Page 77 of Power

In the center sat a solitary steel chair, its leather straps hanging open like waiting arms. Thick iron cuffs protrudedfrom the concrete floor, their chains clinking softly. Along one wall, instruments glinted: electric cattle prods, a tangle of braided whips, and coils of hemp rope. A rack held rows of curved knives and serrated machetes. My pulse sped.

By the far corner stood a stainless-steel surgical table, its surface polished to a cruel gleam. A slow, grim smile spread across my lips. I pointed.

“There,” I said. “Tie him to the table.”

Two of my men dragged Xenos into the chamber. The canvas bag slipped from his head, revealing bloodshot eyes and a desperate tremor in his chin.

Spotting Elias and me side by side, he bellowed, “You bastards!”

His words slurred, head lolling. Before he could struggle, Iason yanked a leather ball gag from a nearby tray and forced it between his teeth.

I walked up to him, watching as they tied him to the table despite his weak attempt at struggling. He was still under the influence of drugs and was practically as weak as a newborn.

I approached as they buckled Xenos’s wrists to the table clamps. His fingers thrashed weakly. His breath came in ragged gasps, the residue of sedatives slackening his limbs.

Elias’s voice cut through the quiet drip of water from a loose pipe. “What’s the plan?”

I met his gaze. “I’ll kill him. But first, I’m telling Cali. She can watch me finish this.”

Elias nodded, his eyes darting to his father’s bound form. His grief and hatred for the man before us filled the roomwith a thick electric tension, ready to spark. I waited a few moments, watching Elias, until he lifted his gaze to mine.

“So be it. His suffering doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to Calista. We give her what she wants.”

Then, without another word, he nodded once, turned, and left the room, letting the door swing shut behind him and leaving me to set up for the event ahead.

My team and I spread old tarps under the table, their plasticky rustle filling the silence. We arranged scalpels, saws, needles, and vials of clear liquid. Each tool landed on the surface with a familiar click.

After an hour of meticulous preparation—scrubbing every surface and lining up the implements in neat rows—I watched Iason as he methodically injected another sedative into Ozias’s IV. The moment the fluid coursed through the line, Ozias’s eyelids fluttered shut, and drool seeped from the corner of his mouth, a stark reminder of his helplessness.

We cleaned the sweat and dirt from our hands, shoulders, and faces before following Elias’s path back through the stalls and up the twisting stairs to his home. At the top, a warm, buttery scent drifted down the hallway.

I pushed open the kitchen door and found Cali in front of the marble island, her flour-dusted hair cascading in soft waves. Her sisters moved around her, rolling dough and stamping out shapes, the clatter of baking sheets filling the air. Golden croissants, sugar-dusted Danishes, and plump blueberry muffins were arranged in neat rows, creating a feast forthe eyes.

“Leon!” Cali dropped her wooden rolling pin, a flurry of flour rising around her.

She raced to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. The second she pressed against me, the warmth of her body seeped into me, easing the tension of the night.

Her lips brushed against mine, sweet and tender, and I felt a rush as I settled my hands on her hips.

A lightness blossomed in my chest, banishing the lingering shadows of the afternoon.

“Good morning, darling.” I pulled back to survey the countertop: rolling pins dusted with white, a spilled bag of sugar, a mound of dough patiently awaiting its turn.

“What’s all this?”

“Just some kitchen adventures,” she said, her beaming smile illuminating the room. I chuckled, noticing the smudge of flour on her nose, and I reached up to wipe it away.

“You look like you’re having fun,” I remarked, my smile mirroring hers.

“Has Calista not told you about her baking obsession?” Avra interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“Not yet,” I replied, my anticipation growing. “But I can’t wait to sample your creations. I’m famished.”

“Here, try this.” Before I could shift my weight, Calista had whisked a chocolate-streaked croissant from the tray and pressed it into my hand.

Warmth radiated from it, melting fudge oozing through the flaky layers. I lifted it to my lips, biting in, a burst of rich, buttery sweetness dancing across my tongue.

“You made this?” I gasped between bites. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

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