The guy from the bar

Ninety Two

Jason's POV

I left Madison at the apartment — locked down tight with one of my best guys stationed outside the door.
Hidden location.
Biometric locks.
Encrypted cameras.
No one gets in or out unless I say so.

Zayn walked in without knocking, shutting the office door behind him. "Got any updates?"

I sat forward, elbows on my knees. "Yeah. He was at the house. Walked in like he fucking owned the place. Kissed Madison—pretending to be me."

Zayn cursed under his breath, pacing. "What the fuck does he want?"

"He went through the office, used the backup drive. Made a copy of something. Didn't take anything obvious."

Right then, the lights cut out.

Black.

No hum. No buzz. Nothing but silence.

A second passed. Then another.

Emergency power kicked in, humming low. And when the lights flickered back on—he was there.

Drew.

He leaned against the far wall, arms folded, head slightly tilted like this was some kind of joke to him.

""Well, that sack of shit found me. Took care of me," Drew said with a shrug, casual like he wasn't digging a blade under my skin. "I was fifteen. Alone. He was the only one who came."

"Sadly, he passed," Drew said, faking a frown. "I'm sure you heard. First Sloan got clipped... then him."

He leaned in slightly.

"He's gone. And Mom..." He paused, voice dipping. "Where is she, by the way? Here? Or back in the States?"

"She's not part of this," I said, each word heavy and final. "Leave her out."

"Damn, bro. Gonna be like that?" He scoffed. "She's my mom too, you know."

Drew chuckled under his breath — a slow, mean sound that made my teeth ache.

"You know, I caught your little shitshow of a trial back in the States," he added, voice curling like smoke.
"And I saw her too."
A slow, cruel smile pulled at his mouth.
"Your wife."

His gaze narrowed.

"She looked good. Real good."

I pictured the security footage — his hands on her, his mouth too close — and something dark scraped up the inside of my throat.

The back of my neck prickled. My fingers twitched for something — anything — to hit.

"Don't mention my wife," I said.

Drew's eyes gleamed. He saw it — my weak spot — and he fucking savored it.

He laughed again, low and ugly, and took another step closer. Daring me.

"She's pretty when she cries, you know that?" His voice dropped, almost thoughtful. "Bet she's even prettier when she begs."

My body went rigid. My vision blurred at the edges, black and violent.
One more word — one wrong breath — and I'd put him through the fucking wall.

"She's heading back to America soon, right?" Drew asked, all fake-casual. "Got a little modeling gig, yeah?"

Every inch he pushed stripped away another layer of my patience.

I couldn't lose it. Not yet.
I stayed still — barely.

"Now..." he said slowly, voice slick with threat, "unless you want Madison's flight to take a little... detour... maybe rethink your silence."