19. Callum

"Talk,"I grit my teeth as I answer the phone, knowing it will be whoever took Vogue. As expected, it's a no-caller ID number.

"Ah, Callum Wakefield, good of you to answer so quickly." The voice is twisted, unrecognisable through whatever tech they're using to hide their identity. My heart doesn't race—I don't let it. Instead, coldness seeps into my veins, a familiar friend in times like this.

"Who the hell is this?" I keep my words clipped; my tone is as icy as the look I know is on my face. Quentin rises from Harry's side, Thayer's eyebrow quirks up, and Harrison leans back, all eyes on me now.

"Names aren't important right now, but what we have is." The distorted voice has a smugness that makes my skin crawl. "We've got your little bird, Vogue. Quite the catch, isn't she?"

The others are watching me closely. The thought of Vogue alone is enough to make my blood boil, but my expression remains a mask of frost carved from years of necessity.

"Prove it," I say, and my voice comes out like a blade, sharp and deadly.

"Patience," the voice snaps. "You'll get your proof soon enough, but first things first, yeah?"

The phone feels like a block of ice in my hand, the voice on the other end like gravel grinding underfoot. "Listen closely, Wakefield, because I'm not repeating myself. You give up Crestmont, or your precious Vogue won't be so pretty anymore."

My blood spikes, but I keep it together. Losing Crestmont is not an option. The place isn't just a university; it's our turf, our kingdom. It's where The Crowned Syndicate holds court, running rackets and recruiting the best of the best.

"Let's not make rash decisions," I start, voice steady as I buy time to think. But inside, my thoughts are scrambling.

"Tick tock, Earl." The words are a hiss, slithering through the speaker.

I fight the urge to hurl the phone against the wall. Instead, my fingers curl tighter, knuckles white, every muscle tensed like a coiled spring. This is a move with sky-high stakes, and they've just put us in a standoff.

"Touch her, and I'll end every last one of you," I growl into the phone, my tone ice-cold, leaving no room for doubt. There's a pause, and then the screen flickers to life, showing Vogue tied up on a bed, her chest rising and falling in the shallow breaths of unconsciousness.

My heart hammers with rage. The sight of her, vulnerable and alone, ignites a fury in me that I've never known. My hand is a vice around the phone, so tight I expect it to crack at any second.

"See? Unharmed," the voice oozes from the speaker, mocking me.

"Unharmed doesn't mean you won't pay," I snap back, my vision tunnelling down to the image of her on the screen. They've dared to take what's mine, to threaten the precarious balance we maintain.

"Be smart, Wakefield. You know what we want," they taunt as if I need a reminder.

‘Smart' isn't the game I'm playing now. They've mistaken my silence for compliance, my calculation for fear. They don't understand who they're dealing with. Who she is to me. This isn't about being ‘smart'. It's about being deadly.

"You will regret this. Every single one of you."

Laughter fills my ear, the sound grating on my last nerve. "You've got one day, Wakefield," the voice sneers through the phone. "One day to hand over Crestmont, or the little bird comes back in pieces courtesy of the Black Vipers."

My blood runs cold, but my face remains an emotionless mask. They're playing with fire, thinking they can pressure me into submission. I end the call, shove the phone into my pocket, and when I look up, Quentin, Thayer, and Harrison are right there with me, ready for war.

"The Black Vipers," Thayer spits out. "Thought it might be them."

So did I. It's a mafia gang with roots that are old and deceiving, a serpent slithering through London's dark underbelly.

"They'll regret this decision," Harrison says, standing up. His legs are steady, but his face is paler than usual.

But it's not a decision, not really. It's Vogue, and there's no choice to make. We'll get her back, and when we do, The Black Vipers will learn what happens when you corner a beast. This is our turf, our domain, and we protect what's ours.

I crouch down, phone between my palms. I can't go to Dad or Aaron McGowan. If the head of The Syndicate finds out I've let Vogue, his fucking daughter, slip through our fingers, it's not just my head on the line. It's my life.

"Fuck," I mutter, staring at the device like it's a snake ready to strike. It's a lifeline and a ticking bomb all at once. My mind races—there has to be a way out of this mess without handing over Crestmont on a silver platter.

"Callum?" Quentin's voice breaks through my thoughts, but I barely hear him.

"Give me a second," I snap, more harshly than intended. He backs off, and I'm grateful for the space. Quentin's brilliant, but right now, I need silence. I need to think.

I'll tear apart every last one of those Black Viper assholes if I have to. They want to see what happens when they threaten one of ours? They're about to find out.

"Got a plan?" Thayer's voice is steady, grounding.

"Working on it," I say, getting to my feet. I meet his gaze, then Harrison's, then Quentin's. There is no need for words; the set of their shoulders, the fire in their eyes—it says enough.

We've got less than twenty-four hours to pull off a miracle, and hell will freeze over before I let them keep her a minute longer than that.

This isn't just about power, or territory, or even pride. This is about her—about us—and no one, especially not some wannabe fuckfaces like the Black Vipers, gets to come between that.

They drew first blood. Now it's our turn.