Page 28 of Salvation

I turned back to the war room, to the maps and photos and fading hopes. Sleep wasn’t an option. Rest wasn’t an option. Not until my family was safe.

The door to the war room creaked open, breaking my dark thoughts. Prospero stood in the doorway, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands, his expression calm despite the chaos that had engulfed the club. The treasurer had always been the steady one -- analytical, composed, a counterbalance to the more volatile temperaments that filled our ranks. Right now, that steadiness felt like both a blessing and an irritation, highlighting my own fraying control.

“Thought you could use this,” he said, crossing the room to set one cup on the table near me. “It’s the good stuff, not that sludge from the main pot.”

I nodded my thanks, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug. Prospero didn’t speak immediately, giving me space as he surveyed the room, taking in the maps, the photos, the growing evidence of my desperation.

“Any word?” he finally asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“Nothing new.” The coffee scalded my throat as I swallowed. “Shield’s working an angle with some cell data. Beast and Hawk are still out searching. But we’re just…” I gestured at the map, the red Xs mocking me. “We’re going in circles.”

Prospero leaned against the edge of the table, studying me over the rim of his mug. Unlike most of us, he looked relatively put-together despite the crisis -- his blond hair combed, his clothes unwrinkled. Only the shadows under his blue eyes betrayed his own exhaustion.

“You should get some rest,” he said. “Even an hour would help. You’re no good to them running on fumes.”

“I can’t.” The words came out sharper than intended. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them. Bound. Afraid. Wondering why the hell I haven’t found them yet.”

Prospero didn’t flinch at my tone. “They’re strong, both of them. Yulia especially. She’s survived worse.”

“That’s the fucking point,” I said, setting the mug down so hard coffee sloshed over the rim. “She’s been through enough. She deserves better than this. Better than --” I cut myself off, turning to stare at the wall of information that had yielded nothing useful.

“Better than what?” Prospero pressed gently.

I pressed my palms against my eyes, the pressure building behind them threatening to erupt in a way I couldn’t afford. When I lowered my hands, my gaze caught on the photo of Yulia and Clover again.

“I fucked up,” I admitted, my voice rough with emotion. “I had years to tell her how I felt, and now…” I shook my head, unable to finish the thought.

Understanding dawned in Prospero’s eyes. Unlike some of the newer brothers, he’d known the full story from the beginning -- how I’d married Yulia to protect her from her father’s enemies, how our arrangement had been on paper only. He’d been there when I’d brought her home, a terrified girl who flinched at sudden movements and couldn’t sleep without a light on. He’d watched as she slowly rebuilt herself, as our relationship evolved from protector and protected to something more complex, more meaningful.

“You’ll get the chance to tell her,” he said with quiet certainty. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get your wife and daughter back.”

“It shouldn’t have taken this.” I gestured around the room, at the evidence of our desperate search. “Eleven years. Eleven fucking years of living under the same roof, raising Clover together, and I never had the balls to just say it. To tell her that somewhere along the line, that marriage license became real for me.”

Prospero set his coffee down and stepped closer, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “You were respecting her boundaries. After what she’d been through, you didn’t want to pressure her.”

“Maybe at first,” I conceded. “But these last few years? That was just cowardice. Fear that she’d reject me. That I’d lose what we had.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “And now I might lose her anyway.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Prospero’s grip on my shoulder tightened. “Listen to me, Salvation. We will find them and bring them home. And then you can spend the next fifty years making up for lost time.”

Something about his certainty, the absolute conviction in his voice, eased the vise around my chest just slightly. This was why Prospero was our treasurer, our voice of reason. When he spoke with that tone, you believed him, no matter how dire the circumstances.

Before I could respond, the shrill ring of the club phone cut through the room like a physical presence. We both froze, eyes locked on the ancient landline that sat on a side table -- the dedicated line we never disconnected, the number known only to club members and a select few allies.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I crossed to it in two strides. Prospero was already moving, grabbing a pen and pad of paper from the desk.

“Put it on speaker,” he said. “Might be able to hear something in the background.”

I nodded, lifting the handset and pressing the speaker button in one motion. “Talk,” I demanded, my voice controlled despite the adrenaline surging through me.

“Reckless Kings.” The voice was digitally distorted, unrecognizable. “You missed our deadline.”

“You missed it,” I countered, my knuckles white around the handset. “Hard to deliver money when you don’t provide instructions.”

A mechanized laugh grated through the speaker. “Just testing your resolve. Seeing how serious you are about getting your family back.”

Prospero pointed to his watch, mouthing “Keep him talking” as he scribbled something on the pad and walked out. Tracing the call, most likely, though we both knew it was probably a burner.

“I’m dead serious,” I said, emphasizing each word. “But I need proof they’re alive and unharmed. Now.”

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