CHAPTER 161: MOCKERY BEHIND BARS

–Damon–

I don’t even know why we’re under arrest. No guns. No blood on our hands. Our bodyguard? Not a professional—just a rookie with too-soft eyes. That’s exactly why I picked him. Soft faces hide the sharpest knives.

They’re whispering Interpol, a murder in Chile. Cute. We’ve never been to Chile. Now we’re stuck in some windowed box—double-glazed, clinical, no sightline to the outside. White light and the smell of disinfectant. The kind of place that makes people confess to sins they never committed.

The cuffs are laughable. Easy to pick—but theatrics have their use. I’ll let the lawyers do the running. Let the men in suits work for their hourly rates.

They want to intimidate. Fine. Caine and I have flight logs. Everything is clean and traceable. We aren’t illegal here—our papers are as neat as a tailor’s stitch.

"Boss!" Gerald squealed as they snapped the cuffs on him. He’s breathing loudly, a child gripping a blanket.

"Gerald, stop crying. Relax. We didn’t do anything wrong." I kept my voice soft, patronizing. He nodded like a boy caught stealing biscuits. People are always surprised I bring a crybaby on runs—until they see what the kid can do. Angelic face, hungry hands. Dangerous combo.

My mind drifted to Livana. She should be soaking in the bathtub by now. I hope she doesn’t slip—though part of me wanted the domestic image to hold: steam, candles, a private reckoning. That was supposed to be our hour. The cops ruined it by barging into our room like they own the place.

We followed them politely while they rifled through our things. Per Livana’s instructions, I planted one of the compass prototypes in a place they’d find it. Let them choke on that. Better them than us.

Hours in interrogation. The room hummed; my patience didn’t. Then an American in cheap disguise walked in—tried to move like a man who belonged to suits and briefcases.

"Mr. Blackwell, what a surprise," he said, grin too wide.

"Yes, a surprise," I returned, calm as a churchyard. "Ryan, right?" I watched him shrink when I said his name. Power’s found in small things—knowing a man’s name will do that. "So tell me: what sin have I committed to earn this hospitality?"

"You were in Chile, weren’t you?" he said, like a boy who’d found a clue in a puzzle book.

I gave a faint gasp—overdone, theatrical. I lifted my cuffed hands to my mouth and let the air out slow. "Oh, you know that?" I smiled, all teeth. "Amazing. Except I was never in Chile. Whatever little scheme your government cooked up—it won’t stick."

He shoved photos at me. Faces blurred, but one looked like my face—an idiot’s attempt at resemblance. I held the photo to my cheek, feigning intimacy. "See? Flawless. My wife insists I keep it perfect. Not that she can see it—still, it’s my asset." A small laugh, to underline the joke. They didn’t find it funny. They never do.

They tried the timeline: the murder was over twenty-four hours ago; direct flights, arrivals. Predictable. I let them fidget. Let them connect dots that don’t belong together.

Ryan grabbed my collar when he lost patience. Hands on a neck are always a crude argument. "You should check my records before you embarrass yourself. Istanbul—two days. Solid alibi." I tilted my head like a judge passing sentence, and he released me, hurried out like he’d been burned.

Caine—my shadow—was on my mind. They’ll try to make him sing, but loyalty’s a currency they can’t print. You push him, you get more than a confession; you get a fight. I liked the idea of them thinking they could break him. They couldn’t. Not easily.

They brought food. I refused the offered slop—don’t insult me with spit-soup. I drank bottled water and let Gerald, once released, fetch takeout. Takeout kept us human while the state tried to make us less.

Ryan came back, cigarette hanging like a talon. "Isn’t this a non-smoking room?" I asked, wrinkling my nose. Smoke clings to everything—evidence, clothes, regrets.

He looked like a gangster who’d read one Chapter of gangsterhood. I chuckled. "Step outside. If my wife smells tobacco on me, I’m dead."

He laughed, mean. "For a big man like you, you’re scared of your wife?"

"I’m not scared," I said, precisely. "I avoid being killed by her coldness. People mistake silence for softness. Not Livana. She can’t see, and yet her glare finds a way. The worst punishments are the ones that leave you alive to rot."

He rolled his sleeves, watching the mirror to mask the recorder. "About your wife—does she work?" he asked, casually.

"Sometimes." My voice clipped. "You knew about the ambush, didn’t you?"

He shrugged—enough to show he knew. He left me, finally, in the cell.

They shoved me in with a hulking prisoner: big shoulders, eyes like rusted iron, smell of old fights. He towered. I laughed, low and soft. "Hit me anywhere—just not the face or my big boy down there. My wife loves my looks. Don’t want a divorce over damaged goods."

He wasn’t amused. A fist crashed into my gut. Air left my lungs like a candle snuffed.

"What’s the passcode to the compass?" his voice was a gravestone.

I coughed, let the pain bloom like a bruise. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." I tasted iron and smiled anyway—pain has a way of making people interesting. He moved, angry, but I went low, two quick strikes where it counts. He folded hard against the bunk.

