9. Chapter 9

As my car approaches Eugene Kingsley's estate, I do a mental checklist of everything I brought with me that I may need tonight.

Both physically and figuratively.

I'm having a hard time concentrating, which is never a good thing.

I need to stay focused on the task at hand, but the situation with Siren is plaguing me.

Despite the hours, days, and weeks I've spent combing through every piece of data I can get my hands on, there's still no sign of her.

There is nothing on traffic cameras.

No credible tips.

Nothing on the dark web.

It's as if she disappeared into thin air.

I don't believe in magic, only science.

Technology.

What you could see with your eyes and hear with your ears.

Unfortunately, all of those avenues have so far come up empty.

I don't like it, not only the fact that I, the man frequently relied upon to find information that even the most intelligent people tired to keep hidden, couldn't find anything.

But also my mind is constantly running rampant with thoughts of what could be happening to her; I feel like I'm slowly descending into madness.

With every passing day, my nerves become more and more frayed.

Three weeks.

She's been missing for three weeks and could be God knows where with God knows who.

I think that's the part that bothers me most.

Not the jab that my ego is taking at not being able to find her, but the very real possibility that someone is hurting her, even now.

After speaking with Merrick and Amelia, I know more about Siren's history.

With renewed purpose, I'd dug deep into the missing years after she left home.

Again, there wasn't much to find, which made me even more uneasy.

Whoever she'd been with when she was a teenager was someone with money, power, and connections.

There was no way to go through life without leaving at least a digital footprint unless you were someone who knew how to cover your tracks.

Whoever this is, either has their own arsenal of technological skills or they have some seriously influential people in their back pocket.

I knew the man was someone important but, to date, I haven't been able to discover his identity.

Based on the information I do have, I would guess that he's significantly older than Siren.

Probably cultured and sophisticated.

Contrary to what people believed, there were many different classes of criminals and you couldn't run in ours unless you met specific criteria.

So, tonight's auction would serve dual purposes.

Considering that I'd be rubbing elbows with some of the underworld's elite, I was hoping to not only intercept and spy on the meeting with my father and try to get a lead on Siren's location.

All I needed was a whisper, a nugget of information, something.

Even if I only had one thread to pull, I could use it to lead me somewhere else.

Maybe that thread would lead to another, and eventually, things would unravel, and I'd find her at the other end .

If I was honest with myself, it wasn't only her connection to Amelia that drove me to find her and bring her home.

We'd had … something.

I wasn't sure what it was, but she'd disappeared before I had a chance to figure it out.

And that just pissed me off.

Shortly before Amelia had been shot by her psychotic mother, Siren and I had spent one night together.

One ridiculously hot night, in which I'd had her on her knees, putting that smart-ass mouth to good use.

Something I'd bet she didn't allow often.

Fuck .

I couldn't think about that night without getting hard.

Which was inconvenient and a little disturbing, given the circumstances of her now being missing.

The bottom line was I wanted her back.

I wanted to explore this thing between us.

I wanted her beneath me, covered in sweat and my scent, while I feasted on her body until she was cursing my name.

She'd done that before, but it wasn't in the context I wanted.

Most importantly, I wanted to save her from whatever trap she'd fallen, or in this case, been locked into.

Shaking my head in an attempt to clear it, I have just enough time to get my mind back on track before reaching the end of the long gravel driveway.

Finally, seeing the main house come into view, I let out an audible snort at the over-the-top décor.

The mansion definitely befits a construction tycoon with questionable morals and more money than he knows what to do with.

It's big and, honestly, ugly as fuck.

Made up of large white stone sides with virtually no windows, it looked more like a fortress than a house.

I had no doubt that Kingsley had chosen this location to build his monstrosity of a home because of its remote surroundings that were far enough away from prying eyes that the owner could get up to all kinds of misdeeds while still remaining within driving distance of the city.

Sitting on a flat piece of land that's been cleared of all trees, the open space surrounding the house was a security guard's wet dream.

Unfortunately for them, Mr.

Kingsley's annual auction occurred at night, making visibility a bit more difficult.

For whatever reason, bad people seemed to believe that the appearance of their sins was somehow diminished in low lighting.

The bad people that would be in attendance tonight were no different.

Hence, the house sat dead center in the dark expanse of space, sans a handful of tiki-style torches that had been lit and surrounded the house.

Shorter versions in a similar style lined the circular gravel drive that already sported a row of cars more expensive than most people would make working a 9-5 job for the rest of their lives.

In comparison to this view, my house in Savannah wouldn't be good enough for Mr.

Kingsley to take a shit in.

I knew people like him.

People who were born with a silver spoon in their mouths but spent their entire lives preaching about how hard they'd worked to get where they were.

All while stepping on people they considered their inferiors and hoarding every penny from those who so desperately needed it.

I had once been one of those people in need, so I recognized Eugene Kingsley as someone who would've spit on me as he passed by while I begged for change on the corner just to get something to eat. I hated men like him. They did nothing but perpetuate the cycle of the wealthy taking everything while giving nothing.

