My Assistant Vanished Two Days Before My Wedding—When I Found Her Bleeding In A Slum, I Cancelled The Entire Merger
Part 1
The dry scratch of chalk against the charcoal wool set my teeth on edge.
I remained completely motionless on the velvet fitting pedestal.
The mirror reflected a man who had carefully buried his brutal nature beneath imported Italian silk.
Heather sat on the plush leather sofa behind me.
Her manicured thumbs fired off relentless demands on her glass screen.
She didn’t bother to look up as she complained about the hydrangea arrangements.
Our impending wedding was nothing more than an ironclad corporate merger.
We were combining her family’s distribution networks with my shipping ports.
Neither of us harbored any romantic illusions about the arrangement.
We understood the stakes perfectly.
The tailor drove a silver pin into my cuff with a nervous flick of his wrist.
My attention drifted away from the sterile scent of lavender oil filling the boutique.
I stared at the empty space beside the changing screen.
Megan was absent.
My assistant had managed my chaotic life flawlessly for the past four years.
She served as the impenetrable wall between my violent reality and my legitimate front.
Megan knew exactly how to pacify aggressive enforcers without raising her voice.
She managed the cash payoffs for the harbor police with quiet precision.
She was always an invisible, indispensable presence until she vanished two days ago.
I stepped off the pedestal and tossed the unfinished jacket over a chair.
The tailor fluttered his hands in protest.
I pulled my dark dress shirt from the rack and quickly buttoned it.
Heather finally lowered her phone.
Her perfectly arched eyebrows drew together in sharp irritation.
I informed her that my assistant hadn’t checked in for forty-eight hours.
Heather let out a short sigh and told me to just fire her.
Her flawless skin had never been exposed to the violence that funded her lifestyle.
I stopped buttoning my cuffs and stared at her.
I lowered my voice to the quiet rasp that usually made grown men step back.
I explained that Megan held the physical ledgers for the dock payoffs.
Her disappearance meant she was either dead or selling me out.
Heather smoothed her skirt and reminded me her father was flying in for the rehearsal dinner.
She suggested I send one of my thugs to track down a rogue secretary.
I strapped my heavy leather holster tightly across my ribs.
I told her I handled my own liabilities personally.
The little brass bell above the boutique door mocked me as I walked out.
The sky hung over the city like a bruised purple welt.
A cold drizzle began to smear the glass of my idling black SUV.
Tyler flicked his cigarette into the gutter and grabbed the steering wheel.
He eyed my grim expression in the rearview mirror.
I ordered him to drive to Garrison Street on the southside.
His hands tightened as he reminded me that was rival territory.
I leaned back against the leather headrest and closed my eyes.
The irritation in my chest twisted into a cold, ugly knot.
Megan earned enough to live in a secure downtown high-rise.
Her address belonged to a decaying neighborhood where streetlights were constantly shot out.
I thought about the yellowing bruise I had noticed on her jawline Tuesday evening.
She had blamed an open cabinet door with a dry smile.
I had accepted the lie because planning this wedding consumed my time.
A sharp wave of self-disgust washed over me.
If she had stolen the ledger to derail our merger, I would be forced to end her life.
That realization tasted exactly like ash in my mouth.
We drove out of the financial district into the crumbling industrial sector.
The rain drummed a heavy rhythm against the roof of the SUV.
Tyler pulled over next to a row of slouching brick buildings.
Overflowing dumpsters leaked into the cracked asphalt.
I ordered him to keep the engine running and stepped out into the freezing rain.
The building’s front door was a warped sheet of plywood.
The hinges screamed a rusted protest as I pushed inside.
A suffocating stench of boiled cabbage and chemical bleach hit my lungs.
I moved silently up the groaning wooden stairs.
The peeling green walls vibrated with the muffled sounds of a cheap television.
I reached the fourth floor and stopped outside apartment 4B.
The solid oak door featured a completely splintered lock casing.
I drew my weapon in one fluid motion and kicked the door open.
The living room was an empty expanse of scuffed hardwood.
There was no couch or rug to offer any comfort.
A cheap folding table held her outdated laptop and my syndicate files.
I scanned the tiny galley kitchen.
The unplugged refrigerator hung open to reveal empty wire shelves.
Dark smears of rusty brown stained the linoleum floor in the hallway.
They were the heavy drag marks of someone who couldn’t lift their own weight.
My pulse hammered against my throat as I followed the trail.
The metallic scent of blood cut through the freezing air.
I pushed the half-open bathroom door wide.
Megan was wedged into the narrow space beside the chipped porcelain bathtub.
Her oversized gray t-shirt was saturated with blossoming red stains.
A thick towel was wadded up against her left thigh.
Her skin looked like translucent parchment stretched tight over her bones.
A massive purple bruise covered the entire left side of her face.
She wasn’t holding my ledger to sell to our rivals—she was holding a curved needle threaded with black nylon, trying to stitch up her own stab wound.
