Chapter 161
The neon city lights began to fade, replaced by the flickering orange of sodium lamps as the Cadillac slinked into the industrial district. The smooth asphalt gave way to cracked concrete and gravel. It didn’t take long for the realization to hit me like a physical blow.
"Are you taking me back to that warehouse?" I asked from the back seat, my voice losing its playful edge. A cold knot of discomfort began to tighten in my gut.
The warehouse. The birthplace of my partnership with Monet, and the place where I’d nearly checked out of this world for good. It was a cathedral of rust and bad memories.
Abigail didn’t answer. She kept her eyes locked on the road, her profile as sharp and unreadable as a flint blade. The silence took me back to that first night—the night she’d kicked in my motel door with a suppressed pistol and a promise to erase me. She’d been an iceberg then, professional and lethal. Looking at her now, even in that red silk dress, I couldn’t tell if she was on a date or on a hit.
"Hey, I asked you a question," I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble.
"Yes, Druski. We’re going to the warehouse," she snapped, her eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror for a fleeting, jagged second. "Happy now?"
The confirmation did nothing to ease the tension. If anything, it made the air in the car feel thin. That warehouse wasn’t a place for business meetings or revenue reviews. It was a place for lessons, for blood, and for the kind of "discussions" that usually ended with someone in a shallow grave.
The car slowed as the massive, corrugated steel gates loomed out of the darkness. Abigail killed the headlights, letting the Cadillac coast into the shadows like a ghost.
"What are we doing here, Abigail?" I asked, my voice flat. I didn’t bother hiding the edge of suspicion.
"I told you. Monet wants to see you," she replied, her tone indifferent.
I scanned the perimeter through the tinted glass. It didn’t make sense. As far as I knew, Monet and I were in the honeymoon phase of our partnership. I was delivering the hits, the revenue was projected to skyrocket, and I’d been giving her the kind of sex that usually bought a man a lifetime of loyalty. I was sure I had her right where I wanted her.
So, why bring me back to the slaughterhouse? What had shifted in the shadows?
We stepped out of the Cadillac, the silence of the industrial district settling over us like a shroud. There were no guards, no hum of machinery, no city noise. Just the hollow whistle of the wind through the rusted rafters.
It was the perfect setting for a quiet disappearance.
"You coming?" Abigail asked, glancing back over her shoulder.
She didn’t wait for an answer. She started toward the heavy steel doors, her hips swaying hypnotically in that tight red dress. The silk shimmered against the grimy backdrop of the warehouse, a splash of blood-red in a world of grey.
I watched her for a moment, calculating. If this were an execution, she’d have me at gunpoint. She’d be behind me, not leading the way. But then again, Abigail was an artist of violence; she didn’t need a weapon in her hand to lead a man to his grave—she just needed a reason.
I let out a long, slow breath, checking the weight of the air. If the Queen wanted a throne-room chat in a dungeon, I’d give it to her. I followed Abigail into the darkness, the heavy door groaning on its hinges as we crossed the threshold.
The interior of the warehouse was a graveyard of rusted metal and towering wooden crates, the air stagnant and tasting of old oil. It was exactly as I remembered it—a cavernous void where silence felt like a physical weight.
I scanned the shadows, waiting for the familiar click of Monet’s heels or the glow of her lighter. Nothing.
"Is this the part where I’m supposed to ask what the fuck we’re doing here again?" I said, my voice echoing back at me from the rafters.
Abigail stopped and turned. The single overhead light caught the red silk of her dress, making her look like a drop of blood in a coal mine. She was breathtaking, but in this place, her beauty felt like a trap.
"This place brings back memories, doesn’t it?" she asked, her lips curling into a ravishing, dangerous smile.
"I almost died on this concrete, Abigail. I think about it every time I close my eyes," I stepped closer, my pulse thrumming in my throat. "I’m really hoping I’m not about to experience a sequel."
We stood there for a heartbeat, the history between us hanging in the air like smoke. My mind flashed back to the last time—the cold steel of the gun, Monet’s finger on the trigger, and the moment the bullet went into Volkov instead of me.