I lay back on the thin mattress. It smelled clean enough to be insulting, but it would do.

"Keep quiet in here," I told him, voice velvet. He lunged—and a guard’s tapping hand on the bars saved us both from a longer conversation.

Outside, they think they’ve got a man. Inside, I had the future mapped—small whispers, a well-placed smirk, a compass nobody can open but my wife. And Livana? She’ll laugh when the pieces fall. She always does.

–Deanne–

I walked into the station like I owned the place. The fluorescent lights bounced off my heels and off the bored faces of the clerks. One of our men fell into step beside me—Gerald, pale and trembling.

"Miss Deanne," he blurted, voice breaking. "They took Boss to jail." He looked on the verge of tears.

I didn’t bother to console him. I sighed, leveled my stare at the officer holding the investigation-room door, and walked through it as if I were simply late for an appointment.

"Babe!" Caine called out in a melodramatic half-whisper when I stepped inside. He was cuffed; he sat like a pet put on display—a pout, a bruise of defiance. He kissed me before he’d even brushed his teeth. I pushed him away with a faint, theatrical shove.

"I have the paperwork ready," I said, and my voice folded into a clinical calm. "You have no lawful basis to continue this detention. Where’s Damon?"

"They sent him to jail," Caine said, mouth twisting.

I let the information sit between us with a slow, satisfied smile. The guards began removing Caine’s cuffs while Agent Ryan Cox stayed silent—trying his best to look unconcerned. I found that amusing.

"Agent Cox," I said his name like a summons. I reached into my purse with a deliberate, slow movement—enough for him to notice the steel in my fingers. "My principal is very particular about physical integrity. If my client’s husband sustains injury to the face, neck, or lower torso, understand this: I will pursue every civil and criminal remedy available. Injunctive relief, immediate asset restraint, criminal referrals—you will all become very busy."

Caine’s jaw dropped a fraction. He liked the performance. I liked that he liked it.

"Also," I added with a small smile, "the compass you currently possess transmits location data. It’s trailed. You’re running a very sloppy sting." Ryan’s composure slipped; he masked it badly.

"We both know this murder you’re pinning on my clients is a setup," I continued, lawyer-mode sliding into place like a second skin. "The paperwork shows they were in this city for three days before the Chile incident. Chain of custody will show tampering; witness statements will show inconsistencies; and any evidence you claim to have that wasn’t collected contemporaneously will be deemed inadmissible."

"Yet you knew all of the details," Ryan said, flat, as if he expected resistance.

"Of course," I said. "I occupy a central operational role in the Braxton-Carrington enterprise—Ines Braxton built this thing, and I run the legal scaffolding. Remember that name." I turned once, perfectly poised, and felt Caine slide his arms around me from behind.

He smelled like adrenaline and cheap cologne; his fingers found my waist and tightened. He rested his head against my shoulder like a man confessing to a fault.

I took a tissue from my clutch and dabbed Gerald’s face where he sniffled. "There, hero," I murmured, but my voice softened only enough to tease. Gerald blinked, steadier.

"Are we going to get Damon?" Caine asked, earnestness and impatience braided together.

"No," I said, cold and efficient. "Go take a bath. Clean yourself up." The corner of my mouth twitched—permission and punishment rolled into one. He grinned, half-wounded, half grateful.

"Shouldn’t we be rescuing Damon?" he pressed, earnest, fingers ghosting the small of my back.

"Brush your teeth at least," I told him. Gerald handed him a mint; he checked his breath like a boy checking his alibi.

Back at the hotel, their suite had been turned inside out. Drawers emptied, closets flung open—someone had been thorough, and sloppy. I had the Shadows photograph every disturbed item, catalog every glove print and footprint. Evidence is an ecosystem; you must preserve it or it turns on you.

A soft knock sounded, and Gerald opened the door. The chambermaid stood there with that practiced, embarrassed look of someone who’d seen too much.

"Miss Deanne," she managed.

"Perfect timing." I inclined my head. She stepped in and, almost apologetically, produced a handful of cleaning supplies and a small, suspicious module wrapped in plastic.

I took it with a gloved finger. "A tracker," I said, plainly. "They planted it in the room."

Caine, who’d been trailing me like a shadow with better cheekbones, tugged me toward his bedroom the instant I named it. His impatience was a live wire beneath his skin—eager, hungry. He pulled me by the waist with a grin that was equal parts mischief and command.

"Start with Caine’s bedroom," I told the chambermaid, voice low and dangerous. Then, to Caine, softer and dangerously intimate: "You’re faulted for impatience, baby. I want you to learn to ache for what I give you."

He answered by hauling me into the dark of his bed, pressing a kiss to the hollow of my throat. I let him. I like him raw—eager, a little bruised. He wanted to make love, to drown in me; I wanted him to linger on the edge, to be rewarded for restraint. I wanted him to suffer—that delicious, slow burn that makes surrender sweeter.

As the door clicked shut, I arranged my control with the same care I’d use in court: measured, inevitable, and final.