Chapter 12: The Package
The message sits on my phone screen like a live grenade.
She's very pretty.
It would be terrible if something happened to her.
The photo is crystal-clear: Bella asleep on my chest, my arm locked around her, the penthouse terrace lights soft in the background. Taken less than ten minutes ago. Someone was close enough to zoom in through the glass.
My blood turns to ice.
I'm out of bed in a heartbeat, careful not to wake her. I pull on jeans and a black hoodie, grab the pistol from the nightstand safe, and move silently to the windows. Forty-eight floors up. No balcony access from below. No adjacent buildings tall enough. The only way that shot was possible is a drone. High-end. Military-grade lens.
I kill every light in the penthouse with the master switch by the door. The whole place drops into darkness except for the city glow.
Bella stirs behind me. "Damian?"
"Stay in bed," I say, voice low but sharp. "Don't turn on any lights."
I hear her sit up. "What's happening?"
I'm already at the control panel by the elevator, pulling up the security feeds Marcus had installed yesterday. Twenty cameras. Lobby, garage, rooftop, hallways.
Nothing.
Then the private freight elevator at the back of the penthouse—the one that goes straight to the service corridor—dings.
Someone's coming up.
I draw the pistol, rack the slide. The sound echoes like thunder in the silence.
Bella's breathing turns panicked. "Damian—"
"Bedroom. Closet. Now." I don't look back. "Lock it from the inside."
I hear her scramble out of bed, bare feet on marble, the soft click of the closet door.
The elevator numbers climb. 45… 46… 47…
I position myself behind the kitchen island, weapon trained on the doors.
Ding.
The doors slide open.
A single silver cart rolls out on its own—like room service. Polished dome cover. White card on top.
No one pushing it.
I don't move. Ten seconds. Twenty. Nothing else comes out.
I approach slow, gun up, circle wide. The cart stops in the middle of the living room.
I flip the card with the barrel.
Written in Ethan's handwriting—the same one I saw on a thousand birthday cards growing up:
Welcome home, brother.
Let's catch up.
Alone.
Or the next package won't be so pretty.
I lift the dome.
Inside is a single red rose…
…and Bella's old phone, screen cracked, the one I powered off and left on the kitchen island downstairs.
The screen lights up by itself.
A new message.
One photo.
Bella's mother, asleep in her bed back at the old house.
A red laser dot dancing on her forehead.
The text underneath:
You have one hour.
Rooftop of Lockwood Tower.
Come alone or the old woman gets the first bullet.
Your pretty nurse gets the second.
I stare at the screen until the words burn into my retinas.
Then I hear the bedroom closet door creak open.
Bella steps out, face ghost-white, holding her own phone—the new one I gave her ten minutes ago.
She turns it toward me.
Same photo. Same message.
They sent it to her too.
Her voice is barely a breath.
"Damian… they have my mom."
I pull her into my arms, gun still in my hand, rage roaring so loud I can barely hear my own words.
"I'm going to end this tonight."
She looks up at me, eyes wide and terrified, but steady.
"Take me with you."
To be continued…