I Kidnapped the Boss's Son by Mistake

§01

The man tied to the chair had the kind of jawline that could cut glass, which was a real problem when all I wanted to do was punch it.

He sat there, wrists bound behind him with a pair of heavy-duty flex-cuffs, looking less like a captive and more like a king surveying his slightly disappointing throne room.

Which, in this case, was a damp, anonymous warehouse in Sable Harbor’s less-than-scenic docklands.

My territory.

My problem.

“You know,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that was entirely too calm for someone who’d been snatched off a quiet street an hour ago, “the decor is a little underwhelming. I was expecting more... skulls, maybe? A flickering bare bulb? You guys are really phoning it in.”

I ignored him, checking the knots on his ankles for the third time.

They were solid.

The intel had been clear: a high-value target from an out-of-town crew trying to move in on The Halifax Charter’s turf.

A pretty boy with expensive taste and a penchant for wandering alone.

Name: unknown. Importance: critical.

Orders from one of The Bishop’s rivals, passed down through a frantic, paranoid lieutenant: “Get him. Make him talk. Do it quietly.”

So I did.

Now, looking at the sharp cut of his designer suit—a charcoal gray that probably cost more than my car—and the unnerving confidence in his dark eyes, I felt a knot of unease tighten in my gut.

This felt too easy. Too clean.

I pulled up a metal stool, the sound scraping harshly in the silence, and sat opposite him.

“Here’s how this works,” I said, my voice flat, the one I used for business. “I ask questions. You give answers. The more you cooperate, the less this has to hurt.”

He actually smiled. A slow, infuriating curve of his lips.

“Go on then. Dazzle me.”

“Who do you work for?”

“My tailor, primarily. A delightful man named Alberto. Do you need a referral?”

I leaned forward, my patience fraying. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Your crew. The one trying to muscle in on Sable Harbor.”

He tilted his head, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his expression. “Is that what this is about? A turf war? How delightfully quaint.”

My hand twitched. Punching him would be counterproductive. But satisfying. Deeply satisfying.

I took a breath. “Last chance. Who are you?”

He looked me straight in the eye, the smile never leaving his face. It was the kind of look that stripped you down, saw every crack in your armor.

“My name is Leander Halifax,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. “And I think you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your career.”

A cold dread, slick and immediate, washed over me.

Halifax.

As in, The Halifax Charter.

“You’re lying.” The words came out thin, desperate.

“Am I?” he purred. “My father is a man of… particular habits. He hates tardiness. He hates loose ends. And he especially hates when his employees misplace his property.”

He leaned forward as far as his bonds would allow, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“And right now, Rook Townsend, you’ve misplaced his only son.”

§02

The name hit me like a physical blow.

Rook Townsend. He knew my name.

Of course he knew my name. I was Orson Bishop’s top enforcer. His right hand. The ghost who cleaned up messes.

And I had just kidnapped the heir to the entire kingdom.

My blood ran cold. The Bishop wasn't just a crime lord; he was an old-world monarch. He valued strength, tradition, and above all, loyalty. He despised weakness, and there was no greater weakness than incompetence.

And this? This was incompetence on a biblical scale.

The intel must have been a setup. A play by an internal rival to get me out of the picture. And I’d walked right into it like a lamb to the slaughter.

Leander watched the cascade of emotions on my face with the detached interest of a scientist observing a particularly fascinating chemical reaction.

“There it is,” he murmured. “The exact moment the hamster wheel in your head catches fire.”

My mind raced, searching for an exit, a solution, anything.

Option one: Kill him. Dump the body. Disappear. But The Bishop would hunt me to the ends of the earth.

Option two: Let him go. Beg for forgiveness. I’d be lucky if death was quick. The Bishop didn’t forgive mistakes of this magnitude.

Option three… there was no option three.

“So, what’s it to be, Rook?” Leander asked, his tone light, conversational. “A bullet? Or a very, very awkward conversation with my father?”

I stared at him, my professional calm shattered. For the first time in years, I was genuinely, existentially terrified.

He saw it. I knew he did. The predator recognizes the scent of fear.

“Or…” he said, drawing the word out, “there’s a fourth option.”

I waited, barely breathing.

“You untie me,” he continued, “you drive me back to my penthouse, and this little… misunderstanding… stays between us.”

It was too good to be true. A lifeline I didn’t deserve.

“Why?” I managed to croak out.

“Because,” he said, his eyes glittering with something I couldn’t decipher, something sharp and calculating, “this is far more interesting. Having The Bishop’s most loyal enforcer owe me a favor? The possibilities are endless.”

He wasn’t offering me a pardon. He was offering me a different kind of leash.

But it was better than a noose.

I moved without another word, my hands shaking slightly as I found the key for the flex-cuffs and unlocked them.

The moment his hands were free, he didn't move. He just sat there, rubbing his wrists, his gaze fixed on me. The power dynamic in the room had not just shifted; it had inverted with crushing force.

“My car is a few blocks away,” I said, my voice hoarse.

“No,” Leander said calmly. “We’ll take yours. I want to see what kind of car a man like you drives.”

The drive to the upscale part of the city was the longest twenty minutes of my life. He sat in the passenger seat of my beat-up sedan, silent, looking out the window as if he were on a leisurely tour.

I, on the other hand, felt like a dead man driving his own hearse.

We arrived at The Spire, the most obscenely luxurious residential building in Sable Harbor. The doorman’s eyes widened slightly as he saw my car, but a subtle gesture from Leander had him opening the door with a respectful nod.

His penthouse was what you’d expect: floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of the harbor, minimalist furniture that cost a fortune, and an air of sterile perfection.

“Drink?” he offered, heading to a wet bar that looked better stocked than most pubs.

“No. I should go.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, not even looking at me as he poured two glasses of amber liquid. “I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.”

He walked over and handed me a glass. My fingers brushed against his, and a jolt, like static electricity, shot up my arm. His skin was cool.

“Here’s the deal, Rook,” he said, his voice soft but laced with steel. “For now, you’re mine. You answer my calls. You come when I summon you. You do what I say. In return, I don’t mention to my father that his most trusted man is dangerously incompetent.”

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