The road leading to the warehouse was never meant to feel welcoming. It stretched through miles of abandoned industrial land, surrounded by rusted fencing, dead streetlights, and a silence heavy enough to make the sound of engines feel intrusive. Your convoy moved steadily through the darkness — three black SUVs carrying armed security, intel officers, and you seated in the center vehicle where your father should have been.

Your father never missed collections personally. Especially not for shipments this valuable.

But a sudden illness had forced him to stay behind, leaving you to handle the exchange alone for the first time with one of his most powerful clients.

The warehouse was only minutes away when headlights appeared ahead.

A convoy of black Range Rovers emerged from the opposite side of the narrow road before stopping directly in front of yours. Engines idled low as armed men stepped out first, scanning the area with sharp precision.

Then he appeared. Eris Velasco.

Tall enough to tower over most men, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black tailored coat with hands resting calmly at his sides. Sharp jawline. Dark hair brushed back neatly. Cold steel-grey eyes that carried the kind of quiet danger people sensed instantly.

Your father’s right-hand man shifted beside you, tense. Before he could speak, you opened the SUV door and stepped out onto the empty road.