Chapter 32

I sit on the cold, matted floor of the gym, my hands slowly working the tape around my knuckles. The sharp smell of disinfectant lingers in the air, mixing with the faint scent of sweat and metal. It reminds me of the guys' gym back home. Of the Den. It might even be comforting if everything around me didn't feel so sterile.

If my heart didn't hurt so badly.

The space is massive, easily the size of two, maybe three, standard gyms. The floors are covered in thick, dark gray mats that cushion every step, absorbing the impact of even the heaviest blows. Everything is top-of-the-line, the kind of equipment you'd expect in a high-tech underground facility like this one.

Maddox and Gage would lose their fucking minds. Against my will, a small smile lifts my lips. I'll have to bring them here after…

I freeze and swallow hard.

I will bring them here when I get them back. There is no alternative.

My hands go back to the familiar task of taping my knuckles as my gaze slides across the space. A boxing ring dominates the far side of the room, the ropes gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights and I find myself missing the massive skylights at the Den. Around it, state-of-the-art treadmills, weight machines, and free weights are neatly arranged, their sleek, modern designs standing out against the cold concrete walls.

Even the mirrors lining one side of the room seem colder than usual, reflecting back the stark reality of this place. There's nothing warm here, nothing that feels remotely human, just like the rest of the compound. I guess that's what you get when you're so far beneath the dirt, surrounded by cold earth instead of sunlight.

God, I miss the sun.

I hope wherever the guys are, they're warm.

I pull the tape tighter around my wrist, gritting my teeth against the anxiety clawing at my insides.

Not for the first time, I wonder how Madeline got the money for all of this. The gym alone must have cost a fortune, and that's just one part of this sprawling underground complex. Everything here screams wealth, power, control.

But at what cost? And to whom?

My fingers tremble slightly as I finish wrapping the tape around my hand, the anxiety simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for any excuse to break free. I force myself to take a deep breath, to focus on the task at hand, but it's impossible to ignore the tightness in my chest, the way my heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice.

It's been five days since my guys were taken. Five days of searching, of planning, of trying to hold on to hope, even as the reality of our situation becomes clearer. And yet, we're no closer to finding them.

The thought makes my stomach churn, a sick feeling that spreads through my entire body. I've tried to push it down, to focus on what needs to be done, but it's always there, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

Oliver asked for a full twenty-four hours with the trackers after finally getting the okay to tear them apart. He's been working non-stop, trying to get any kind of signal, any clue that might lead us to them. I know he's doing everything he can, and I understand the threat that's waiting for us outside this compound.

Gus is vicious, ruthless, and he won't stop until he gets what he wants—apparently me. But that doesn't stop the fear, the overwhelming terror of what might be happening to the guys out there.

Every second that passes, I wonder if Gage is standing in front of Maddox like he did when they were kids. Is he protecting his brothers? If so, at what personal cost? Is he okay? Are any of them?

My throat constricts as my mind flickers back to the stories they've told me. The hell Augustus has rained down on them their entire lives. The games he plays. The violence he inflicts.

How bad is it now?

I hate that we're no closer to finding them. I hate that we're stuck here, waiting, when every second could mean the difference between life and death for them. My chest tightens further, and I realize I'm holding my breath. I exhale sharply, trying to release the tension, but it only comes back stronger.

My eyes drift to the punching bags as my muscles cry out for relief. Before I met the guys, I'd run when I felt like this. Run for miles and miles. Up and down the steep San Francisco hills, through parks, to the beach. I'd do every and anything I could to expel the anxious tension pulsing through me, threatening an impending panic attack.

I could hit the treadmill, but it doesn't give the same release anymore. After all my training sessions with the guys, I can only think of one thing that will.

I'm surprised when my eyes lock onto the older French man from the debriefing the other day. He's beating the shit out of a punching bag, each strike landing with a resounding thud that echoes through the busy gym.

