Amanda paced back and forth across the cramped living room of Patrick's rundown apartment, her expensive heels clicking against the worn linoleum floor. The contrast between this dingy place and The King's Castle was jarring, and it only fueled her rage.
"That ungrateful little brat," she muttered, gesturing wildly with her hands. "After everything I've done for her, everything I've sacrificed, she chooses that worthless parasite over her own family!"
Patrick sat slumped on his threadbare couch, nursing a beer and trying to ignore his sister's tirade. Jason lounged beside him, still sporting a swollen jaw from Aaron's punch, his eyes glued to his phone screen.
"You should have seen her face when she told me to leave," Amanda continued, her voice rising with indignation. "Like she was doing me some kind of favor! And that Aaron—where does he get off acting like he owns the place? Since when does a house husband grow a backbone?"
She whirled around to face Patrick. "There's something different about him. He's changed. The way he looked at Jason, the way he spoke to us—it wasn't the same pathetic man who used to cower whenever I raised my voice."
"Maybe he's finally had enough of your crap," Jason mumbled, not looking up from his phone.
Amanda shot him a withering glare. "What did you say?"
Before Jason could respond, the doorbell rang. All three of them froze. In this neighborhood, unexpected visitors were rarely good news.
Jason reluctantly got up and walked to the door, peering through the peephole. His face went pale, and he stumbled backward.
"Oh shit," he whispered.
"What is it?" Patrick asked, immediately alert.
Jason's hands shook as he unlocked the door. Standing in the hallway was Rick—six feet of pure muscle covered in tattoos, his cold eyes scanning the apartment's interior. Two other men flanked him, equally intimidating.
"Rick," Jason said, his voice cracking slightly. "What are you doing here?"
Rick pushed past him without invitation, his companions following. "The boss wants to see you. Both of you."
Patrick shot to his feet. "Listen, Rick, we just need a little more time. We're working on it, I swear—"
"Now," Rick said simply, but the word carried the weight of an immutable command.
Twenty minutes later, Patrick and Jason sat on a red leather couch in a dimly lit back room of what appeared to be a legitimate business front. The smell of cigarette smoke and fear hung heavy in the air. Behind a scarred wooden desk sat Dimitri Volkov, methodically counting stacks of cash. The rhythmic sound of bills being flipped filled the silence.
Volkov was a compact man in his fifties, but his presence commanded the room. His expensive suit couldn't hide the predator beneath—the way his eyes never blinked, the surgical precision of his movements, the complete absence of warmth in his smile.
He finished counting and looked up at the two men. "Where is my money?"
Patrick cleared his throat nervously. "We're working on it, Mr. Volkov. We're very close to—"
Volkov held up a hand, and Patrick's words died in his throat. With a slight nod, two of his men moved forward. One grabbed Jason's arm and forced his hand down on the desk, palm up.
"What are you doing?" Jason stammered, panic creeping into his voice.
Volkov pulled out a switchblade, the steel gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. "I have been patient with you. More patient than I should have been."
"Please," Patrick begged, "we can get the money. Just give us—"
The blade plunged through Jason's palm, pinning his hand to the desk. Jason's scream echoed off the concrete walls as blood pooled around the knife.
"My people tell me interesting things," Volkov said conversationally, as if Jason wasn't writhing in agony beside him. "They say you bought a new car. They say you were gambling at Rivera's casino last week. Big bets. Losing big."
Patrick was hyperventilating. "That's not—we didn't—"
"You thought I wouldn't find out?" Volkov twisted the knife slightly, eliciting another scream from Jason. "You thought you could take my patience for stupidity?"
He pulled the knife free and wiped it clean on a handkerchief. Jason clutched his bleeding hand to his chest, tears streaming down his face.
"I don't like being lied to," Volkov continued. "It makes me reconsider our business relationship. It makes me think perhaps you need a more permanent reminder of your obligations."
"Wait!" Patrick jumped up desperately. "I can get the money! All of it! I know someone—that's where we got the money the first time!"
Volkov raised an eyebrow, mildly interested. "Someone who can pay two million dollars? Who is this generous benefactor?"
