Chapter 5
Mornings for Mack were not soft. They didn't start with birdsong or alarm clocks. They began the second his eyes opened—sharp, focused, and already calculating.
He threw the covers off and stood, bare feet meeting cold stone. The room around him was modern, brutalist in design—clean lines, muted tones, large windows overlooking nothing but forest and sky. His sanctuary. His fortress.
By 6:00 a.m., he was in the gym—his own, private, built beneath his estate. No distractions. No public eyes. Just metal and muscle.
Mack's body moved with precision. Black joggers hanging low on his hips, sweat already darkening the waistband. His bare chest gleamed under the low lighting—every inch of him carved like a statue that chose war over worship. Tattoos snaked over his ribs, shoulders, and arms—marks of past alliances and harder choices.
He wrapped his hands, his movements smooth and methodical, then approached the punching bag as if it had wronged him.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Each strike echoed through the room, knuckles cracking into the heavy leather with growing force. His breath was steady. Controlled. But inside? A storm.
Her voice—Viola's—kept replaying in his head.
"That sounds a lot like an obsession, Mack."And ruins women."
He hit harder.
She didn't see it. She didn't get it. But he'd make sure she did. Soon.
By the time he finished, his chest was heaving and the wraps on his knuckles were damp with blood and sweat. He stood there, panting quietly as if exorcising the heat in his blood.
Then, he grabbed a towel, wiped himself down, and headed for the range.
The underground shooting range was where he went when the gym wasn't enough. Concrete walls. Steel booths. Dim lights and a rack of custom weapons along the far side.
He didn't speak to anyone when he entered. Just nodded to Hyde, who stood posted at the door like a shadow.
Mack selected his Glock—a matte black beast he'd named "Ghost." Sleek, fast, silent. Just like him.
He loaded the magazine slowly, each bullet sliding into place with a click that sounded like a promise.
Click. Click. Click.
Then he stepped into the booth, raised his arm, and emptied the clip with deadly precision.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A tight cluster right to the centre. Perfect.
He swapped mags. Fired again. Repeating until the sweat running down his back matched the steam building in his thoughts.
"If you're trying to get under my skin, congratulations. You're halfway there."
D*mn right, I am, he thought.
He paused, pressing a palm to the glass, his breath fogging it slightly.
"I'm not just under your skin, Viola," he murmured to no one. "I'm in your bones. You just don't know it yet."
Behind him, Hyde cleared his throat.
"Boss, your meeting at HQ starts in thirty."
Mack holstered the Glock, grabbed his jacket, and turned.
"Good," he said. "Let them wait. I've already had my fun."
As he walked past the target, he reached out and traced the bullet hole dead centre in the silhouette's chest.
He was aiming for the heart. Always the heart.
Mack stepped into headquarters like a shadow cutting through smoke.
His black jacket hung off his broad shoulders, boots striking the polished floors with purpose. Every man in the room straightened the second he entered. There were no second chances with Mack. No time to correct a mistake once it was made.
Hyde walked behind him, silent, unreadable as always. The conference room was filled—his captains, analysts, logistics crew, and his security detail. Every man with a purpose. Or so they should have been.
Mack didn't sit. He stood at the head of the long glass table, setting his Glock down in front of him like a paperweight. It gleamed cold under the lights.
"All right," he said, his voice low but slicing through the air like wire. "Tell me why three trucks didn't check in last night."
A logistics officer cleared his throat, nervously flipping open his file.
"We're still checking the last GPS ping—one broke down, the other two had route changes due to roadblocks in the sector—"
"I don't care why yet," Mack interrupted, holding up a hand. "I care how it happened without anyone notifying me. I care who thought it was okay to improvise without backup or clearance."
Silence. Uncomfortable shifting in seats. Hyde's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
Mack looked at one of the younger captains. His eyes locked on the man like a trigger pulled halfway back.
"You were on shift last night, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir." The captain's voice cracked. "I received the update after the route had already been changed—"
"Then you should have reversed it," Mack said flatly. "You don't receive decisions. You make them."
He let that hang. Then leaned forward, one hand flat on the table.
"This isn't a delivery company. This isn't retail. One screw-up on the wrong road, and I've got bodies on the asphalt and news outlets calling it 'organized crime.' We are a machine, and I'm the part that keeps it from breaking."
He looked at every face around the table, slow and deliberate.
"You do not move unless I say move. If a wheel breaks, you tell me before the axle snaps."
A long pause.
Then Mack exhaled once, shook his head, and stood upright again.
"Hyde, take names. Anyone involved in last night's detour is on 30-day probation and out-of-field work. I want their comms and schedules turned over to Jess in surveillance. I don't babysit amateurs."
"Yes, boss," Hyde replied immediately, already pulling out a tablet.
Mack picked up his Glock, spun it once, and then holstered it with a practised flick.
"And someone fixes the d*mn coffee machine," he muttered on his way out. "It smells like burnt regret in here."
As the door swung closed behind him, tension released across the room like a held breath.
Mack didn't look back. He didn't need to. Fear was more effective when it followed.
Mack stepped into his private office, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The room fell silent—no phones ringing, no voices in his ear. Just the soft hum of the AC and the pulse that had refused to slow since last night.
He let out a breath, running a hand over the back of his neck.
Viola.
The name echoed inside his head like a heatwave, impossible to cool. She'd sat across from him like she owned the air between them—eyes sharp, spine straight, lips that didn't smile for anyone. She wasn't impressed by money or muscle. She didn't flinch when he leaned close. That mouth, full of fire, told him to back off—and it only pulled him in deeper.
She was chaos in heels, and he wanted every piece.
Mack poured himself a glass of cold water, but it didn't help. His mind wasn't on his next mission. It was on her—how she chewed on the edge of her pen when she was deep in thought. The way her fingers danced over her laptop keys was like she was composing something intimate. A woman who wrote about love and refused to believe in it anymore.
He wanted to be the one to rewrite that story. To show her what it felt like when a man wasn't afraid to claim her, but respected the way she refused to be caught.
And those eyes—he could still see them. Dark with anger. Or was it curiosity?
Mack leaned back in his chair, the tension in his body shifting. Not the tension from the meeting. This was something else. It had a name. Viola.
His phone buzzed. A message from Hyde.
"Trucks rerouted. The new ops list is confirmed. 5% increase in safe zones. Ready for debrief."
He replied with a quick "Approved" but didn't take his eyes off the ceiling. One hand behind his head, the other resting lightly on his chest, he let himself feel it—the heat curling low in his gut when he thought about her. How her voice slid down his spine like silk-covered steel. How she challenged him with every word and walked away like she didn't know she had him tied in knots.
She thinks she's untouchable, he thought, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. But I've taken down empires with less resistance.
He pulled out his phone again, this time opening Viola's number. No message. No call. Just the name.
Mack doesn't chase. But with her, it didn't feel like chasing.
It felt like war. And he'd never lost one.