The basement level of King's Paradise was a place few people knew existed.
It sat beneath the warehouse floor, accessible only through a hidden elevator behind a false wall in Jack's office. The walls were concrete, reinforced with steel. Soundproof. Climate-controlled. The air smelled faintly of cigars and old leather.
Jack sat at the head of a long table, his fingers drumming against the polished wood. Bones stood to his right, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Steely sat across from Jack, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp.
They'd been waiting for fifteen minutes.
Finally, the elevator doors opened.
Two men stepped out—identical twins, both tall and lean with sharp features and matching grins. They wore leather jackets and jeans, their movements loose and casual, like they were walking into a bar instead of a war room.
Chip and Dip.
"Sorry we're late, boss," Chip said, flashing a grin. "Traffic was a bitch."
"Traffic?" Jack said, his voice flat.
"Yeah," Dip added, sliding into a chair and propping his feet up on the table. "Some asshole in a Prius was doing twenty in a forty. Can you believe that shit?"
Chip laughed, dropping into the seat beside his brother. "We almost got out and shot him."
"Almost," Dip agreed.
Jack stared at them.
The twins were jokesters. Unserious. They cracked jokes during hits, laughed during interrogations, and treated violence like a game. But they were also the most dangerous men Jack had ever worked with. Fast. Precise. Ruthless when it mattered.
That combination—deadly skill wrapped in a clown's costume—made them invaluable.
"Sit up," Jack said.
Dip grinned but didn't move his feet. "Come on, boss. We just got here."
Jack's eyes narrowed.
Dip's grin faded. He dropped his feet to the floor.
"Now shut up and listen."
The room fell silent.
Jack turned to Bones. "Tell them what you told me."
Bones straightened, his voice calm and measured. "Last night, one of our places bordering the Crello district was hit. A warehouse we use for storage and distribution. Four men dead. Product stolen. Place burned to the ground."
Steely's fist slammed against the table. "We should hit them back. Now. Tonight. Show them what happens when they fuck with us."
Jack didn't respond.
Steely leaned forward, his voice rising. "This is disrespect, Jack. They're testing you. If we don't respond, they'll think you're weak."
"I'm not weak," Jack said quietly.
"Then prove it," Steely shot back. "The old Jack—the one who brought Southside to its knees—wouldn't be sitting here talking. He'd already be in Crello, burning their shit to the ground."
Jack's jaw tightened.
The old Jack.
He'd heard that phrase before. From Bella. From himself.
The old Jack had been a force of nature. Unstoppable. Ruthless. He'd built his empire on blood and fear, tearing through anyone who stood in his way.
But the old Jack had also been reckless.
Impulsive.
Destructive.
And Jack wasn't that man anymore.
"Times have changed," Jack said. "I'm no longer trying to build. I'm trying to retain."
Steely's eyes flashed with something Jack couldn't quite read. Disappointment? Disdain?
"Yeah," Steely said slowly. "Times have changed."
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Jack knew what Steely was thinking.
You're losing your edge.
You're getting soft.
But Jack didn't care.
He'd learned the hard way that brute force wasn't always the answer. That sometimes, patience and strategy were more powerful than violence.
Before Steely could say anything else, Bones reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"Cage left something else," Bones said, sliding the paper across the table.
Jack picked it up and unfolded it.
An address.
And a single line of text: Neutral ground. Let's talk.
Jack stared at the note, his mind racing.
"It's a trap," Steely said immediately. "He hits us, then offers a meeting? He's trying to lure you out so he can finish the job."
Jack didn't respond.
"You can't seriously be considering this," Steely continued. "Cage just attacked us. Why the hell would you trust him?"
"I don't trust him," Jack said. "But Cage isn't the type to set a trap."
"He's the type to launch a surprise attack," Steely shot back. "What's the difference?"
Jack looked at Bones. "What do you think?"
Bones was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful.
"I've known Cage for a long time," Bones said finally. "Longer than most. And in all that time, I've never seen him disgrace a meeting. His reputation is solid. If he says it's neutral ground, it's neutral ground."
"Reputation doesn't mean shit when you're dead," Steely muttered.
Jack ignored him, his eyes still on Bones. "But the attack. That doesn't fit."
"No," Bones agreed. "It doesn't."
Jack leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin.
Something about this didn't add up.
Cage was a professional. Calculated. He didn't make moves without a reason. And he didn't break his word.
So why the attack?
And why the meeting?
"I'm going," Jack said.
Steely's eyes widened. "Jack—"
"I'm going," Jack repeated, his voice firm. "If Cage wants a war, I'll give him one. But I want to know why first."
Steely opened his mouth to argue, but Jack raised a hand, silencing him.
"Bones," Jack said. "Hold down the fort while I'm gone."
Bones nodded.
"Steely," Jack continued. "Prepare an assault force. Just in case."
Steely's jaw tightened, but he nodded.
Jack turned to Chip and Dip.
Chip was leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed, looking like he was about to fall asleep. Dip was twirling a knife between his fingers, the blade flashing in the dim light.
"You two," Jack said. "You're coming with me."
Chip's eyes snapped open. He grinned. "Road trip?"
"Something like that," Jack said.
