[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl Chapter 216: Distracted

CASSIAN

(Back to that Saturday)

The sedan rolled away from the curb, the asphalt humming beneath the tires as Noah’s apartnt building shrunk in the glass of the rearview.

He stayed there on the sidewalk for a handful of seconds, a small, stubborn silhouette against the brick. I watched him longer than I should have, my fingers tracing the grain of the leather seat until the car rounded the corner and the street vanished.

I looked forward then, my face resetting into the hard, blank mask that the world expected of .

My chest felt hollow, a scooped-out cavity where sothing heavy and warm had been sitting just an hour ago.

The air in the car felt too sharp, too clinical, a jarring contrast to the dim living room and the low drone of the telenovela.

I’d spent the night unspooling myself on that sofa, letting words out that hadn’t seen the sun in a decade.

It was an exposure I wasn’t used to, a sudden lack of armor that made the morning chill bite deeper than usual.

Until I t him.

The words were still vibrating in the back of my throat. I’d slamd the door shut right after, bolting it with a silence that Noah couldn’t breach, because the things living behind that gate weren’t for him to see.

Not yet. Not while he looked at with that raw, terrifying hope that made my pulse stumble.

Julian’s na was a permanent anchor in my marrow, a quiet, crushing weight that never shifted. He was gone, but the space he’d occupied stayed jagged and massive, a hole in the architecture of my life that I kept trying to fill with work and rage.

The realization didn’t hit with a bang; it just seeped in, cold and undeniable, like a rising tide. I’d been playing the part my father scripted for , the efficient CEO, the dutiful pawn, the wall between his legitimate interests and the ss of his past. I’d walked through boardrooms and shook hands with governors, collecting a whole apparatus of power that I told myself served a purpose. It gave the resources, the cover, and the distance I needed to survive.

But I hadn’t been moving. Not really. I’d been managing a multi-billion dollar corporation while the people who actually broke continued to thrive in the shadows.

The Lorenzo family and the Vincenti crew were still out there, running their routes and counting their blood-soaked cash as if Julian wasn’t rotting in the dirt because of them.

I’d been busy pulling Noah out of alleys and arguing over dinner nus while the n who pulled the trigger were probably sleeping soundly.

How many months had I wasted on this charade? The accounting felt like a physical sickness, a sour taste at the back of my tongue that no amount of expensive scotch could wash away.

I’d been distracted by the luxury of a board seat and the soft, stuttering presence of a boy who made forget the shape of my own hate.

It wasn’t guilt that moved through then, but sothing far more lethal. It was the clarity of a predator who realizes he’s been playing with a ball of yarn while the prey is escaping. I was done waiting for the right mont. I was going to make the mont bleed.

I pulled out the burner phone I kept in the glove box and dialed a number that didn’t exist in any official directory.

"Reid," I said, my voice sounding like gravel.

"I wondered when the corporate life would get boring boss," a flat, unremarkable voice answered.

"What do you have?" I asked, watching the city blur into a grey sar outside the window.

"I’ve been running the backgrounds on the secondary logistics firms," Reid replied, the sound of keys clicking faint in the background. "Most of it is the usual laundry, but there’s sothing in the western port district that’s worth your ti."

Reid didn’t speak in taphors; he spoke in maps and manifests. He’d been watching the Vincenti family’s movents while I was signing off on quarterly reports. "It’s called Azure Logistics. Legitimate on paper, taxes paid, insurance current. They move luxury wine and construction timber."

"And?"

"And the security protocol is for sothing much more sensitive than Pinot Noir," Reid said. "Rotation schedules, ard periter guards, thermal caras at every blind spot. They’ve got a warehouse on the outskirts that receives empty trucks at 3:00 AM and sends them out sealed two hours later. It’s a nerve point Sir. Hit it, and the whole western distribution network goes into cardiac arrest."

I listened, my face a slab of granite as the car navigated the weekend traffic. I understood what he was telling . It wasn’t Emilio himself, but it was his heart, the circulatory system of his operation. If I took this out, I wouldn’t just be doing damage; I’d be stealing his maps.

"I want everything," I told him, my grip on the phone white-knuckled. "Cara placents, shift windows, truck schedules, and the nas of every guard on that payroll. By tomorrow morning."

