Page 80 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

Instead, I keep low, shadowing my men as we slip around the back of the stone wall, moving through the dark like smoke. The gravel crunches under our boots, loud enough to make me wince. Every sound feels too sharp, too risky.

The two cars Harold arrived in are parked just ahead, sleek and black with tinted windows that swallow the moonlight. Both drivers linger outside, one leaning against the hood, the other pacing slowly, his cigarette flaring red in the dark.

Arthur gestures for us to hang back, then bends to scoop up a loose chunk of gravel. A quick tilt of his chin- a silentready?- before launching the rock into the trees.

The crack of branches snapping makes both drivers snap to attention. One swears under his breath, the cigarette tumbling from his fingers as he spins toward the noise. The other draws a gun from his belt and steps away from the car, eyes narrowing as he peers into the dark.

“Go,” Arthur hisses.

I dart forward, heart hammering. Roger flanks me on one side, Arthur on the other. We reach the first car, and Roger moves fast, sliding a thin blade into the trunk’s lock and twisting until it pops open with a softclick.

“Get in,” Roger mutters.

I clench my teeth and climb in, my pulse thudding in my ears. The air is stale and heavy with the scent of oil and rubber. I shift, pressing my back against the cold metal wall, tucking my knees to my chest.

Arthur follows, shoving himself in beside me. Roger takes the second car, slipping into the trunk just as quietly.

The lids close, swallowing us in darkness.

The silence feels suffocating, like the air is too thick to breathe. Every breath feels too loud, too risky. I count seconds- one, two, three- until I lose track entirely.

I don’t know how long we sit there, waiting in the black. My legs cramp, my back aches, but I don’t move. I can’t. Not when every breath feels like a countdown to the moment those engines roar to life- the moment Harold drives away, with my daughter in the car.

The muffled cries hit me like a fist to the chest.

My breath hitches, my pulse pounding in my ears as I strain to listen. It’s faint, but it’s there- soft, hiccuping sobs, the kind that scrape raw from a tiny throat.

A child.

My fingers curl against the cramped walls of the trunk, every muscle in my body locking up.Fantasia’s child.

The air in here is thick, suffocating, but the weight pressing on my chest has nothing to do with the space.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about whether she’s mine.

Don’t think about how many nights I’ve spent wondering.

It doesn’t matter. She’s Fantasia’s, and that’s all I need to know. That makes hermineto protect.

I clench my jaw, steadying my breath, forcing my body to stay still. I can’t afford to lose focus now.

The phone in my pocket is a dead weight—a silent tether to Achilles, to the only backup I have in this godforsaken situation. He’s tracking my every move, but that won’t mean shit if I get myself killed before we get the kid out.

The ride to Harold’s estate is long, tense, and silent, save for the occasional sniffle from the child in the back. Every second feels like a goddamn eternity, my muscles locked tight in the cramped trunk. I focus on my breathing, on the rhythmic hum of the tires against the road. I need to be sharp. One wrong move, and we’re all dead.

When the cars finally roll to a stop, I don’t move. Can’t move. Not yet.

Through the tiny gaps in the trunk, I listen. Doors opening. Voices, low and clipped. Footsteps crunching over gravel. A distant door creaking open, then slamming shut.

Then… nothing.

Time stretches, unbearable. My fingers flex against the rough fabric beneath me. Every instinct screams at me tomove, to get the hell out of here and find Fantasia’s kid, but I don’t. Not yet.

Hours pass. I count the breaths, the shifts in the house. The occasional murmur of voices drifts through the thick walls. A door groans on its hinges. Footsteps fade down a hall.

Then, finally, silence.

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