Chapter 92

**Torin POV**

My men breached the estate, mowing down security and forcing the entire party to vacate and relocate to the emergency bunker. And that motherfucker Moretti barely bats an eye. They usher everyone to the subterranean network like it’s an obnoxious fire drill. But the moment he catches a glimpse of Orian, he and the last of his guards, the last line of defense, scurry into an alternate room aside from the primary that I and the rest of his guests find themselves in. I was only recognised by one of Moretti’s guests, but Moretti himself still hasn’t made the link of who I am and my tie to Orian—still insignificant in the face of Orian Moon.
Unmonitored, with Moretti and his men speaking in a fevered panic in the other room. The rest of the distraught guests whimpering with a sound of sorrow whispering through the primary. I exploit the moment to slip out. The walls, constructed from layers of reinforced steel and concrete, are smooth and seamless, designed to withstand anything from explosives to natural disasters. The space is illuminated by soft, ambient lighting, giving it a serene, almost clinical atmosphere. The air is crisp and pure, a self-sustaining oxygen filtration system that draws from subterranean reserves, ensuring breathable air even in the most dire circumstances. With an off-grid power system that hums quietly in the background.
Beyond the main living quarters lies a secondary chamber. That is the treasury, a room dedicated to housing the palace’s most priceless possessions.
An angsty woman leaps into my path. “Do you know what’s happening? Who’s attacking us—do you think this is a hostage crisis? I mean, just a handful of us is a ransom worth billions.”
My brows bob at that valid guess, even though that’s far from the truth.
“They’re a robbery crew,” I say evenly. “They’re obviously here to steal the auction items valued at millions—to them, that is the biggest score in here. It’s best we let them think that.”
“I’m just so frightened.” She falls against me theatrically and places her hands on my chest, clutching onto the lapels of my blazer. “Do you think you can stay close to me, help keep me calm?”
“Do I look like an emotional support dog to you?” I practically scrape her off my body. “My wife wouldn’t appreciate you touching me like that. And neither do I.” I snap my fingers and I signal at the man near the fully stocked bar. “Be a gentleman and make this lady a drink. She’s thirsty.”
A sharp scoff of indignation and she stomps away. When I feel it’s safe enough, I slip into the room that is expansive, its high ceilings creating an almost cavernous space. It is lined with shelves and display cases, each meticulously organized and spotlighted to showcase a wealth of treasures. Glittering jewels, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds—all set into elaborate pieces of jewelry, each item more stunning than the last. Artifacts from ancient civilizations, relics of untold value, rest on velvet cushions.
I rush past the rare paintings, sculptures, and ceremonial armor disinterestedly. Because I already know a small percentage of them are fakes. There’s only one thing in this vault I know is fully authentic. At the center of the room, a single glass case sits atop a raised dais, the focal point of the entire space. Inside, resting on a plush, crimson cushion, is the second book of Magnus Quinque. Its cover is weathered and worn, the leather cracked with age with the edges of its pages gilded, catching the light and shimmering faintly in the otherwise dim room.
I cast furtive glances, fortunate that in fact Orian’s invasion is a timely distraction. I jab my elbow at the center, smashing through it, creating a wide enough gap. I shed off my blazer and I undo my shirt with fast fingers to reveal the vest I have strapped to my torso designed to contain the book and keep it secured to my person. I pick up the book with the delicacy of holding a newborn infant before I slip it behind me into the holder before I fix my shirt back on, slipping my arms through the sleeves of my prime white blazer.
I reenter the primary living space with bored-eyed nonchalance as I scan the room. I wander over to the bar before I pour myself a shot of D'Amalfi Limoncello Supreme. I take a swig and the rush of the tantalizing burn makes me release a pleasured exhale.
“This is absurd,” I overhear another elitist say, “Moretti provided us with assurances regarding our safety and asserted that it was not necessary to deploy the entire contingent of our general security personnel. Now look, his estate is besieged and we’re trapped like fish in an underground barrel.”
A chorus of agreement rises up.
I pound the glass on the bar counter, drawing curious glances.
“They should have called for reinforcements by now. I have a contingency nearby that I can reach on a satellite uplink. I’m going to talk to Moretti to let me use it because I’m not going to wait here to catch a bullet.”
The chorus erupts into a crescendo as I button up my blazer with a flair of finesse. They cheer me on as I stride away to where Moretti and his men are being holed up. I walk into the room as if Moretti is the one that works for me. And I take in the room. Mounted discreetly along the walls are high-resolution monitors, each displaying live feeds from an independent surveillance network. These cameras are positioned throughout the palace above, providing a comprehensive view of every room, corridor, and entrance.