His form is impeccable, every movement precise, controlled. I tilt my head slightly, watching the way his muscles ripple beneath his shirt, the sheer power behind each punch. It's almost hypnotic, the way he channels his aggression. His focus is so complete that it's like nothing else in the world exists.

I wonder what he's thinking. What drives him to hit that bag with such intensity?

Is it anger? Fear? Or is it just a way to keep himself from thinking too much, from feeling too much, the same way I'm trying to?

I shake my head slightly, pulling my attention back to my own hands. I'm not here to watch him, to analyze someone else's emotions. I'm here because I need to do something, anything , to keep from losing my mind.

Hunter's been running himself ragged these past few days, refusing to rest even when it's clear his body is screaming for it. I had to practically drag him to the med bay earlier, forcing him to let the doctors check his gunshot wound. He's been out of bed too long, pushing himself too hard, and I'm terrified he's going to collapse before we get a chance to find the others.

I know he's trying to stay strong for me, for all of us, but I can see the toll it's taking on him. He needs to heal, to recover, but there's no time.

No time for any of us to be weak.

The anxiety tightens its grip on me again, and I ball my hands into fists, the tape pulling taut against my skin. I can't afford to let this get to me. I need to stay focused, to stay strong, but the weight of everything is crushing me, pressing down until it feels like I'm suffocating.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to center myself, but all I see is their faces. Gage, Maddox, Nyxon, Stone—they're out there somewhere, and I'm stuck here, useless, while they suffer. I don't know what's happening to them, but I can imagine it, the fear and pain they must be enduring. And the worst part is that I can't do anything about it. I can't help them.

A tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe it away angrily. This isn't the time for tears. This is the time to fight, to do whatever it takes to get them back.

I open my eyes, fixing them on the punching bag across the room. The man is still going at it, his strikes relentless, like he's trying to beat the very air out of the bag. Jealousy fills me. I want that. I need it.

I push myself to my feet, shaking off the lingering anxiety as best I can. I need to move, to hit something, to feel the burn in my muscles and the sweat on my skin. It's the only way I know how to deal with this, the only way to keep from drowning, drowning, drowning.

As I approach the bag next to his, he glances at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, we just look at each other, two strangers in the middle of this cold, empty gym, both of us fighting our own battles.

Then he gives a slight nod, an acknowledgment of sorts, before turning back to his own bag.

I follow suit, throwing the first punch with more force than necessary. The impact reverberates up my arm, grounding me, pulling me back from the edge. In my head, I can hear Nyx's instructions. Can picture Maddox circling me with his dimples on full display. I can see the calculator on Gage's face as he picks apart my form. And Stone…God, I can't help it. I can see him in the corner, winding a pink rope around his hand as he gives me that look . The one that sends shivers down my spine.

And in front of all of them, I see Hunter.

My lighthouse. My beacon in the dark. The light guiding me home.

He's always been my peace, but right now, he's my anchor in the storm. I don't think I could have survived all this without him.

I settle into a rhythm, each punch bringing a little more clarity, a little more focus. The thoughts are still there, swirling just beneath the surface, but they're quieter now, muted by the physical exertion. I don't know how long I've been at it, but by the time I stop, my knuckles are throbbing, and my body is slick with sweat. My throat is so dry, I almost fall into a coughing fit.

I step back, breathing heavily, and catch sight of the man again. He's watching me now, a look of approval in his eyes.

I don't say anything, just nod back at him before turning away to find my water. I head to the far wall, leaning back against it, and take a deep swallow.

The thoughts from before slowly creep back in, and I'm too tired to fight them off this time.

What are they doing to the guys? Are they still alive? What's taking Oliver so long?

The questions loop endlessly in my mind, each one more painful than the last. I thought everything I've discovered in the last few days would be the thing that ruins me, but as the minutes turn to hours, I realize what will truly break me is life without them.

I can't do it.

I glance around the gym again, at the cold, clinical perfection of it all. This place is a fortress, designed to keep out the world, to keep us safe. But it feels like a prison, one that's keeping me from the people I love, from the fight I need to be part of.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead, my hand lingering over my brow as I stare at the punching bag in front of me. It sways slightly, the chain creaking under its weight, and I wonder what it would take to break it, to bring it crashing down. Probably more than I've got in me right now.

