Page 5 of The CEO

“The shipment was compromised. Three of my men were arrested. So either you are completely incompetent or you betrayed me. Neither of those situations ends well for you.”

“It wasn’t me!” The other man’s voice grows louder with panic. Someone must have talked, but I swear on my mother,” he holds up his hand dramatically, “it wasn’t me. I’ve been loyal to The Shadows for five years, Damien. You have to believe me.”

I continue snapping photos at an alarming rate, the sound of the shutter thunderous in my ears. But I can’t stop.

Damien is beautiful. He moves with purpose and ease like an apex predator stalking its prey. The kind that you only see coming once it’s far too late.

He takes a step closer to the nervous man. “And yet, evidence would suggest otherwise.”

When Damien turns to face Roberts, something shifts in him. It’s a transformation so subtle yet profound that it sends ice through my veins as I watch from behind the foliage. His shoulders broaden somehow, not physically but in presence, and a predatory stillness overtakes him. He doesn’t just stand there; hewaits, the way a snake coils before striking.

The Shadows?I try to recall if I’ve heard the name, but it’s not ringing any bells. Even with my access to sources and a detective or two, that doesn’t sound like an organization or agency that has ever come across my desk.

Damien reaches inside his suit jacket to retrieve something, causing the shorter man to almost violently flinch. But when he pulls his hand back out, it’s just a phone. He checks the screen with casual indifference.

“You have twenty-four hours to prove your innocence, Roberts.” He slides the phone back into his pocket. “If you fail this time, you’ll be answering to The Skull. And trust me, he won’t be as forgiving as I am.”

“But how?” The man is practically weeping at this point. “How do I prove it?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Damien’s lips curve into what technically resembles a smile, but there’s nothing warm in it. His eyes seem to absorb the afternoon light rather than reflect it, like black holes pulling in everything, giving nothing back.

“But—”

“The Skull enjoys it, Roberts.” Damien’s voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries through the clearing. “He takes the phrase ‘wipe you off the face of the earth’ very literally—starting with your fingertips. Do you know how many nerve endings are in human fingertips, Roberts? Thousands. And The Skull removes each fingernail first, then the skin, millimeter by millimeter, with a tool he designed himself. It takes hours for him to work his way up to your face.” Damien leans closer, his expression almost tender. “By the time he reaches your eyes, you’ll be begging for death. But he won’t grant it until he’s peeled every inch of your skin from your body while keeping you conscious for all of it. It’s quite remarkable, actually.”

Roberts’ knees visibly buckle, and I press my hand against my mouth to stifle a gasp.

He doesn’t wait for the man to respond before turning to walk back toward his car. A chill runs through me, despite the scarf wrapped around my neck. Nothing he said was incriminating enough, but the fear in that other man’s eyes told me loud and clear that Damien Knox has every intention of delivering on his threats.

Standing beside his black car, he waits for the other man to leave. When he does, Damien turns slightly, taking a moment to glance over the pond. For one heart-stopping second, his eyes sweep right over my hiding spot.

My heart thuds in my chest as I duck lower, clutching my camera against me. I close my eyes and hold my breath, as if that might conceal me better. Finally, after several long seconds, I crack one eye open and peer through the bush. Relief settles over me when he reaches for the handle of his Bentley and pulls it open.

But just as he’s about to duck into the car, he pauses one last time, glancing over at the tree line again, only this time more deliberately. He tilts his head slightly, like he senses that something’s amiss.

I hold my breath, my heart thudding against my ribs so hard it hurts. I remain motionless, willing myself to blend in with the shadows and bushes. Just then, a soft breeze picks up, rustling the leaves around me and causing one to hit me perfectly in the eye.

“Ow!” I jerk back instinctively, my hand darting up to cover my eye, which causes me to tumble backward. I scramble to my feet again, trying to duck back down, when my bright green scarf catches on a branch.

“Shit!” I panic, tugging at it furiously, which only causes the bushes to rustle more. It snags, the tree’s grasp on it tight enough that I have no choice but to remove my camera from around my neck. I continue to frantically pull at the scarf as I try to right myself.

Damien is turned toward me now, and he’s stepped away from his car, like he’s seconds away from coming over to inspect the commotion. I watch him, holding my camera and trying to untangle the scarf from the tree, but it’s no use.

“No, no, no,” I say to myself, tears springing to my eyes as I watch the gift from my late mother flapping gently in the wind. I spin around, taking off before assessing my surroundings, and that’s when I tumble forward, twigs snapping beneath my feet. In my haste, I completely missed the exposed root my foot caught on. I fall hard, the camera tumbling from my hands.

I don’t bother checking to make sure it’s okay. Instead, I grab it and run, not looking back until I reach my car, panting. My hands shake as I lift my keys to the ignition, a scrape on my palm already stinging.

Pulling out of the forest preserve, I hit the gas, disappearing around the access road. I don’t bother checking my camera until I’m parked safely back in the garage at work. I hold my breath when I do, making sure she’s still in working condition. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any real damage other than a small scratch on the metal.

My heart still thuds loudly in my chest, and even with the sound of rushing water starting to fill my ears, I can still hear it. I can’t comprehend what I heard today . . . if those were merely idle threats from a power-hungry billionaire or . . . no, there’s no way they were empty threats. Not with the look on that poor man’s face and the way his hands shook almost uncontrollably. There’s something here—something I don’t think Damien Knox would want me or anyone else to know.

I pull out my phone and open the Notes app, typing out the words I remember hearing.

“The Shadows, The Skull, shipment, Roberts.” I chew on my bottom lip as my knee begins to bounce nervously. I have that feeling in my stomach again—the same one I had when I started to dig into my parents’ deaths. The same one that still emerges every so often when I see an injustice that goes unpunished.

Two years ago, I stumbled across another one of those injustices: Marianne Jeffries, a nursing home aide who reported medication theft at her workplace. Three weeks later, she was found dead in her apartment, an apparent suicide. When her obituary came across my desk—another generic summary of a life reduced to four inches of newsprint—I had that feeling.

Something about it nagged at me: the timeline, the circumstances, the fact that her brother insisted she wasn’t suicidal when I called to verify details. I started asking questions. Requested police reports. Tracked down colleagues. Found irregularities in the investigation.

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