COLE DYLAN
The sirens were still fading when I pulled up to the penthouse, but I didn't need flashing lights to know something had gone terribly wrong. Ryan's building was a fortress, designed to repel threats before they could even touch the front door. For someone to get in—twice now—wasn't mere coincidence; in this line of work, there are no coincidences. It was a message.
I parked the black SUV in the underground lot and took the private elevator up. My earpiece buzzed. "He's moving her," came the brief update from our tech guy, Malcolm.
"Where?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Crescent Orchid".
Of course he was. That was Ryan's fallback—classy, discrete, secure. A five-star motel in name only, more like a boutique fortress for people with secrets and enemies who didn't want to be found by anyone. Ryan was a lot of things to a lot of people: Mafian Boss, billionaire playboy, Lord of Assassins. Yet until today, I had never seen him this rattled, nor had he ever allowed anyone in his private space, yet for someone he claims he's keeping for a debt, he's done an awful lot to protect.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped into the chaos.
Furniture was overturned, and broken glass shimmered across the floor like a war zone dressed in crystal. The scent of smoke and gunpowder still hung in the air. But it wasn't the mess that struck me—it was Ryan, standing in the centre of it, his shirt bloodied at the sleeve, a grim look on his face.
Mia sat on the couch, wrapped in a towel with a medic checking her vitals. Her eyes were distant, bruised by more than just the events of the night.
Ryan turned toward me as I approached. "She's being moved now," he said.
"To the Orchid", I confirmed.
He gave a tight nod. "I want everything combed. Everyone. Staff, contractors, even the guy who cleans the damn vents."
That caught my attention.
"You think this is internal?" I asked.
Ryan's jaw clenched. "I don't know, but there are no coincidences or surprises for people like us, so you need to check everything, everywhere and everyone. Besides, it's too clean. Too calculated. And they knew the guard rotation."
He paused, his eyes flicking to Mia before softening—barely. "This isn't just about Trump's secrets anymore."
"Understood," I said.
"Start with our staff. Then expand. I want profiles, backgrounds, and cross-references with anyone who's ever had a grudge. And keep it quiet, Cliff. No one outside the inner circle."
I nodded and left. If Ryan Kennedy was suspecting betrayal, the foundation of our empire was starting to crack. And I'd be damned if I let it fall without a fight.
I started with the list Malcolm sent to my private terminal. Ninety-two names. That was just our inner ring—executives, drivers, security, administrative staff, the bartenders at the club, and the waitresses and techs.
Mia had only been with us a few weeks, but she'd already been attacked—twice. Once at the club, once in the penthouse. And both times, the attackers had bypassed security systems that should've stopped them cold.
I opened a file and brought up the logs for the last forty-eight hours. Swipe cards. Facial recognition. Entry times. Something wasn't right.
"Let's start with security," I muttered.
Top of the list was Roland Dane, head of internal defence. Twenty years military. Impeccable record. But even the cleanest files can lie.
"Run Donald Dane against known associates of Trump," I told Malcolm over the comm.
There was a pause.
"You think Trump's enemies are now his daughter's enemies?"
"No. I think Trump's friends are the ones behind this and every other thing he had been suspected and crucified for while he was alive."
Ryan had always believed Trump's past would surface, but he hadn't expected the girl to be the bait—or the weapon. Someone was using Mia. Maybe not just to hurt her father's legacy, but to hurt Ryan.
Malcolm pinged me back. "Got a ping. Dane served with a man named Elias Dorne. Dorne now runs private security for the Penthol Group."
I froze.
Penthol was one of Trump's shell companies.
"Dig deeper. I want every transaction, every off-record meet, and everything Dane's done in the last six months."
"Already on it."
I switched files. Waitstaff next.
Most of them were clean, kids working for tips. But Carrie Law stood out. Pretty, too polished for the job. Recruited just two weeks before Mia's hire.
I pulled up her file.
No social media. No past employment listed. The resume looked real, but the references were too vague. One call to HR and they confirmed she had a sealed recommendation—by someone high up.
"Who got Carrie the job?"
Malcolm's voice came over the line again. "Hang on... She was fast-tracked by Lydia Marks."
Lydia. One of our club's directors. Tight with Ryan. Loyal—for years.
But even loyalty has limits.
"Where's Lydia now?"
"Scheduled off tonight."
Convenient.
I grabbed my coat and gun, sent a message to our runner to track down Lydia discreetly, and made my way to the Orchid.
Crescent Orchid was calm. A polished oasis designed for quiet arrivals and even quieter disappearances. I flashed my ID at the front desk and was led to Suite 509.
Ryan was standing by the window. Mia was asleep in the bedroom, a guard posted at her door.
"Any leads?" he asked without looking at me.
"Dane has a connection to a known Trump contractor. One of our new waitresses—Carrie—was referred by Lydia Marks."
That got his attention. He turned, eyes sharp.
"Lydia?"
"She's off tonight. I've got someone tailing her. We'll pull her in for questioning by morning."
Ryan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's deeper than I thought, and from everythingI'm beginning to see, her father was probably set up."
"You say you kept her just for the debt, but she's not just baggage, is she?" I asked.
Ryan's jaw twitched. "She's part of the story now. And whoever's pulling the strings doesn't care if she burns."
"What do you want me to do next?"
His voice was low but resolute. "Burn it down. Every false file, every hidden contact. I want the truth—and I don't care what it costs."
"Understood."
As I left the room, I looked back once. Ryan had returned to the window, staring out over the skyline like a man counting his enemies.
And I knew then—we were no longer in control of the board. But we still had the king.
And I would make damn sure he didn't fall.
By morning, Lydia was in our holding suite, a windowless room tucked behind one of Ryan's abandoned properties. She was nervous, but not scared. That bothered me.
"Carrie Law", I said, showing her the girl's photo. "You recommended her. Why?"
"She came highly endorsed," Lydia replied.
"By who?"
"I—I don't know. It came from an executive channel. I thought it was internal."
"Who sent it?"
Her silence told me everything I needed to know.
"Lydia. If you're covering for someone, I can't protect you."
Finally, she whispered, "It came from someone using Ryan's clearance."
My blood ran cold.
Someone's inside. Someone close. Someone with access to the top.
I stood and left the room, pulling out my comm.
"Ryan", I said as soon as he answered. "We've got a ghost in the system. Someone's using your ID."
There was silence, then: "Find them, keep it silent; God help me if it turns out her father was innocent because she detests me enough already as it is, so find the truth no matter what."
I will. Even if it means turning the whole empire inside out.
Because for the first time, Ryan Kennedy had a weakness; even though he doesn't see it or maybe he refuses to acknowledge it, he's in love with her. The king finally found a queen in the most unlikely scenarios.
And she was asleep in a motel suite, completely unaware that the war had finally reached her doorstep.