Page 80 of Fallen Heir
Millie’s voice came in behind us, quieter that before. Like the heaviness of everything just hit her. The danger that Savannah was really in. “Who is he?”
I didn’t answer right away. Neither of us did.
My throat was dry. “Gavriel Costa.”
Just saying the name made my chest tighten.
I straightened, folding my arms. “He runs one of the largest trafficking rings we’ve ever seen. Keeps it clean. No media, no digital trail. Makes people disappear. Quietly. Efficiently.”
Ben stopped pacing, just long enough to add, “A few years ago, his people took someone they shouldn’t have. The girl was the daughter of a high-society donor with more connections than the President. Her family didn’t hesitate. Outbid every buyer on the black market.”
I shook my head, remembering the lives that were lost that day. “Didn’t matter. We got to her first.”
Ben’s voice was flat. “Her. And a few others.”
“In and out,” I said. “No names. No trail. No one ever found out.” The memory crashed through me like a wave. That girl—shaking, silent. The blood. The locked doors. The bodies weleft behind. I wouldn’t dare tell her about the body count we racked up that day.That blood was on his hands.
“The world kept turning like nothing happened. But the bidders knew who she was. There was an uproar on the black market—people wanted blood over a high-ticket item being stolen out from under them. It shook things up for a while.”
Millie’s voice cut through the silence. “That man… is her husband?”
I turned toward her, jaw clenched. “No.”
I looked her dead in the eyes. “He’s worse than her husband.”
Millie paled instantly, her arms tightening across her chest like she was trying to keep herself from unraveling. And she was right to.
But it was Nic who spoke next. Her voice was quiet but firm, a vow sealed with steel. “We’re going to get her back.”
Ben let out a bitter breath. “Yeah. But can we get her back alive?”
The words gutted me—because for the first time since she disappeared, I realized I hadn’t let myself imagine that she might not make it out.
He snapped his fingers. “Nic—let me drive for a second.”
He didn’t wait for her to move, just rolled a chair up beside her and slid the laptop toward him, fingers already flying across the keys. The screens above flickered as the sync adjusted, spreadsheets and encrypted logs spilling across the monitors like a flood of secrets.
I stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
He was digging.
And fast.
Page after page of financial records blurred past. Transfers routed through offshore accounts. Dummy corporations. Shipping manifests. All carefully constructed to look legitimate to anyone not trained to look deeper. But Ben wasn’t just trained—he was built for this.
“Back up,” Nic said suddenly, leaning in. She tapped the screen. “There. Stop right there.”
Ben froze the scroll, eyes narrowing.
I looked to the monitor trying to decipher what they were looking at.
A line item near the bottom of the report stood out in a sea of numbers. Nondescript at first glance—just an inventory log dated a little over two years ago. But the quantity was wrong. The destination too vague.
Sixty-seven units. Commercial-grade mattresses.
Cheap. Mass-produced. No brand name listed. Just the manufacturer and a dock delivery address out in Jersey.
Ben sat back slowly, his jaw tightening. “Those aren’t abandoned buildings he’s buying up.”