“So, how long do you expect us to wait?”
Moretti throws an apathetic glance over his shoulder. He’s seated at the station with his men hovering over him doing a tactical breakdown and trading strategies.
“There are no reinforcements, are they?”
They all pause like a sleet of ice freezes over the atmosphere.
Moretti swivels around on the wingback chair like a real-life villain to glare back at me.
“It’s common sense,” I point out. “It’s my conjecture that they deliberately disabled all modes of communication in order to prevent you from requesting reinforcements before the commencement of the attack. Lucky my foresight will save us all.”
“What are you talking about?” his guard demands.
“Satellite codes, I have a contingency—a detachment on standby, ready to extract me if anything happens to me. A fail-safe I have when billionaire bastards like you request to have these exclusive parties in these god-forsaken remote locations.”
Moretti swallows a retort and looks away when he asks, “How can you contact them?”
“I need to go back up, at least at the subterranean levels, for signal penetration. Your panic room is all the way in the devil’s ass. We’re way too far down.”
Moretti yields a nod. “Take one of my men for backup.”
“It’s not like he’d be much help,” I say, struggling to stifle my smile. “Seriously, the men up there blew through your security like insects in a storm.”
“And that storm is being consumed by Orian Moon,” he counters with an undeniable current of dread in his voice. “I thought he was otherwise occupied by his obsession, hunting something or someone—I just can’t figure out why he’s killing his way through here. Nothing I have is worth killing for, at least for a man like him. I’m sure his assets eclipses my net worth, and that’s saying a lot.”
I plaster on an indulgent look, shielding my scorn with a smile.
“You have an external device I can monitor the feeds from? And a gun?”
Without even looking at me, he flicks his fingers in an approving gesture. The one guard plucks an iPad from the table surface and heads towards me. He hands me the pad and unsheathes his gun to give it over to me. I take both with a dramatic nod, inspecting the glock with an impressed grin before I shoot him a wink.
“We can guide you from the elevator, but from there. You’re on your own.”
“All I’ve ever needed.”
I withdraw, and I head out of the room. Everyone outside in the primary space staring after me as I make my way to the elevator. It opens as I approach, and I tuck the gun in my waistband momentarily. I enter and I whirl around to capture a glance at the gaping, dumbstruck faces of the others before the doors slide close. With a lurch, it begins the ascent. I look down at the iPad that has full remote operational control on the feed. And after the long ascension, when the door dings open and I no longer need them—then I blind their feed. And the connection reconnects and like I flood, I can hear the cacophony of bullets, barking orders and pained grunts in my comms.
“Package secure,” I report on the open line, “rendezvous at the sea gate as planned.”
A queue of affirming responses gushes in before I switch to Hadassah’s channel.
I scroll on the footage, searching for her to obtain a visual on her location. The screen flickers with images of the palace under siege, black-clad hostiles moving with fatal rigor through its body-strewn halls. And I spot a darting figure surrounded by a clump of my men, pursued by a cluster of Orian’s demonic forces, bloody and brutal, just like their master. Hadassah is in the middle, her head and shoulders concealed by a tuxedo jacket draped over her like a cowl.
“Hadassah, why are you moving toward the secondary location?”
“Torin,” she notes with a tint of relief in her greeting tone. “That’s not me, it’s a decoy. It’s the event coordinator that I forced into my dress.”
I move on hastily, trying to navigate the serpentine passages to the sea gate.
“A ploy to lure them away from the actual point of escape.”
I scroll through the feed of the interior frantically, my eyes darting to every sector with a frenzy. “It’s what I said before, that beautiful mind I adore most, but where is he? I’m not seeing Orian anywhere in the interior footage.”
“That’s because I’m not there.”
I brake to a jarring halt.
I look up slowly. A shape bleeds from the shadows, forming into something formidable. No rage. No hurt. Just deadly calm as he approaches me. A certain grim grace and fatal fluidity that is almost hypnotic, bearing a predatory precision in his gait. The mere pallor of his skin hints at something unsettling. It is as if he stands on the edge of life and death, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable under the thrall of his gaze.
“Long time, otouto.” His voice carries a weight that presses down on the chest, making each breath an effort. “Many long years have since passed a time when you and I have been apart for this long. And I could no longer bear it.”
“That so?” I ask with a mocking tone I didn’t even have to muster. “What is it really, *Oniisan*?”
“I’ve come for what is mine,” he affirms truthfully.
“Hadassah or the book?” I ask condescendingly.
“My Sakura and the head of the one that betrayed me.”