CHAPTER 218: CLEAN SHADOWS

I nodded slowly, brain firing like a casino slot machine on coke. "Yeah, that tracks. With evidence like that hanging over Charlotte’s head, Margaret would cough up that 5% in half a heartbeat. Not worth watching her golden child get shredded like a TikTok star’s career after one racist livestream."

But these weren’t amateurs with too much time on LinkedIn. These were CIA-trained predators. Professional destroyers of human lives. People who probably listed "enhanced interrogation" as a hobby on their Bumble profiles.

"ARIA—show me Margaret’s movements. All of them. Anything that stinks."

And boom—the screens lit up like the Fourth of July had been outsourced to Silicon Valley. Footage poured in, cold, crisp, merciless.

And there it was. Clearer than a sex tape leak on TMZ. Margaret Thompson—Queen Widow of Quantum Tech—couldn’t sneeze without three shadows ghosting her every step. And not the sloppy, sweaty, mall-cop kind of tail. No—these guys moved with that predator walk, the kind that screamed "yeah, I’ve waterboarded a dude before brunch."

I grinned, teeth bared. "First mistake, boys. Big bosses can hide in the shadows, sure. But foot soldiers? Nah. They gotta go outside and actually do shit. And that’s where I eat them alive."

ARIA pulled their files faster than Reddit pulls receipts.

"Ellis Martins," she rattled, her holographic lips tightening. "Ex-CIA. Discharged for ’excessive interrogation techniques.’"

Translation: enjoyed torture too much even for the CIA. That’s like getting banned from a Vegas buffet for eating too much food.

"Samuel Sloane," ARIA continued, "he was an ex-Delta Force before he joined CIA, but he was let go too, now a private contractor. Suspected ties to assassination contracts."

Oh, lovely. A mercenary with a punch-card loyalty program. Kill nine CEOs, get the tenth free.

"Oliver Kane," ARIA’s tone dropped. "Former NSA surveillance specialist before joined CIA. He Disappeared from federal records in 2019."

"Perfect," I muttered, blood thrumming with anticipation. "A torturer, a hitman, and Big Brother’s creepy cousin. Hell of a boy band you’ve assembled, Helena."

Because let’s be real: you don’t deploy this dream team just to send Margaret a threatening voicemail.

ARIA confirmed it, her voice tight with digital dread. "No one burns assets this valuable for mere intimidation. These operatives are positioned for direct action."

And that’s when it hit me. Like a sledgehammer made of pure oh fuck.

"These bastards..." My fist slammed the desk. "They’re not after 5%. They’re not even trying to negotiate for Charlotte’s 75%. They want it all."

ARIA’s holographic eyes widened, fear pixelating across her perfect face. "After Margaret surrenders her shares under duress, they’ll escalate. Force Charlotte to surrender the company—or watch her mother disappear forever."

The elegance of it made me sick. Margaret protects her daughter, then becomes the weapon to obliterate that same daughter. Brutality dressed up in Armani.

"Master..." ARIA’s voice trembled, a rarity that made my gut twist. "They intend to complete this operation within one week."

My chest tightened. "A week? I’d budgeted three months for corporate warfare. Three months of careful plays, shadow deals, gradual leverage. They’re fast-tracking this like a Netflix series greenlit for cancellation."

"Indeed, Master," ARIA agreed. "This urgency doesn’t align with their historical operations. They’ve never been this direct, this sloppy. Which means..."

Something—or someone—was riding their asses hard enough to make them sprint. Either they were being hunted by something scarier than they were, or they’d spotted a threat ugly enough to make them break their own playbook.

"Why not both?" I muttered. And yeah, the thought sent ice skating through my veins.

But the real horror wasn’t their panic. It was Charlotte’s future suddenly snapping into focus like a jump-scare. Now I understood why the system had predicted her suicide. This wasn’t paranoia—it was architecture. A whole fucking cathedral of destruction built brick by brick to drive her into the grave.

Her mother kidnapped. Her company stolen. Her father’s legacy burned alive in front of her. And the final choice: save Mom or save Dad’s empire.

And if she failed both? If she lost everything in one cruel sweep? Yeah. That’s when the bullet, the rope, or the pills would start looking like an exit sign.

"ARIA!" My voice cracked like a whip. "Monitor Charlotte’s comms immediately. She’s stubborn as hell—if her mother gets threatened, she’ll ghost me and try to handle it herself. Which means she’ll get herself killed. And then I’ll have to attend a funeral I really, really don’t want to fake-cry at."

"Already establishing surveillance protocols, Master."

"Good. Now extend it to Margaret. We’re fighting on two fronts: Marcus Webb’s squeaky-clean, ’I’m just here for a friendly merger’ corporate bullshit, and Helena Voss’s CIA-assassin-black-ops-death-circus."

Because that last share purchase? Yeah, that was the final handshake deal. From here on out, no more paperwork. Just Plan B: kidnapping, blackmail, psychological warfare so cruel it made Saw look like a Disney ride.

But killers of this caliber always had insurance.

"They’ll have a Plan C," I said, the words sharp enough to cut myself on. "This op—this kidnapping—that’s just the middle layer. If we play it right, following that trail leads us straight to the big bosses. But even if we save Margaret, even if we wreck their snatch-and-grab? It won’t end. They’ll reload and try again. Different tactic. Different target. Same vultures."

"Agreed, Master. Disrupting their operation only delays the inevitable."

"Exactly," I growled. "Which means we’re not playing defense anymore. We’re uprooting them. Completely. ARIA, trace every shell company, every Cayman account, every dummy corp with a cute LLC sticker. Find their financial arteries, their operational weak points, their backup hideouts. And lock Helena Voss under 24/7 eyes-on. If she sneezes, I want to know the pollen count."

This wasn’t corporate maneuvering anymore. This was war. And they’d crossed the one line you never cross.

They threatened someone under my protection. Which meant they’d threatened me. And the system—oh, the system loved it when I got protective. My rewards for keeping Charlotte breathing were practically dripping like steak juice off the grill.

"Now, now..." My grin stretched sharp enough to make ARIA’s processors hum like a vibrator on full charge.

The hunt wasn’t just beginning.

It was about to get personal.

"Are you ready for Daddy, Miami?"