But I'm not broken. Not yet. And as long as I have breath in my body, I'll keep fighting. For Hunter, for the guys. I'll keep fighting until there's nothing left of me, until I'm standing over Gus' broken body, or I'm the one on the ground. There's no other option.

Oliver has twenty-four hours. After that, I'm getting out of this place, whether the Milieu team is ready or not.

I finish off my water and head back to the punching bag, trying to shake off the tension still coiled tight in my chest. The older man continues his relentless assault on the bag beside me, each strike landing with a skill that I can't help but admire. There's something almost mesmerizing about the way he moves—controlled, calculated, every punch delivered with purpose.

The guys would jizz all over themselves if they saw him. I smirk at the thought.

I catch his eye, and he pauses, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You've got good form, Skylar," he says, his voice carrying a rich, thick, French accent that's heavier than any I've heard here. It's the kind of accent that makes every word sound a little more important, a little more meaningful.

I return the smile, a bit surprised. "Thank you. And you can call me Ella, you know."

I've convinced everyone else here to do the same. Even the woman at the small coffee station on Oliver's floor nearly had a heart attack when I'd corrected the name on my cup. But now, she writes Ella without having to be asked. I don't know why it bothers me so much. In the grand scheme of things, it shouldn't. It's just a name. But right now, I'm holding onto the threads of my sanity with all I've got. I can't take more change.

He waves a hand dismissively. "Nonsense. You were born Skylar, and that's what I'll call you. It's a beautiful name, don't you think? A name given to you by your birth parents."

There's something about the way he says it that feels like a gentle reminder of who I was before all of this. With just a few short words and a sharp look, I feel properly chastised.

"I suppose it is," I reply slowly. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

And I hadn't, but now that he's pointed it out, I feel the sudden urge to cry. My parents—Miles and Charlotte, my real parents, named me.

Jesus fuck. That hits harder than it should.

He steps back from the bag, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "I'm Jean-Luc, by the way. I don't think we've been properly introduced."

"It's really nice to meet you, Jean-Luc," I say, and I mean it. There's something comforting about him, something steady. "How long have you been with…" I break off, still feeling utterly odd saying the name of the French Mafia so casually.

"Le Milieu?" he fills in with a grin. I nod awkwardly. Jean-Luc chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. "Longer than I'd care to admit. I was born in France, actually. Came over here when I was just a boy, but the old country never really leaves you, you know?"

I don't know, but I can assume so. There's something about Europe that's always called to me. Maybe because Miles and Char forced me to learn so much about it when I was little. Memories that I'd lost are slowly trickling in, especially with these people around me. They're soft reminders of the life I once lived, the life I was destined for, but lost too soon.

"Were you always part of this…" My hands flit around. "Organization?"

He smiles, but there's a shadow behind it, a flicker of something darker. "Not always. I was… how do you say… swept up in it. I didn't have much of a choice, not back then. Your grandfather, Sacha—well, he wasn't the kind of man you said no to."

I pause, my fists lowering as I turn to face him fully. "My grandfather? You knew him?"

Sacha? How did I not know his name? My brows furrow. No one has said it since I arrived. Almost as if it's…taboo? Forgotten?

Jean-Luc's expression softens, and he nods. "Yes, I knew him. Your grandfather was… complicated. Powerful, yes, but corrupt to his core. He'd taken over at a young age when his own father passed. The power went to his head. He was ruthless, greedy.

"I was young, eager to prove myself, and he saw that. He took me under his wing, in a manner of speaking. Showed me the ropes, taught me what it meant to be part of this world. But it wasn't all bad," he adds quickly, as if to reassure me. "There were moments of honor, moments where I thought we were doing something good. But they were few and far between."

"What happened?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. There's a heaviness in his words that makes me think this story doesn't have a happy ending.