Dip stopped twirling the knife and looked up, his grin matching his brother's. "This gonna get messy?"
"Maybe," Jack said.
"Good," Dip said.
Jack stood, signaling the end of the meeting.
"We leave in an hour," he said. "Be ready."
The men rose from their seats, filing toward the elevator.
Steely lingered for a moment, his eyes on Jack.
"You sure about this?" he asked quietly.
Jack met his gaze. "No. But I'm doing it anyway."
Steely nodded slowly, then turned and walked away.
Jack watched him go, his mind already turning to the meeting ahead.
Cage.
What the hell are you playing at?
***
The vacuum hummed across the carpet, the sound filling the quiet house.
Sarah pushed it back and forth mechanically, her mind somewhere else entirely.
She thought about her mother.
Her mother had been a force of nature. A single woman raising a daughter on her own, working two jobs just to keep a roof over their heads. They'd lived in a small apartment on the edge of a suburban neighborhood—the kind of place where Sarah was always the poorest kid in school.
It had been humiliating.
Wearing hand-me-down clothes while the other girls wore designer brands. Bringing packed lunches while everyone else bought food from the cafeteria. Being the girl who couldn't afford to go on field trips or join after-school clubs.
But her mother had never let her wallow in self-pity.
"You want to be like them?" her mother had said one night, pointing at the TV where some pop star was performing. "You want that life? Then you work for it. You earn it."
And so Sarah had.
Her mother had enrolled her in dance classes. Singing lessons. Programs that cost money they didn't have, money her mother scraped together by working overtime and skipping meals.
The training had been brutal.
Long hours. Painful stretches. Endless repetitions until Sarah's feet bled and her voice cracked.
She'd cried. Begged her mother to let her quit.
But her mother had refused.
"No pain, no gain," her mother had said, her voice hard. "Especially for a woman from a background like ours. You think the world's going to hand you anything? You think people are going to care about your dreams? No. You have to fight for it. You have to be better than everyone else."
So Sarah had fought.
And then she'd met David.
David had been everything she'd ever wanted. Popular. Handsome. Charming. The kind of boy who could have any girl he wanted.
And somehow, he'd wanted her.
Sarah—the loner girl, the poor girl, the girl who didn't fit in—had caught his attention.
She'd fallen for him fast. Hard.
And she'd started skipping her dance classes to sneak out with him. Blowing off her singing lessons to spend time at his house.
Her mother had been furious.
"You're throwing your life away for some boy," her mother had screamed. "You think he's going to take care of you? You think love is enough? It's not. You need to focus on your career. On your future."
But Sarah hadn't listened.
She'd been young. Stubborn. In love.
And David had promised her everything.
"I'll take care of you," he'd said, holding her close. "You don't need to worry about anything. I've got you."
So after high school, Sarah had run away with him.
David had gone to college in another state, and Sarah had followed. She hadn't enrolled herself—David's family had money, and he'd said she didn't need to work, didn't need to stress.
He'd proposed to her when they were both young, barely out of their teens.
And Sarah had said yes.
Her mother had been against it. Had begged her not to do it.
But Sarah had done it anyway.
And for a while, it had been perfect.
Until her mother got sick.
Cancer.
Curable, the doctors had said. But expensive.
Her mother didn't have insurance. Didn't have savings.
But David did.
David had paid for everything. The treatments. The hospital bills. The medications.
He'd been paying for 2 years now, keeping Sarah's mother alive.
And Sarah owed him everything.
The vacuum shut off.
Sarah stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the floor, her chest tight.
The front door opened.
David walked in, his tie loosened, his face drawn with exhaustion.
"Hey," Sarah said, forcing a smile.
David didn't smile back. He went straight to the fridge, pulled out a beer, and cracked it open with a sigh.
"Long day?" Sarah asked.
"Yeah," David muttered, dropping onto the couch. "The promotion to junior partner is great, but Jesus, the workload. Mr. Caldwell's piling everything on me."
Sarah walked over and took his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. She moved behind him, her hands settling on his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles.
"You're doing great," she said softly. "You're going to be amazing."
David closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. "Thanks, babe."
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Sarah's eyes darted to it.
The screen lit up with a text notification.
Leena.
Sarah's hands froze.
David's eyes snapped open. He grabbed the phone, his face going pale.
"I haven't been talking to her," he said quickly. "I swear. This is the first time she's texted me since—since we talked about it."
Sarah's throat tightened.
"It's okay," she said, her voice calm. But it wasn't okay. "I want you to block her number,"
David hesitated. Just for a second. But Sarah saw it.
"David," she said quietly.
"Yeah," David said, his fingers moving across the screen. "Yeah, okay. Done."
He held up the phone, showing her the blocked contact.
Sarah leaned down and kissed him. "Thank you."
David smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Sarah straightened, her heart pounding.
I have no one.
The thought hit her like a punch to the gut.
She had no friends. No support system. No career.
She was a loner at heart, always had been.
And her mother—the only person who'd ever truly cared about her—was lying in a hospital bed, kept alive by David's money.
If she lost David, she lost everything.
Her love.
Her life.
Her mother.
Sarah turned away, her hands trembling.
She was trapped.
Completely and utterly trapped.
And there was nothing she could do about it.