Page 173 of The Hunter's Empire

...and spit directly into his face.

Chapter 38

Domenico

Iremain standing at the front door long after Zora's car disappears from view. For several moments, I simply stare down the empty driveway, listening to the fading sound of her engine until even that disappears into the morning traffic.

I tell myself I did the right thing. She deserved the truth, no matter how painful it was, and she deserved the space to decide whether she ever wanted to see me again. That much, at least, is her choice. Yet as I close the front door behind me, an uneasy feeling settles in the back of my mind, one that refuses to leave no matter how many times I try to reason with it.

I spend the next hour attempting to distract myself. I clean my weapons, answer several encrypted messages from peoplewanting to bid or participate in the next auction, and force myself to review reports from my latest assignment.

Every few minutes, my attention drifts back to the conversation we had over breakfast. The tears in her eyes. The disbelief on her face. The way she looked at me after learning why I had entered her life. I had expected anger. I had expected hatred. What I hadn't expected was the overwhelming feeling that letting her walk out that door had been a mistake.

Eventually, I stop pretending I can concentrate. I reach for my phone and call her.

She doesn’t pick up.

I frown but don't think much of it. She told me she was meeting Sebastian. They had unfinished business, and the last thing she needed was me interrupting whatever conversation they were having. I set the phone back down and force myself to wait.

Thirty minutes later, the feeling in my chest has only grown heavier. I call again. Nothing. This time the call doesn't even ring. I try once more with the same result. Her phone is unreachable.

I lower the device slowly, forcing myself to think rationally. A dead battery. No signal. She turned it off. Every explanation sounds perfectly reasonable, yet none of them quiets the instinct telling me something is wrong. After everything that happened over the last twenty-four hours, Zora wouldn't simply disappear without a word.

The realization settles over me with frightening clarity. This isn't normal.

I'm moving before I consciously decide to. Within seconds, my computer is powered on and lines of code are racing across the screen as I cut through one security layer after another. Her office network is heavily encrypted, but I've studied its architecture before. It takes less than a minute to gain access to the internal surveillance system.

One camera feed after another fills the monitors.

The receptionist and security staff are on their knees, their hands clasped behind their heads while armed men stand over them.

I switch to the lobby. Guests, employees, and visitors are being held together beneath the watch of more gunmen. No one is speaking. No one is moving.

The parking garage. Drivers and security personnel have been forced to the ground between the vehicles, rifles trained on them from every direction.

My stomach tightens as I continue cycling through the feeds. Every floor tells the same story. Everywhere I look, employees and visitors are being held at gunpoint while armed men control every entrance and exit. There is no panic anymore. Only terrified compliance.

The building hasn't been evacuated. It's been occupied.

My pulse begins pounding as I switch to the executive floor. Conference rooms are filled with frightened staff under armed guard, while the remaining employees stand lined against the walls with their hands raised. This isn't a hostage situation that spiraled out of control. It's a coordinated takeover.

"What the hell..."

Without hesitating, I open the feed from Zora's office. The image freezes me where I stand.

Zora faces Mikkel across the office while Sebastian leans heavily against a desk. A third man stands between them with his back to the camera.

My blood runs cold. I'm already too late.

"No..." The word escapes my lips before I even realize I've spoken.

Without wasting another second, I retrieve my pistol and two spare magazines from the desk drawer, holster the weapon, snatch my motorcycle keys, and pull on my helmet. By the time the garage door finishes opening, the engine is already roaring beneath me.

The streets of Manhattan become nothing more than obstacles between me and her.

I weave through traffic with barely any regard for speed limits or traffic lights, slipping between cars wherever there's enough space for the motorcycle to fit. Horns blare behind me, brakes screech, and angry shouts disappear into the wind, but I don't hear any of them. My entire focus narrows to a single destination.

The closer I get, the faster I ride.