He took inventory of his body with clinical detachment. Dislocated right shoulder that had been roughly forced back into its socket while he was unconscious. Multiple contusions to hisface and torso. Nothing immediately life-threatening, but the night was young.
Despite the fog of pain, his mind sharpened with each passing second. Training and experience kicked in—absorb information, analyze the situation, identify potential advantages. Industrial lighting, no windows, a single metal door with heavy bolts. From the distant muffled sound of waves, he guessed he was in a building near the water. But he could be anywhere. He had no idea how long he’d been out.
The memory of the attack returned. Britt and Paloma had to be safe at the Stingray Security compound by now. Protected by his friends, who were no doubt canvassing the islands to find him. His only focus—stay alive long enough to be found.
The heavy door swung open with a grating metallic groan. Two men entered first—Quattro enforcers in black tactical gear, faces expressionless behind designer sunglasses. Professionals, not street thugs. They positioned themselves on either side of the doorway, hands resting casually on holstered .45s.
Then Alejandro Cerundolo stepped into the room.
If the concrete chamber was a torture cell from a bleak, forsaken nightmare, Alejandro was a visitor from another world entirely—tailored Brioni suit in charcoal gray, platinum cufflinks catching the harsh light, Ferragamo loafers gleaming despite the dusty floor. His dark hair was styled with precision, stubble perfectly maintained along his jawline. Everything about him exuded wealth, power, and calculated control.
Everything except his eyes.
Those were wild, haunted. The eyes of a man consumed by something that all his money and power couldn't satisfy. Lachlan recognized that look—grief mixed with vengeance, a dangerous cocktail that had driven stronger men to madness.
Three more enforcers filed in behind him, closing the door with an ominous thud. Unlike the first two guards, these mencarried themselves with the casual confidence of experienced killers.
Alejandro circled him slowly, steps echoing off the concrete walls. His cologne—something expensive and subtle—was jarring in the brininess of the room. After completing a full circuit, he stopped directly in front of Lachlan, hands clasped behind his back.
"Lachlan Ritchie,” Alejandro pronounced the name as if tasting it. "Finally, we meet face to face. On my terms. Not yours. I hope you don’t mind.”
Lachlan maintained eye contact but remained silent. He'd been on both sides of this equation as a pilot for the ALF flying special ops missions. He’d heard the opening moves of an interrogation designed to establish dominance, to make the subject feel powerless. Engaging too early was a rookie mistake. He needed to hear what Alejandro had to say, determine their plans for Britt, and figure out the best way to save her life with the intel Stingray stole from the PISCOs.
"Nothing to say?" Alejandro raised an eyebrow.
“This meeting was inevitable. I never expected you to roll out the red carpet, but kidnapping me from my home is a bit much,” Lachlan said. “How about we not waste each other’s time? Why are you looking for me?”
A flicker of something—respect, perhaps—crossed Alejandro's face. "Direct. I appreciate that." He moved to the metal table and leaned against it, crossing his ankles in a posture of casual confidence. "I brought you here for answers. And justice."
"Justice for what?" Lachlan asked.
“Britt.” Alejandro's voice softened on her name, a lover's caress. "For the woman I loved and lost because of you.”
The accusation hung in the air between them. Lachlan's expression remained neutral, though his mind raced to processwhat he was hearing. He hadn’t expected Alejandro to know about his relationship with Britt, them falling in love. Was that what drove him to fake her death and hold her hostage for three years? Was that driving Alejandro to hunt her down and kill her now that she’d found her way back to him? Lachlan bit back a surge of anger, forcing himself to remain composed.
"You know," Alejandro continued, "when I first reviewed the files, I couldn't quite believe it. The military pilot who rescued Britt from the yacht explosion, only to become obsessed with her." He shook his head slowly. "Following her to Dove Island. Watching her. And then ..." His voice dipped lower. "The car bomb that took her from me. From all of us."
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lachlan's stomach clenched. His plans to convince Alejandro to spare Britt’s life faded away.
The narrative Alejandro laid out was a corrupted version of reality but with enough truth to seem plausible. Yes, he'd been the pilot who'd rescued Britt from the yacht explosion. But that rescue had led to them falling in love, not to a twisted obsession. They'd moved to Dove Island together after she became pregnant, entered the PIIB witness protection program to be safe as she waited to testify against her father and his cartel.
“Titus was on to you. Gathering evidence to prove his suspicions,” Alejandro thundered. “You killed Britt!”
Lachlan swallowed hard.
"And then, you conveniently appeared in Miami days before Titus was burned alive with white phosphorus.” Alejandro’s rant continued.
Another thread of truth twisted into a lie. He'd been in Miami before Titus's death—taking Paloma to see places her mother had loved, sharing stories of Britt with their daughter, trying to keep her memory alive. Not to murder her grandfather.
The claims left Lachlan momentarily speechless. The bizarre version of events and warped accusations were absurd. Nothing in the strategic sessions with the Stingray team had prepared him for the shocking fabricated narrative spewed by Alejandro.
“It wasn’t enough that you murdered Britt! You had to finish off the family by murdering him, too! He was like a father to me! And now everyone I ever loved is dead …” Alejandro’s voice turned ice cold. He moved closer, his controlled facade slipping just enough to reveal the raw emotion beneath. “And you’ll die tonight for taking their lives.”
"Your information is wrong," Lachlan said, each word measured. “I didn’t kill Britt or her father. If that’s why you’ve been hunting me down, you’ve wasted your time. You got the wrong man.”
Alejandro's expression hardened. He nodded once to one of the enforcers standing behind Lachlan. The blow came without warning—a precise strike to Lachlan's kidney that sent white-hot agony radiating through his body. He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out, tasting fresh blood.
“You think I’m stupid! Titus had enough proof of your crimes to fucking bury you … but you beat him to it. You murdered him before he could kill your sorry ass for killing his daughter,” Alejandro said.