Sunday was spent in a fever of data. I didn’t go to the office, didn’t call Noah, and didn’t answer my father’s ssages. I sat at the desk in my penthouse, the floor-to-ceiling glass offering a view of a city I was about to set on fire. Miss Chen left a tray of food by the door that went cold and untouched while I mapped the warehouse in my mind.

I studied the human patterns inside the logistical ones. I looked for the weak points, the guard who smoked on the east side at 2:15, the way the attention flagged right before a shift change. I found a man who appeared in every surveillance loop Reid had scrubbed. He wasn’t a worker or a guard; he moved with the heavy, unearned ownership of a lieutenant.

"That’s Vanni," Reid told over a secure line six hours later. "Emilio’s operational overseer for the western routes. He’s the one who knows where the money hides before it gets to the boss."

Vanni was the key. He wasn’t the destination, but he was the door, and I was going to kick him in. Sunday night was a transfer night, and Reid had confird the staffing was at Its lowest between 2:40 and 3:05 AM.

I didn’t call the police, and I didn’t call my father’s security detail. I called three n I’d known since the years that didn’t appear in my official bio, n who knew that when I gave an instruction, the only acceptable response was silence and execution. I told them the location and the window. I didn’t tell them why. They didn’t ask.

By midnight, I’d traded the bespoke Italian wool for dark, rugged gear that favored movent over style. I felt more like myself in the shadows than I ever did under the fluorescent lights of the XUM executive floor. The boardroom version of Cassian Wolfe was a fiction; this was the truth.

The warehouse district was a graveyard of rusting tal and cracked concrete at 2:40 AM. It was quiet in the way that places are right before they aren’t quiet anymore. I could see the trucks idling by the loading docks, their back doors hung open like mouths waiting to be fed. The guards were focused on the cargo, their breath blooming In the cold air, completely unaware of the four shadows closing in from the periter.

I gave the signal.

The power to the block died instantly. Not a flickering surge, but a clean, surgical cut that plunged the warehouse into a thick, suffocating blackness. The caras went blind, the humming industrial lights vanished, and the routine that these n relied on shattered.

In the confusion, we moved.

My crew worked with a terrifying efficiency, taking down the periter guards before they could even draw a breath to shout. I didn’t wait for them to finish. I already had the map of the building burned Into my retinas. Every cara, every access point, every hallway was a path I’d already walked a hundred tis in my head.

I moved through the darkness like I belonged there, because I did. This was the environnt that shaped , the world where violence was the only currency that mattered. When a guard stepped into my path, I didn’t waste words or movents. I took him down with a blunt, chanical precision that left him gasping on the floor, my knuckles throbbing with a familiar, grounding heat.

A few gunshots echoed through the cavernous space, the sound muffled by the thick insulation and the heavy crates. It didn’t matter. There was nobody for miles to hear them, and by the ti anyone looked, we’d be ghosts again.

I found Vanni in the elevated office at the back, his face lit by the sickly green glow of a laptop screen. He was trying to dump the drives, his fingers frantic on the keys. He wasn’t expecting to co through the window. He certainly wasn’t expecting to be faster than he was.

The fight was short and ugly. Vanni was capable, but he was soft from a decade of sitting in offices and letting other n do the bleeding. I wasn’t soft. I was a man who had spent months suppressing every instinct I had, and now I was letting them all out at once. I restrained him with a set of heavy zipties, his breathing ragged and wet against the floorboards. I didn’t kill him. Dead n don’t have the passwords I need.

I stripped the office of everything that mattered, hard drives, manifest ledgers, and the physical files tucked away in a safe hidden behind a tasteless oil painting. Criminals are predictable; they always hide their sins behind a veneer of culture. I took the contact lists and the financial trails, the whole operational paper trail of Emilio’s empire.

I left the warehouse mostly intact, except for the fuel leak and the electrical overload my team was setting up in the basent. It would be a fire, a big one, but controlled enough to destroy the remnants without killing the n we’d left unconscious on the floor. I wanted to hurt Emilio, not just kill his staff. I wanted him to see the smoke on the morning news and know that soone had been inside his house while he slept.

I watched the first orange glow bloom in the rearview mirror as the car pulled away. It was a distant, contained flicker, a small victory in a war that was only just beginning. Emilio would know. He’d know soone found his nerve center, and he’d know soone took his overseer.

The ssage was simple: I know where you are. I’m not finished.

Vanni was slumped in the seat next to , his bravado replaced by the wide-eyed, trembling shock of a man who knows he has no leverage left.