A sleek, bulletproof Maybach glided silently down the garage ramp, stopping exactly two feet behind Kavon.
The driver's door opened. Silas Finch, Kavon's executive assistant, stepped out. He moved with the quiet efficiency of a ghost. He bowed his head slightly as he approached.
Silas's eyes flicked up and caught the smear of blood on Kavon's lower lip. Silas's body tensed instantly. His hand moved toward the inside of his jacket, reaching for his concealed weapon.
Kavon raised his hand. Between his index and middle finger, he held the $500,000 check.
He stopped Silas's movement without a word.
The corner of Kavon's mouth lifted into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Cash this, Silas," he ordered softly. "Make sure every single cent clears."
Silas took the check with both hands. He glanced at the name printed on the top left corner. Charlize Chen. A flicker of profound shock crossed Silas's stoic face, but he quickly masked it.
Kavon turned and slid into the spacious back seat of the Maybach. He reached up and loosened his silk tie, pulling it free.
"I want a full background check on the Chen family estate," Kavon commanded, his voice turning to ice. "Every debt, every secret, every vulnerability. I want it in my hands before sunrise."
"Yes, sir," Silas said. He closed the door, got behind the wheel, and the Maybach vanished into the Los Angeles night.
Across the city, in a luxury penthouse overlooking the glowing skyline, Charlize kicked off her stilettos.
She walked barefoot across the thick Persian rug, heading straight for the marble wet bar. She grabbed a crystal glass and poured three fingers of neat whiskey.
She threw her head back and swallowed the burning liquid in one gulp.
The alcohol burned down her throat, but it didn't wash away the ghost of the kiss. She reached up, her fingers lightly touching her swollen lower lip. The aggressive, cedar-scented heat of that man was still clinging to her skin.
Charlize slammed the glass down on the marble counter.
She was not a woman who left things to chance. A man with that kind of physical presence and technical skill didn't just casually attend a Beverly Hills wedding. He was dangerous.
She walked down the hallway and stopped in front of a heavy oak door. She unlocked it and stepped into her private study.
She walked to the massive mahogany desk, pressed a hidden button under the rim, and a secret compartment slid open. Inside rested a matte-black laptop with no brand logos.
She opened it. The screen flared to life, scanning her retina and requiring a complex fingerprint sequence.
Once logged into the deep-web intelligence network she had built from the ground up, she pulled up the global search interface.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She typed: Kavon Velasquez.
She hit Enter.
The progress bar flashed across the screen. Three seconds later, the screen went completely black. A massive red warning box popped up in the center.
TARGET DOSSIER ENCRYPTION LEVEL: SSS. ACCESS DENIED. INSUFFICIENT CLEARANCE.
Charlize's eyes narrowed. Her heart gave a hard thump. Her clearance level was at the absolute top of the civilian and corporate intelligence ladder.
She grabbed the encrypted satellite phone off her desk and hit speed dial.
"Kaylynn," Charlize said the second the line connected.
"Boss," Kaylynn Mercer's sharp voice came through. "What do you need?"
"I need you to use Kestrel Dynamics' core network. Break through the firewall on a man named Kavon Velasquez. Dig up everything."
There was a pause on the other end. The sound of rapid typing echoed through the phone. Five minutes passed in heavy silence.
"Boss," Kaylynn finally said, her voice tight with rare anxiety. "I can't. The firewall protecting his data is military-grade. If I push any harder, I'll trigger the highest-level international security agency's alert protocol."
Charlize gripped the phone tighter. "What can you see?"
"Only the public cover," Kaylynn replied. "He's the second son of the Velasquez family. He went missing twelve years ago. He just returned to the country this week. That's it. The last twelve years are a complete black hole."
Charlize hung up the phone. She leaned back in her leather chair, staring at the red warning box on her screen.
Twelve years missing. Military-grade protection.
She remembered the way he had looked at her in the smoke. The way his eyes had locked onto her mole.
A cold chill crawled up her spine. He wasn't just an arrogant billionaire. He was a predator. And for some reason, he was hunting her.
