Page 100 of Rescuing Aria
“Because I didn’t know the cost,” I counter.
“Didn’t you?” His smile is cold, knowing. “Or did you simply choose not to ask the questions that might have uncomfortable answers?”
The accusation lands like a physical blow because there’s truth in it. How many times did I notice inconsistencies in my father’s explanations? Staff who disappeared after asking too many questions? The secretive facilities overseas that were always “too dangerous” for me to visit?
“That’s how he works,” Wolfe interjects softly. “Makes you complicit. Binds you to him with beautiful chains you don’t want to examine too closely.”
My father’s attention snaps back to Wolfe, hatred blazing in his eyes. “As if you’re any better. Shall we discuss your ‘merchandise’? The children you’ve sold? The lives you’ve destroyed?”
“I’ve never claimed moral superiority,” Wolfe acknowledges, his gaze flickering to the nameless girl still pressed against the wall. Something like regret crosses his features. “Merely honest about what I am.”
The girl’s eyes meet mine briefly, and in that moment, I understand that neither of these men deserves my loyalty. They’re two sides of the same coin—one operating in shadows, the other behind a veil of respectability, but both building empires on suffering.
The elegant dining room suddenly feels like a stage set—all beauty and no substance, disguising the ugly reality beneath. The crystal, the silver, the priceless art on the walls—all of it paid for with blood.
“You’re both monsters,” I say again, my voice stronger now. “And neither of you deserves to call yourselves my father.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jon
The documents pressagainst my skin as I move toward the dining room, each step silent on the polished marble. The weight of what I carry—names, dates, proof—burns like a brand against my lower back. Evidence enough to dismantle Marcus Holbrook, to finally expose the puppet strings he’s been yanking for decades. But that only matters if I make it to Aria.
I press forward, each movement deliberate, blending into the opulence around me. The corridor stretches like a gauntlet, chandeliers dripping with crystal casting refracted halos across glossy walls. I stay in the shadows, slipping between the pools of light like a ghost. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of air registers like an alarm in my head. I’ve made it this far, but the longer I’m loose, the tighter the noose will draw.
The dining room door stands partially ajar at the end of the hall. Voices float out in low cadence, muffled by thick oak. Wolfe’s drawl, theatrical and deliberate. Marcus’s tone, clipped and calculating. And woven somewhere between them, Aria’s silence.
My Glock is warm in my hand. Full magazine. Round chambered. Knife tucked at my waistband. Delta team is stilltwenty minutes out—an eternity when you’re running out of time.
Ten more steps. Eight. Six.
A guard rounds the corner, sharp and sudden. His eyes lock on mine. Recognition hits a second later—the prisoner who shouldn’t be free.
“Intruder!” he shouts, reaching for his weapon.
Shit.
I lift the Glock, aim instinctively, calculate the angle to avoid hitting the dining room beyond. Before I can pull the trigger, chaos erupts.
Three more appear—one from a hidden side entrance I hadn’t noticed, and two from the far end of the corridor. The door bursts open, and out comes Wolfe’s head of security. Big, fast, and pissed.
“Target located,” he barks into his radio, weapon trained on my center mass. “East corridor, approaching dining hall.”
Four against one. Bad odds just became impossible odds. I’ve survived worse. But not often.
I fire as I dive, aiming for the closest threat. One guard drops with a grunt, shot in the shoulder. The second round misses as the chief barrels into me, driving me down hard. My ribs scream on impact with the marble.
The Glock skitters across the floor.
Rough hands grab for me. I twist, elbow connecting with someone’s jaw, but it buys me seconds, not freedom. A boot slams against my neck, pinning me down. The cold seeps into my skin, into my bones. I’m face first on the polished floor, vision swimming.
So close. Five more seconds and I would have reached her.
“Sir, we have him,” the security chief growls into his radio, pressing harder. “Threat contained.”
Through the buzz in my ears, I catch the sound of Wolfe responding. Garbled. Dismissive.
Hands wrench my wrists behind my back, zip ties slicing into skin. Another set digs through my waistband, retrieving the knife with a satisfied grunt. But it’s the documents they want. One of the guards yanks them free, the folded pages crinkling with the sound of damning truths.
