Victor Hale did not rage when he heard of the fires. Rage was sloppy. Rage made men careless.
Instead, he poured himself a glass of Scotch, set it on the polished mahogany table, and studied the map spread before him. Red pins for the docks. Black pins for the casinos. A single silver pin driven deep into the board for Kane's estate, gleaming like a knife tip.
His men circled nervously, waiting for the storm.
"Three warehouses gone," one of them muttered. "Millions lost."
Victor didn't look up. "Money is air. Breathe it in, breathe it out. What I lost was time." His fingers traced the silver pin. "And time, gentlemen, is blood."
They shifted uneasily.
On the far end of the table, Victor's lieutenant slid forward a photograph. Aria. Leaving the estate. Brows knitted, lips pressed tight, as if caught mid-thought.
"She's rattled him," the man said. "He protects her like a prize."
Victor's eyes sharpened. "Not a prize. A lock."
He lifted the photo, held it to the light. The girl's gaze seemed distant, unknowing. "Every fortress has a key. Kane's key wears silk dresses and thinks she's free."
The men exchanged glances.
"So we take her?" one suggested.
Victor smiled, cold and thin. "Not yet. Touch her, and Kane will scorch the earth. But… plant a shadow. Let her wonder. Let her doubt. A mind unraveling does more damage than any bullet."
He set the photo down beside his untouched Scotch.
"And when she finally asks herself the right question," he murmured, "she'll come to me."
---
Back at the estate, Aria sat on her bed, the note still burning in her palm. You don't know his truth.
The words coiled through her thoughts, looping tighter and tighter.
What truth?
And why did Victor want her to be the one to uncover it?