Tonight, I would enact step one of my plan to take a little something back from his type of criminal.

Over time, I'd take everything else until these men knew what it was to feel like less than nothing.

Gathering up the dirt on my father was my first priority.

My need to dish out retribution for everything that man had cost me, was a burning pit deep in my stomach.

It ate away at all the good parts of me.

The parts my mother had tried so hard to nurture while battling her own demons.

I wasn't sure how much of those parts were left, but whatever there was, I needed to preserve them, and the only way to do that was to ruin my father: his good name, his happiness, his life.

I would take it all and then some.

It was only fair.

Men like him didn't deserve to prosper.

They deserved to rot.

And I had more than one promise to keep.

Pulling my Maybach Exelero to a stop in front of the house, I step out and narrow my gaze at the valet that hustles around the vehicle.

Unlike the modest home I live in, this car has an insane price tag.

It was one of the few things I'd treated myself to when I got older and began committing serious cyber crimes that stole from the rich to give to the poor.

Except this version of Robin Hood had a horse worth around nine million dollars.

As I glare at the snot-nosed little shit that's come to stand in front of me with his hand out, waiting for me to pass my keys over, I channel my inner villain and say, "If anything happens to my car, there won't be enough left of you for your mom to bury."

The kid's eyes widen before he nods frantically.

"Yes … yes s-s-sir,"

he stutters nervously.

Reluctantly handing over my keys, I straighten the jacket of my tux, ensuring the loose-fitting pants and long-sleeve t-shirt underneath are well hidden.

I always wore a comfortable change of clothes beneath the monkey suit required for functions like this, just in case I found myself in a tough spot.

I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I had a weapon of some kind on me, but this isn't my first rodeo.

I know Kingsley will have security at the doors, sweeping guests with discreet metal-detecting wands, in addition to giving them an ocular pat down.

That man was rightfully paranoid and had a strict no-weapons policy at these events.

His way of keeping people honest was to make sure no one got the drop on him or one of his shady business partners.

I couldn't blame him.

If I had this many sharks shoved into one tank, I'd be worried about their teeth, too.

Stepping inside, I go through the motions of allowing the guard to sweep me for weapons.

He gives me the all-clear, and a blonde in a skin-tight red dress steps up to me and asks for my invitation.

Though I'm sure it could've been done, the heavily embossed cardstock I pull from the inside of my jacket pocket isn't a forgery.

In the handful of years I've been working with high society's criminal underbelly, I've garnered a reputation that lent me a certain level of respect.

And that was only based on what they knew of me as a fence.

None of these idiots had any idea about my online persona.

The one that could do the most damage.

I did everything in my power to keep it that way.

When the time came that I chose to make my presence known, it would already be too late for them.

Handing over my invitation, I give her a moment to check its authenticity while I take a seemingly casual glance around the room.

I recognized many faces, though not all of them would recognize me in return.

I'd never met most of the posh men and women littering the foyer but I knew of them.

I'd taken care to research many of the key players in the buy/sell/trade game.

When it came to art, gems, antiques, guns, drugs, women … I knew who to keep my eye on.

And who not to give my back to.

Just glancing around the room, I see Katrina Herrera, Michael Beck, Holly Tucker, and Ray Cooley.

Katrina was in the business of drugs, specifically heroin, while Michael's drug of choice had a pulse.

The scumbag was one of the biggest sex traffickers on the East Coast.

Holly Tucker was a gem dealer and seemed to at least have something of a conscience, based on the little face to face interactions I'd had with her in the past.

Ray, on the other hand, was another literal piece of human garbage.

He sold guns, and didn't give a shit whose hands they fell into after that deposit hit his offshore bank account.

Three out of the four were on the list of people who would be wiped clean at the end of my long game.

As the blonde in the red dress nods and welcomes me inside, I head straight to the bar that's been set up along the left side of the foyer.

Bypassing all the bottom feeders in designer suits, I order an expensive label whiskey that I won't be drinking and meander to the back of the room.

Scoping out the best vantage point, I make my way there so that I can take in the entirety of the room and what lies beyond.

Just off the foyer, a large ballroom has been transformed into a showroom of sorts.

An empty space devoid of chairs surrounds a large stage that's been erected along the back of one wall.

An empty podium stands next to the beginning of a short catwalk, illuminated by bright theater spotlights.

As I look on, I can see people doing last-minute audio equipment and lighting checks.

As it has for the last few years, the big-ticket items that happen to come in small packages will be put to bid there.

Another wall of the room sports a long table full of iPads, presumably showcasing more of the items up for auction, letting people place early bids for some of the lesser valued items that won't be deserving of the stage spotlight.

I'm not even gonna bother looking at those.

I know what I'm after, and it definitely won't be found on that table.

Bringing my glass to my lips, I discreetly appear to take a sip while not actually drinking anything.

