The Devil's Executive

The first thing I learned about Damian Cross was that he never forgot a name. The second was that he never repeated himself. The third was that if he ever told you something was impossible, you should probably listen. I learned the fourth at 11:47 on a Thursday night. He was lying to me. I stared at the email glowing on my computer screen. FROM: Damian Cross SUBJECT: Immediate Bring the Marlowe acquisition files to my private office. That was it. No explanation. No please. Just an order from the CEO of one of the largest companies in the city at nearly midnight. I looked through the glass wall of my office toward the executive corridor. Dark. Empty. Except for the thin strip of light beneath Damian Cross's office door. I sighed. I'd been at Cross Meridian Holdings since seven that morning. My coffee had gone cold hours ago, my feet hurt, and I'd eaten a granola bar for dinner. Apparently, working for a billionaire came with fewer perks than I'd imagined. Still, nobody ignored Damian. Not if they wanted to remain employed. I saved the files to a secure drive, printed the requested documents, and placed everything inside a black folder. As I stood, I caught my reflection in the window. Twenty-six years old. Dark hair pulled into a knot. White blouse. Black trousers. Exhausted eyes. I looked like a woman who had spent twelve hours trying to prove she belonged in a building filled with people who had been born knowing they did. "Get over yourself, Elena." I switched off the lights and stepped into the hallway. Cross Meridian after midnight was a different place. During the day, it was polished marble, expensive perfume, ringing phones, and executives pretending they weren't terrified of the man on the top floor. At night, it felt like a museum. A very expensive museum where the exhibits could fire you. I slipped off my heels and carried them in one hand as I walked toward Damian's office.I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. "Mr. Cross?" Silence. I checked my phone. 11:52. Then I heard something.A metallic scrape. I froze. It sounded like someone dragging something heavy across the floor. Then came a low murmur. I tried the handle. The door opened. "Mr. Cross?" His office was empty. I stepped inside. The city stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sea of lights beneath the black sky. His desk was immaculate, as always. I placed the folder on it. Then I noticed something I'd never seen before. A thin line ran vertically through the dark wood paneling on the far wall. I frowned. I had worked on this floor for almost a year. I'd walked past that wall hundreds of times.There had never been a door. I moved closer. My fingers brushed the wood. Nothing.Then I noticed a tiny black panel beneath the edge of Damian's desk. A keypad. I should have left. Instead, I pressed it. A green light appeared. The wall clicked. I jumped backward as the entire panel slid silently into the wall.Behind it was an elevator.I stared. "What the hell?" The doors opened. There was no button panel inside. Only a black fingerprint scanner. I should have walked away. Instead, I stepped inside. The doors closed behind me. For three seconds, nothing happened. Then the elevator began descending. Fast. I grabbed the railing. "What is happening?" The floor indicator didn't show numbers.It displayed one word. PRIVATE. Thirty seconds later, the elevator stopped.The doors opened. And I heard motorcycles. Dozens of them. The roar of engines echoed through a massive underground chamber. I stepped out. Then stopped breathing. Motorcycles filled the garage. Black. Chrome. Matte. Custom-built machines lined the concrete floor beneath hanging industrial lights. Men stood around them. Big men. Leather vests. Black shirts. Tattoos. Weapons. Every conversation died. One by one, heads turned toward me. A man near the center lowered his cigarette.Another reached beneath his jacket.Someone whispered. Then a calm voice cut through the silence. "Nobody move." The entire room obeyed. A man stepped out from behind one of the motorcycles.Tall. Broad shoulders. Black jeans. Black boots. A leather vest over a fitted black shirt. Tattoos covered his forearms and climbed the sides of his neck. I'd seen those hands before. They had signed multimillion-dollar contracts. Turned pages during board meetings. Rested calmly on conference tables while executives explained why they'd lost millions. But I'd never seen them like this. Bare. Tattooed. One hand resting near the gun strapped to his hip.His gray eyes found mine. My stomach dropped. "Mr. Cross." The words barely left my mouth. He didn't answer. He simply stared. And suddenly I understood why everyone at Cross Meridian was afraid of him. The man standing in front of me wasn't my employer. Not entirely. A man beside him stepped forward. "President—" Damian raised one finger.The man stopped. President? My mouth went dry. Damian walked toward me. One step. Then another. Nobody else moved. Everyone was waiting for him to decide what happened next. His eyes briefly dropped to the silver locket resting against my collarbone.His expression changed. Only for a second. But I saw it. His jaw tightened. "What did you see?" he asked. I frowned. "You." His eyes narrowed. "That's not what I asked." "I saw an elevator." "What else?" "Motorcycles." His jaw flexed. "Elena." "Men with guns." Silence. "Anything else?",I looked around the garage. "Should there be?" For the first time, I saw the corner of someone's mouth twitch. Damian didn't smile. "You are going to go upstairs." "Okay." "Take your things." "Okay." "Go home." I nodded. "And tomorrow morning, you're coming to my office at eight." I hesitated. "Why?" His eyes held mine. "Because we need to talk." I turned toward the elevator.I made it three steps. "Elena." I stopped. I looked back. Damian was staring at my locket. His voice was quieter. "Where did you get that?" I touched it instinctively. "This?" He nodded. "My mother gave it to me." "When?" "I was seventeen." His expression went completely still. "Does she know you still have it?" I frowned. "My mother died six years ago." Something changed in his face. Not grief. Recognition. As if a puzzle piece had just fallen into place. Before I could ask what he meant, a man behind him spoke. "Damian." Not Mr. Cross. Not President. Just Damian. The man looked between us. Then at my locket. His face went pale. I noticed. So did Damian. "Why is everyone looking at this?" I asked. Nobody answered. I tightened my fingers around the locket. Damian crossed the distance between us. His hand closed gently around my wrist. "Elena." I looked down at his hand. Then back at him. "Let go." He did. Immediately. That surprised me. He stepped back. "Go upstairs." "You're not answering my question." "I know." "What is this place?" "Something you were never supposed to see." "Who are these people?" "My brothers." "Brothers?" "The Black Reign Motorcycle Club." The name hit me a second later. I'd heard it. Everyone had. Whispers. News stories. Rumors. Disappearances. Violence. A motorcycle club that supposedly controlled much of the city's underground. A club nobody crossed. A club the police never seemed able to touch. I looked at Damian. The tattoos. The gun. The leather vest. Then I remembered the man I'd watched walk into the boardroom every morning in a tailored suit. Two worlds. One man. My boss. The billionaire. The secret. All of it suddenly made sense. Except one thing. Why me? I turned toward the elevator.The doors opened. I stepped inside. Before they closed, I looked back. Damian hadn't moved. He was watching me. Not like a CEO watched an employee. Not like a criminal watched a witness. Like a man watching something precious move dangerously close to the edge of a cliff. The doors began closing.Then I heard him say something. Quietly. Almost too quietly for me to hear. "She's wearing it." The doors shut. I stared at my reflection in the polished elevator wall. My hand tightened around the silver locket. For the first time in six years, I wondered why my mother had been so afraid of letting me take it off. Then another thought surfaced. One I didn't want to have.One I couldn't stop. Damian Cross had recognized my mother's locket. Which meant he'd known it existed. Which meant he knew my mother. And if that was true— then perhaps my father hadn't abandoned us after all.