Three years earlier, Evan had sent me a blurry photo of a man forcing him into a black car outside one of Aldridge’s construction sites. That same scar was visible. Evan’s last message had read:
“He says Dad owed him land from an old will. They’re taking me north. Don’t call the police.”
I never heard from him again.
“It’s done,” Matthew said, stepping back. “Clean this mess.”
I stood, shaved and humiliated, but burning inside.
“I won’t forget this,” I said evenly. “Or what I saw on your arm.”
His face drained. He yanked his sleeve down.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about debts,” I replied. “And how they always get collected.”
I left the club immediately, abandoning my uniform. If he realized who I was, I wouldn’t survive the night.
At my apartment, I opened a sealed envelope my father had kept hidden for years. Inside was proof that the mansion Matthew lived in—and much of his fortune—legally belonged to our family due to an old land debt. Evan hadn’t been taken randomly. He was leverage.
On the back of a deed was a hand-drawn map pointing to a hidden basement beneath Matthew’s property.
Tires screeched outside. His men were already coming.