I looked around the empty expanse. "Monet isn’t coming, is she?"
"No," Abigail said softly, her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made the room feel even smaller. "That was just the story I used to get you into the car."
"Then why am I here?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave. "Why the warehouse, Abigail? Why the red dress?"
"This dress was meant to confuse you," she said, her voice dropping the facade of irritation and turning into something razor-sharp. "I’m not going on a date, Druski. Not with anyone else."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my muscles tensing as she stepped toward a stack of weathered crates.
She reached behind one of the heavy boxes, her movements fluid and practiced. My brain was still trying to process the shift in her energy, but by the time the gears turned, it was too late. When her hand came back up, it wasn’t empty.
The cold, matte-black barrel of a Glock was leveled directly at my chest.
"Abigail, what the fuck?" The panic hit me like a wave of ice water, my heart hammering against my ribs. "What is this? Why are you pointing a gun at me?"
"I know you’ve been fucking Monet," she said, her eyes dead and steady over the sights. There was no jealousy in her voice—only the cold, hard logic of a soldier.
"Wait, what? What does that have to do with you?" I stammered, holding my hands up where she could see them. "We’re partners. We’re a team."
"You’re a distraction," she countered, her finger tightening slightly on the trigger. "A liability. You’re fucking up her business, and I can’t let that continue."
"Last time I checked, the studio clocked 1.2 million in profit this month," I snapped, trying to find a foothold in the conversation. "I’m the best thing to happen to her bottom line."
"Not the porn business, you idiot," Abigail hissed. "The real business."
The air in the warehouse suddenly felt ten degrees colder. I knew exactly what she meant. The underworld. The shipments of high-grade narcotics, the unregistered weapons, the black-market contracts that kept the "Empire" afloat.
"I don’t see how me being in her bed interferes with the ’other’ side of things," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I don’t even touch that side."
"That’s the problem," Abigail said, taking a step closer, the red silk of her dress rustling with the movement. "She’s starting to care about you. She’s making emotional decisions, delaying shipments to spend time with you, getting soft. In our world, ’soft’ gets people killed. I’ve spent years protecting her legacy, and I won’t let some well-endowed ego ruin it all because she’s got a crush."
"Huh? What?" I stammered, though a part of me already knew. I’d seen the cracks in Monet’s armor. I’d seen the way the "Ice Queen" melted when the door was locked and the world was shut out.
"Don’t play stupid, Druski," Abigail hissed, her eyes shimmering with a dangerous mix of resentment and duty. "She’s in love with you. Anyone with eyes can see it. She glows when you’re in the room. She laughs. The most dangerous woman in this city is distracted because she’s daydreaming about her next fix of you."
I forced myself to breathe, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart. "But Abigail, think. If you kill me, she won’t forgive you. You said it yourself—she’s in love. What happens when she finds out her shadow executed the only man she cares about?"
"She won’t find out," she said, her voice flat and terrifyingly certain. "I’ll make sure the trail ends here, in the dirt."
"People at Lana’s place saw you," I countered, desperation bleeding into my voice. "They know you came to pick me up. There are cameras, staff, witnesses..."
"I know exactly who saw us," Abigail interrupted, her grip on the Glock as steady as a surgeon’s. "They’ll be taken care of. Every witness, every digital footprint. Including Sasha."
The mention of Sasha hit me like a physical punch. My partner. The woman who had been there since the beginning, who was currently back at the estate thinking I was just at a business meeting.
"You wouldn’t dare," I snapped, my fear curdling into a white-hot rage. "You kill me, fine—but Sasha has nothing to do with this!"
"You don’t know me, Druski!" Abigail flared, her composure breaking for a split second as her voice echoed off the rusted steel walls. "I have spent my entire life making sure Monet stays on her throne. I have killed for her, bled for her, and buried my own soul to keep her safe. If the price of her empire is your life and a few loose ends, I’ll pay it without blinking."
She took a half-step forward, the red silk of her dress rustling—a beautiful, lethal ghost. "This is for the greater good. You’re just a man, Druski. She’ll mourn you, and then she’ll get back to being the Queen she was meant to be."