Patrick pulled out his phone with trembling hands, scrolling through photos until he found one of Sarah at a family gathering. He held it up. "My niece. Sarah Prescott. She's rich—very rich. She owns mansions, drives expensive cars, just signed a billion-dollar business deal."
Volkov studied the photo, his expression unreadable. Sarah was beautiful—elegant features, intelligent eyes, the kind of woman who would command attention in any room.
"Interesting," he murmured. "And why would she pay two million for two losers like you?"
"We're family," Patrick said quickly. "She's already given us money before. She'll pay."
Volkov's smile was razor-thin. "I have a different proposition for you."
He stood and walked around the desk, his movements deliberate and predatory. "Your debt is four million, yes? With interest accumulating daily."
Patrick nodded frantically.
"I want the woman."
The words hung in the air like a toxic cloud. Patrick and Jason exchanged glances, not sure they'd heard correctly.
"If you can deliver Sarah Prescott to me," Volkov continued, "I will cut your debt in half. Two million, forgiven. And you can return to gambling at my establishments."
Patrick's mouth was dry. "You mean... permanently?"
"That depends on how cooperative she is," Volkov said with a cold laugh. "But yes, the arrangement would be... long-term."
Jason was still clutching his wounded hand, but his eyes were alert. "How do we guarantee she'll come?"
Patrick's mind was racing. He looked toward the apartment door, where Amanda was probably still pacing and ranting. "Her mother is staying with us. If we... if something happened to her mother, Sarah would come running. She's always been protective of family, even when they don't deserve it."
Volkov nodded approvingly. "I like this plan. Clean. Simple. Effective." He fixed Patrick with his cold stare. "But if this fails, if there are complications, if you bring trouble to my door—what happens next won't be as gentle as what happened to your son today."
"There won't be any trouble," Patrick assured him quickly. "Her husband is weak, pathetic. He won't be a problem."
He deliberately didn't mention the Prescott family name, afraid that Volkov might recognize it and either demand more money or decide the risk was too great. Patrick didn't realize that the Prescotts, for all their wealth and influence, would likely wash their hands of Sarah the moment she became a liability.
"Then we proceed tonight," Volkov declared. "My men will handle the mother. You will make the call to your niece." He leaned in close, his breath cold against Patrick's ear. "Remember what happens if you fail."
That evening, Amanda was still complaining about Sarah's ingratitude when she accepted a cup of tea from Patrick. "At least you understand loyalty," she said, taking a long sip. "Unlike my ungrateful daughter who—"
The words slurred as the drug took effect. Her eyes grew heavy, confusion replacing anger as she struggled to stay upright.
"Patrick?" she mumbled, her speech thick. "What's... happening?"
Patrick couldn't meet her eyes as Volkov's men moved efficiently, catching Amanda as she collapsed and transferring her unconscious form into a large suitcase.
"I'm sorry," Patrick whispered, but she was already gone.
At her office the next morning, Sarah was reviewing construction timelines for the Crimson Valley project when her phone rang. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
The voice that answered was cold, mechanical. "Sarah Prescott. We have your mother."
Sarah's blood turned to ice. "What? Who is this?"
"Listen carefully. We have Amanda Melvin. If you want to see her alive again, you will bring three million dollars in cash to the location we specify. No police. No help. Come alone."
"This is insane," Sarah said, her voice shaking. "I don't have three million dollars just lying around. And how do I know you really have her?"
There was a rustling sound, then Amanda's voice came through the phone, weak and terrified: "Sarah? Baby, please help me. These men, they're going to—"
The line went dead.
Sarah stared at her phone, her hands trembling. The call had lasted less than thirty seconds, but her world had just been turned upside down. Three million dollars. How could she possibly raise that kind of money? And more importantly, who would target her family?
She tried calling Amanda's phone, but it went straight to voicemail. She tried Patrick's number—the same result.
Grabbing her purse and keys, Sarah rushed out of her office, her mind racing. She had to find a way to save her mother, but first she needed to figure out who was behind this and what they really wanted.
As her car pulled out of the parking garage, Sarah had no idea that her uncle's desperation had just delivered her into the hands of one of the city's most dangerous criminals—or that Aaron was still thousands of miles away, completely unaware that the woman he loved was about to walk into a trap.