Jean-Luc's eyes drift to the floor, his hands still for the first time since we started talking. "There was a job," he begins, his tone growing more somber. "It was supposed to be simple. Just a handoff, money for goods. But it went wrong—terribly wrong. The other side double-crossed us, and before I knew it, bullets were flying. I lost friends that day, good men who had families, who didn't deserve to die like that."

He pauses, swallowing hard, and I can see the weight of those memories pressing down on him. "Your grandfather—he didn't take failure lightly. Blamed me for what happened, even though there was nothing I could have done. Said I should have known, should have been more careful. He made an example out of me, had me beaten, humiliated in front of the others. But he didn't kill me. No, he said that would be too easy. Instead, he let me live with the guilt, with the knowledge that those men died because of me."

My breath catches in my throat. I can't imagine the pain, the betrayal Jean-Luc must have felt. "That's horrible," I manage to say, my voice trembling.

Jean-Luc looks up at me, his eyes meeting mine with a mix of sadness and resignation. "It was a long time ago, Skylar. I've made peace with it. In this world, we all carry our burdens. That was mine."

"Was it always…Did things get…" I don't know how to ask if things improved when my grandfather died. From what I've learned these last few days, he was the problem in Le Milieu. When Charlotte took over, things seemed to have improved.

I swallow hard and shake my head. The guys seriously had this place all wrong. They thought my parents were murderers, but it was always their father.

"Did things get better when Sacha passed?" he asks gently. I nod and he lowers his hands, stretching out his muscles. "Would you like my complete honesty?"

"Yes," I say immediately, then glance away. "Everyone here is trying to walk on eggshells around me, and I understand why. I haven't exactly been the strongest person lately, but it's just…" I flounder, searching for the words. "It's been a lot. I had no idea who I was until arriving here. I thought Madeline was my mother, and even her I'd forgotten."

"What do you mean, forgotten?" he murmurs. His voice is so familiar, so kind, I find myself opening up when I vowed I wouldn't.

"After I was dropped off at that hospital," I hedge, looking anywhere but at him. "I went through a really rough time. I sustained a lot of bad injuries in the explosion. Looking back on it now, I guess I was just way too close and too small. I hit my head."

I rub the spot as the ghost of my injury blooms. It's not real, I know that. But it feels real. If I focus, I can even imagine the thick line of stitches, the swelling, the pain.

"Anyway," I drop my hand. "I forgot a lot of things. Memories they weren't sure would ever come back. I didn't know my name or age. The doctors were nice, but they were just as lost as I was."

"How long were you there?" he asks. I blink, surprised he doesn't already know. He smiles. "Forgive me. I have memory issues of my own, but alas, mine are due to age and far too much wine."

I chuckle and he blushes adorably.

"I was there for just over two months while I healed. And then, I was taken into a foster home where I spent the next few years, until…" I trail off and he grips my hand, squeezing.

"We don't need to rehash the past hurts, Skylar. We know what that evil man tried to do." He smiles kindly, but there's pain behind his eyes. "We're just so proud of you for reporting him before anything could happen. That we were able to secure Daniel and Evelyn as emergency care workers to get you out."

My mouth falls open and a harsh breath leaves me. "Wh-what?"

Is that what they think?

Holy shit.

No wonder everyone here has been so casual, so utterly… simple , about my past. They have no idea what happened. But more than that, they think they actually saved me from it.

I shake the thoughts away and turn back to Jean-Luc.

"Finish your story," I practically demand, then wince. "Please."

I can tell he wants to know more, to dig deeper into my past. I don't know why, but I have the sense that he's incredibly intuitive and likely knows I'm hiding something. He stares at me for a long moment before his shoulders deflate and he jerks a nod.

"Sacha getting cancer and dying is the best thing that happened for many people," he says bluntly. I swallow thickly, my eyes burning.

"Charlotte was young. She never wanted this life. She grew up living in the shadow of her two older brothers. In this world, men are valued as more."

