound of keys and tension.
I lean back in my chair, watching both men work—my husband, who burns too hot, and my hacker, who hides his heart behind code.
They’re the only two people I trust to breathe near me right now.
My mind drifts to Aaliyah. I wonder if she’s crying, if Thomas hums the lullaby I used to sing. The ache behind my ribs sharpens until I have to stand.
Mason’s hand circles my wrist. “Sit.”
“I can’t.”
He rises too, voice low. “Esmé, we’ll find them. You’ll burn whoever did this, but not if you collapse before then.”
His words are half-command, half-prayer. I let him pull me back into the chair.
Minutes stretch into an hour. The air hums with the rhythm of tapping keys and our synchronized breathing. Javier curses softly.
“You’re going to want to see this.”
He swivels the laptop around. On the screen glows a name I know too well—Luis Valverde.
The Valverde family. Colombian importers. We’d taken their ports last year after they broke treaty. Their eldest son had sworn revenge before we left his compound burning.
Mason whistles low. “That didn’t take long.”
Javier nods grimly. “Financials show money moving through shell accounts in Honduras and Miami—same channels Los Perros
use.”
My pulse spikes. “He’s bankrolling them.”
“Looks that way,” Javier says. “And, Capo… there’s chatter about a buyer.”
“A buyer?” I echo.
“For the child,” he clarifies. “Encrypted message boards. They call her la hija de la Reina.”
My vision blurs for a second, rage whiting everything out. “They’re selling my daughter?”
Javier nods once, throat working.
Mason’s glass shatters in his hand. Blood trickles down his palm; he doesn’t notice. “Where?”
“Not sure yet. Auction forums, offshore IPs. I’m tracing them now.”
I stand, every muscle trembling but steady. “Find the date. Find the buyers. I don’t care what it costs.”
Javier swallows. “Yes, Reina.”
Mason binds a towel around his palm, eyes never leaving me. “You get a date,” he tells Javier, “and we’ll handle the rest.”
Javier’s fingers blur over the keys again. I can hear the fury in the way they hit plastic.
I turn to Mason. “We have our lead.”
He nods slowly. “And you have your war.”
He crosses the room, cups my jaw, and kisses me. It’s rough, desperate, half-anger, half-promise. When we pull apart, our foreheads rest together, breaths tangled.
“We end this,” I whisper.
“We end this,” he agrees.
The office hums with the low thrum of computers and the pounding of my heart. Somewhere out there, my daughter’s name is being traded like currency.
Not for long.
Because the Reina of New York doesn’t negotiate with thieves.
She hunts them.
- Writer
