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Jordan’s gaze fixated on a camera, its lens staring back at her with an intriguing intensity. “All hail the queen,” she breathed, her voice carrying a weight of significance. It was more than a mere phrase, more than an act of self-indulgence. Alex instantly recognized it as a voice identification code, a unique combination of words tailored to confirm one’s identity.
A subtle smile played on Jordan’s lips as she directed a knowing glance at the camera, her eyes flickering with an enigmatic spark. Alex’s attention was drawn to a discreetly placed barrel beneath the camera, its purpose daunting and intentional.
While it appeared to be a safeguard against unwanted intruders, he suspected it held a potent tranquilizer dart, a strategic choice over a lethal bullet. In this realm, capturing and extracting knowledge was far preferred over a quick kill.
In a seamless motion, the colossal gates swung open, granting them passage from the ordinary world to the clandestine domain reserved only for those who held the key.
Perched along the Long Island seaboard, nestled amidst the lush coastal landscape, stood a magnificent mansion. The stone Goliath stood as a testament to architectural opulence, a harmonious blend of timeless elegance and modern luxury.
The nameCrestview Manorwas captured on a majestic stone pillar, intricately etched to command attention with its timeless elegance and solemn presence.
The letters themselves seemed to bear the weight of the manor’s rich history, as if whispering stories of triumphs and tragedies—romance and heartbreak—to all who passed by.
The sprawling gardens, meticulously tended to, showcased nature’s splendor in full bloom. This place exuded an aura of timeless sophistication, a sanctuary where the privileged few indulged in life’s most exquisite pleasures.
As Jordan parked the car, Alex’s gaze swept over the expanse of sprawling grounds. It wasn’t just the panoramic grounds that captured his attention; it was the fortress-like security measures meticulously integrated into every corner.
Surveillance cameras stood sentinel, their unblinking lenses scanning the surroundings, while motion sensors and weapons hid in the shadows, ready to spring into action at the slightest disturbance.
These guards weren’t just protectors of the estate. They were armed to the teeth and ready to decimate a battalion at a moment’s notice—a stark reminder of where Alex was and the transformation Paco Robles had undergone.
Now, when Alex saw Paco, it would be like visiting a present-day Midas—his burden hidden beneath a golden facade. While others saw only the glimmer of his power, they failed to comprehend the weight Paco carried on his well-framed shoulders.
Jordan took the lead, gracefully gliding through the opulent halls with an air of familiarity that could only mean one thing: she was home.
A thunderous voice echoed from behind a door, slicing through the stillness and demanding immediate attention.
Their ears perked up. Instinctively, each of them took a position by the door, eavesdropping on the explosive confrontation taking place on the other side. “You must be out of your goddamned mind,” the voice boomed with raw intensity.
“Maybe,” came the defiant response, laced with equal parts bravery and audacity.
Rage seeped through the closed door, a testament to Paco’s typically composed nature unraveling at the seams. Paco unleashed a torrent of expletives in Spanish, momentarily reverting back to his roots before swiftly switching back to English. His tone was calmer. Deadlier. “Do you want to die?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” the adversary smarted back.
Whoever dared to challenge Paco had no clue of the dangerous territory they were waist-deep in. Paco’s unwavering calm was legendary, but in that moment, it had devolved into an unleashed, full-throttle, mach-10 shit storm.
The realization that Paco might be on the brink of killing a man caught Alex off guard. Not that Paco ever shied away from taking matters into his own hands. Despite his polished manicure and ten-thousand dollar suits, like Alex, Paco was a man of action.
But, it was the voice. The voice of whoever Paco spoke to was wrong, somehow. High-strung and sassy and…young.
Too young.
In a flurry of movement, the door swung open, and Cole Dennison emerged. His usually composed disposition was replaced by a hurried and slightly disheveled appearance. It wasn’t like him to flee a scene, tail-tucked.
Amused and curious, Alex crossed his arms and raised a brow. “Here for last rites?”
Unsuspecting, Cole whipped around, eyes wide. He stammered through his words, a rare occurrence for the former man of the cloth. “Alex...hey, what are you doing here?”
“Jordan brought me. You remember Jordan, right?”
Of course, he remembered Jordan.She’d be impossible to forget, considering she was the first woman to crack through those pesky vows of celibacy since he abandoned the church.
Guilt washed over Cole, his eyes filled with apology. “You shouldn’t be here, Alex,” he urged, his voice laced with concern. But his attempt to block Alex’s path with his resolute stance fell short.
Alex’s smirked. “Wrong place, right time, that’s my specialty.” With a dismissive gesture, he tried brushing Cole aside. “Why don’t I just check things out?”
“You can’t.” Cole straightened, standing his ground. Rushed, he added, “Not with Paco this furious.”