I flinch, and he nods sympathetically.

"It's not right, and it's a stigma your mother worked very hard to overcome. But she did it. Beyond a few who were loyal to Sacha, even when he died, and those who Augustus had quietly turned, your mother was loved. She did great things for Le Milieu . She left behind a legacy so strong that we scraped ourselves from the bloody pavement and pierced the family back together in her name…"

He breaks off and cups my jaw, tilting my neck back to look at him. I quickly wipe away tears as he smiles and simply says, "For you."

We fall into a moment of silence, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the ventilation system, and the muted thuds of someone running on a treadmill. He drops his hand and steps away, turning back to the punching bag.

I can't help but watch him as he continues, noticing the way he never misses a beat, his form as precise as it was when he started. His punches are harder than I expect, each one driving into the bag with a force that speaks of years of experience, of countless fights won and lost. I wonder if he's putting all the quietly contained emotion into his punches, if he's expelling his hatred for Sacha the way I want to.

He catches me staring and laughs, a deep, rich sound that fills the room. "What's the matter, Skylar? You think an old man like me can't keep up?"

I grin, shaking my head. "No, it's just…you're good. Really good."

Jean-Luc chuckles again, a twinkle in his eye. "You're never too old to fight, my dear. The body may slow down, but the mind? The mind stays sharp if you keep it busy. Besides," he adds with a sly smile, "a few tricks of the trade don't hurt."

I laugh with him, the tension in my chest easing just a little. "I'll have to remember that."

He nods, his expression turning serious again. "But remember this, too—fighting is about more than just strength. It's about control, about knowing when to strike and when to step back. Your grandfather…he never learned that lesson. But you, Skylar Moreau, you still can."

His words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. There's something more he's trying to say, something I can't quite grasp, but I file it away for later. Right now, there are too many other things pressing down on me, too many other thoughts crowding my mind.

"Thank you," I say softly, genuinely. He's given me more than just advice; he's given me a glimpse into the past, into the man my grandfather was, and by extension, a glimpse into the darkness that could have been my future.

But, there's also light.

Charlotte. My mother.

He smiles, the lines around his eyes crinkling in a way that's almost fatherly. "Anytime. Now, let's get back to it, shall we? These bags aren't going to hit themselves."

We return to our workout, but the conversation lingers in my mind. I can't shake the image of Jean-Luc as a young man, full of hope and ambition, only to be crushed by the very world he wanted to be a part of. It's a harsh reminder of the dangers that come with power, the thin line between honor and corruption.

Charlotte avoided it. Could I? Is this world something I want to be a part of?

Is turning it down something I can even do?

As we work, I keep stealing glances at him, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the stories he's told. He's strong, skilled, but there's a sadness in him that no amount of fighting can erase. And I realize, with a pang of empathy, that he's not just fighting the bag—he's fighting the ghosts of his past, the same way I am.

When we finally finish, we stand in silence for a moment, catching our breath. Jean-Luc pats me on the shoulder, and warmth spreads through me. Why couldn't this guy have been my grandfather instead of some murderous, greedy psychopath?

"You've got a good head on your shoulders, Skye," he says, his voice soft but firm. "Don't let this world take that away from you."

"I won't," I promise, and I mean it. He's right—I've got a lot to learn, but I'm not going to let the darkness consume me. Not like it did my grandfather.

As he turns to leave, I find myself calling out to him.

"Jean-Luc…thank you—" I break off, shrugging awkwardly. My cheeks burn. God, I'm so not a fucking queen. "For everything."

He glances back, a warm smile on his face. "Remember what I told you the other day. Their voices will grow weak long before yours."

I watch as Jean-Luc's figure disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone in the gym. Or at least, I think I'm alone until I hear soft footsteps approaching. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. The air between us is already thick with tension, a tension that's been brewing for days, ever since the truth came crashing down around me.

"Ella," Madeline's voice is soft, hesitant, as if she's testing the waters, afraid I might lash out. And I just might. "Can I join you?"

Well, fuck.