I wasn't opposed to alcohol, but at a function like this with people like these, I didn't need anything impairing my judgment.

Just then, a man in a uniform so starched I'm surprised he can walk straight steps into the room and says, "The auction will begin in five minutes time.

Please make your way into the ballroom if you wish to bid."

Showtime.

As I take another sweep of the room, I look around for any hint of my father.

Considering that he wouldn't actually be here to bid on anything, I'm not all that surprised when I don't see his face in the migrating crowd.

He must not be here yet.

That's fine.

It'll give me time to verify if the rumors about the jewel I'd come here to get my hands on were true.

As I start to make my way into the ballroom, following the rest of the crowd, the blonde from earlier catches my eye.

Leaning against a far wall, we make eye contact, and her gaze bores into mine.

As I watch, she not-so-subtly glides her hands down the sides of her breasts before sliding them down her stomach and pausing a little too long on the area hidden beneath her extremely short skirt.

Cocking an eyebrow at her blatant flirting, I almost bite back a laugh as she licks her lips hungrily.

In another lifetime, I'd already be across the room and dragging her into the nearest closet.

But as sexy as she is in that tiny red dress, tonight I've got my heart set on something a little more … blue.

The Oppenheimer Blue, to be exact.

The largest vivid blue diamond in the world.

I have no doubt that the uptick of guests in attendance tonight has something to do with the rumor that an unknown seller will offer the elusive stone to the highest bidder.

I intend on being the highest bidder.

Whatever the gem ended up selling for, it wouldn't even be close to the price it fetched at its last legitimate sale, which was close to 60 million dollars.

It might sell for half that tonight, considering it was now listed as stolen and would be nearly impossible to flip.

Well, impossible for most people.

I wasn't most people.

Not that it mattered.

I have no intention of selling it.

Giving the blonde a wink and a small shake of my head, which I hope comes across as a little regretful, I enter the ballroom and take a position near the back wall.

From this vantage point, I'd be able to see the majority of the people bidding while keeping the stage in clear view.

First, I'd get my diamond, then deal with my father.

So far, I haven't seen hide nor hair of him.

I happened to know that Kingsley only allowed one entrance and exit during this party, which was the one I came in through, so his meeting with this mystery man must be later tonight.

As a man in a sharp black suit steps out from behind a curtain at the back of the stage, a buzz of excitement runs through the waiting crowd.

Straightening from my slouched position against the wall, I look on with hooded eyes as the man steps up to the microphone that's been set up at the podium.

Soon, the auction begins.

As the bidding of each item commences, I notice one significant difference between this year's sale and the ones that have taken place previously.

As each piece is brought out to display to the waiting crowd, it's being carried by a woman.

A different woman each time, and each one dressed in what I can only imagine is very expensive lingerie to match or accent each item up for bid.

Interesting.

I have the fleeting thought about whether the women are here voluntarily or if they've been loaned out by one of the many flesh peddlers in attendance.

As much as the southern gentleman in me clamors to defend a lady's honor, I know that I can't.

I've got more pressing matters to deal with tonight, but I make a mental note to follow up on this later .

That is, until a woman steps out from behind the curtain holding … nothing.

As opposed to the previous girls, who carried paintings or other high priced antiquities, this girl's hands are empty.

As she comes to stand next to the podium, a hush falls over the crowd.

Unconsciously, my hands ball into fists at my sides as the woman begins to slowly make her way down the catwalk towards the end.

Dressed in black lace and some sheer fabric that seems to float around her toned legs like smoke, my eyes track her every move as she nears the end of the runway.

My gaze sweeps up her body from the black stilettos that sport straps that twist all the way up her calves; I take in her short but generously curved figure.

As my eyes slide over her soft belly and full breasts, they pause only briefly on the large blue diamond that's been set into an intricate silver necklace before finally landing on the girl's face.

Aggression gnaws at my insides like a beast attempting to break free of its cage, but it has nothing to do with the stone.

It's the girl.

As she comes to stand at the end of the catwalk, the men closest to the stage press forward.

Trying to get a better look at the stone or to leer at the woman, I don't know.

Feeling my blood burn through my veins, I have the sudden uncontrollable urge to barrel my way through the crowd and start throwing punches, not because of the diamond but because I know that face.

I know those curves.

I recognize them because I've had them beneath my hands, in my mouth, and against my flesh.

As I grit my teeth, my eyes return to the woman's face.

Hazel eyes clash with mine, and for a brief moment, time seems to stop, along with my breathing.

As we stare at each other, I see the second my features register to her, and I transform from being just another faceless man in the crowd.

The recognition is almost instantaneous.

It only takes a moment, but that's all I need. Despite the thick layer of makeup painting her features and the 14-carat blue diamond hanging heavily around her neck, I'd recognize that beautiful face and long dark hair anywhere. All thoughts of my father and whoever he's meeting flee my brain as a loud buzzing begins to sound in my ears. She may have lost a good amount of weight, but I could never forget that body or those features .

It's Siren.