Chapter 12
Apr 18, 2025
The warning arrived like a whisper in the dark, a single text message on Celeste’s encrypted phone:
“They’re coming for Beneventi. Tonight.”
The message shouldn’t have bothered her—threats were as common as breathing in her world. But something about this one made her skin prickle.
She was still staring at the phone when the second message came through. This time, from her head of security:
“Warehouse 7 compromised. Multiple casualties.”
Celeste’s fingers tightened around the device.
Warehouse 7 was their primary weapons cache, heavily fortified and off any official record. The fact that someone had not only found it but successfully breached it meant this wasn’t a random hit.
This was calculated. Personal.
Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
“Turn on the news,” the message read.
Channel 9 was running breaking coverage of a “tragic accident” on the interstate. A cargo truck had been forced off the road, its contents—officially listed as electronic components—scattered across three lanes.
The camera panned across the wreckage, and Celeste recognized the subtle marking on one of the containers. It belonged to De Luca.
Her laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. So, their mystery attacker was playing both sides.
How… efficient.
The phone rang. This time, she recognized the number.
“We have a problem,” Stephan’s voice was tight, controlled—the sound of a man barely containing his rage.
“You have a problem,” Celeste corrected, watching his truck burn on her television screen. “I’m handling mine.”
“Warehouse 7?” The smugness in his tone made her teeth clench. “Doesn’t look like you’re handling anything.”
Celeste’s free hand curled into a fist. “How did you—”
“Because whoever it is, they’re coming for both of us.” A pause. “We need to talk.”
She should have hung up. Should have let him deal with his own mess while she focused on hers.
But curiosity—that damned weakness she’d never quite mastered—got the better of her.
“The Golden Room. One hour. Come alone.”
“I always do,” he replied, but she’d already ended the call.
The Golden Room was neutral territory, an upscale bar owned by a retired player who enforced peace with an iron fist and well-paid security.
Celeste arrived early, choosing a corner booth with clear sightlines to all exits. She ordered whiskey neat and waited.
Stephan came exactly on time, looking like he’d stepped out of a board meeting rather than a crisis.
His suit was immaculate, dark grey that brought out the steel in his eyes. Those eyes found her immediately, and something shifted in them—recognition, assessment, perhaps a hint of appreciation.
He slid into the booth across from her, his movements fluid despite the tension radiating from his frame.
A server appeared with a glass of scotch—his usual, she noted. So he came here often enough to be known.
“You don’t trust me,” he said after a moment of studying her face.
Celeste’s laugh was genuine this time. “You’re quick.”
“Then why are you here?” He leaned back, one arm draped across the booth, casual in a way that screamed danger.
Her smirk faded slightly. “Because I’d rather be the one to destroy you than let someone else do it.”
Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe even respect. “How generous of you.”
“I’m known for my charity.” She took a sip of whiskey, letting the burn ground her. “Your shipment—what was in it?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
His eyes narrowed. “Does it matter?”
“It might.” She leaned forward slightly. “Because whatever was in that truck was valuable enough for someone to risk a very public hit. Just like whatever they were looking for in my warehouse was worth taking out twelve of my best men.”
Stephan’s fingers tapped once against his glass—the only tell she’d seen from him all night. “Twelve?”
“Don’t pretend you care.”
“I don’t. I care about patterns.” He met her gaze directly. “Your men were killed efficiently. Professional hits, minimal collateral damage. My driver was executed the same way—single shot, center mass. They’re sending a message.”
“We’re being hunted,” Celeste concluded, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.
“By someone who knows both our operations intimately.” Stephan took a long drink, his throat working. “Someone with resources, training, and a grudge.”
“That’s a long list.”
“Not as long as you’d think.” He set his glass down carefully. “Not when you consider the timing.”
Celeste felt it then—the shift in the air, the weight of unspoken knowledge
