The darkness in the van was absolute, a thick, smothering velvet. It was a darkness that tasted of petrol fumes, stale cigarette smoke, and the damp, sour cloth pressed against Saniz’s face. The engine’s growl vibrated up through the metal floor into his bones, a constant, grinding tremor. Every turn, every gear change, was a dislocation. He had no sense of direction, only a growing vertigo as the city’s geography was rewritten beneath him.

  Fear was a cold stone in his gut, but beneath it, a hotter, sharper emotion burned: humiliation. Crouched in a laundry hamper, buried in the discarded finery of the elite, smelling of their spilled champagne and canapés. Alonso’s thugs—it had to be them—hadn’t even needed to lay a hand on him. They’d simply carted him off like rubbish. He was a piece of clutter to be removed.

  He clutched the wooden box so tightly the intricate compass rose dug into his palm. It was his only anchor in the swirling panic. Think. You have to think. But his thoughts were rabbits scattering before a hawk. Carmela’s face, fierce and frightened in the storeroom light. The polished shoes of Ramirez pausing outside the door. The word discouraged hanging in the air.

  The van slowed, took a series of sharp turns, then bumped over what felt like a kerb. It came to a jerky halt. The engine cut, leaving a ringing silence broken only by the drumming rain on the roof.

  Saniz froze, every muscle locked. He heard the driver’s door open and slam. Then the side door rattled and slid open with a metallic shriek. Cold, wet air flooded in, carrying the scent of wet concrete and diesel.

  A man’s voice, rough and London-flat. “This it?”

  Another voice, higher, impatient. “Just get it inside. He don’t wanna know the details, just wants it done.”

  Hands grabbed the hamper. Saniz was rolled, unceremoniously, out of the van. He bit down on a tablecloth to stop himself crying out as his shoulder slammed against the side. The hamper hit the ground with a jolt, tipping onto its side. He spilled out onto cold, gritty asphalt in a tangle of damp linen.

  He lay still, playing dead, his eyes squeezed shut. Through his lashes, he saw a narrow, rain-slicked alley. A high brick wall, streaked with black damp. A single security light buzzed, casting a jaundiced glow on overflowing industrial bins.

  “Get up.” It was the first voice, closer now.

  A boot nudged his ribs, not a kick, but a firm, contemptuous prod.

  Saniz didn’t move. A wild, desperate plan formed—stay limp, let them think he was unconscious, maybe they’d just leave him.

  The second man let out a short, humourless laugh. “Think he’s out cold. Bumped his head in the pretty basket.”

  A hand fisted in the back of his jacket and hauled him to his feet. Saniz stumbled, the world righting itself. He faced two men. They weren’t the sleek Ramirez or Alvarez. These were blunt instruments. The speaker was bald, with a thick neck and a nose that had been broken more than once. The other was younger, weasel-faced, with nervous, darting eyes. Both wore cheap, waterproof jackets. Eduardo’s men. The street-level muscle.

  The bald one held Saniz upright while the weasel-faced one patted him down with rough efficiency. He found the box, tucked inside Saniz’s jacket.

  “Here we go,” the weasel said, pulling it out. He examined it under the security light. “Fancy bit of firewood.”

  “Leave it,” the bald one grunted. “He was specific. The boy and anything on him. No pilfering.”

  The weasel-faced man looked disappointed but shoved the box back into Saniz’s hand. “Right. In you go, princess.”

  They shoved him towards a rusted metal door set into the wall. The bald man produced a key, unlocked it, and pushed Saniz through into a deeper darkness. The door clanged shut behind them, the key turning with a final, echoing clunk.

  They were in some kind of warehouse or disused garage. The space was vast, the ceiling lost in shadows. The only light came from a single, naked bulb hanging over a cleared area in the centre, illuminating a scene that made Saniz’s blood run cold.

  A plain wooden chair sat in the pool of light. Behind it, leaning against a stained concrete pillar, was Alonso Alara-Vargas. He had changed out of his tuxedo into dark trousers and a grey cashmere sweater. He looked like he was waiting for a photoshoot, not an interrogation. He held a mobile phone, idly scrolling, the screen’s blue glow painting his sharp features.

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  To his left stood Ramirez, a statue of disapproval. To his right, Alvarez, her arms crossed, a faint, clinical smile on her lips. This was their court.

  Eduardo, the thug from the gala, a man built like a bulldog with a shaved head and thick hands, stood just outside the light, his presence a promise of physical enforcement.

  “Ah,” Alonso said, without looking up from his phone. “The rabbit arrives. And in such… inventive packaging.” He finally lifted his gaze. His eyes travelled over Saniz’s rumpled suit, the damp patches from the linen, the wild fear in his eyes. Alonso’s smile was a thin, cruel curve. “I trust the ride was comfortable?”

  Saniz said nothing. His throat had closed. The box in his hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

  “Bring him,” Alonso said, nodding to the chair.

  The bald man and the weasel-faced man propelled Saniz forward and forced him down into the chair. It was hard and unforgiving. The light from the bulb was blinding, throwing the rest of the warehouse into impenetrable blackness. He could see only the four faces encircling him.

  Alonso put his phone away and took a step forward, entering the edge of the light. He studied Saniz as if he were a peculiar insect.

  “Saniz, is it? From the software division. The clever little coder who found some efficiencies.” He circled the chair slowly. “Tell me, Saniz. What did my uncle say to you?”

  Saniz blinked. “Wh-what?”

  “Before the announcement. At the party. He looked at you. What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t speak to me.”

  Alonso stopped in front of him, leaning down so their faces were level. Saniz could smell his cologne, something expensive and sharp. “Don’t lie to me. He picked you. Out of hundreds. A nobody. He gave you a box. Why? What hold do you have over him? Did your mother work for him? Did he have some squalid little affair? What is the connection?”

  The absurdity of the questions cut through some of Saniz’s fear. “There’s no connection. I got the box because of my work. That’s all.”

  Alonso’s hand shot out, faster than Saniz expected, and snatched the wooden box from his lax grip. “This? This is about more than ‘work’. This is about legacy. About blood.” He turned the box over in his hands, his fingers tracing the same symbol Saniz had. “This belongs to the family. It is family business. You are an interloper. A clerical error.”

  He handed the box to Ramirez, who examined it with a frown. “It appears seamless, sir. No obvious mechanism.”

  “Of course not,” Alonso sneered. “It’s a parable in wood. Meant to teach a lesson.” He turned his burning gaze back to Saniz. “And the lesson for you, little rabbit, is to know your place. The quest is not for you. You will take your box, you will go back to your terminal, and you will forget this ever happened.”

  He paused, letting the threat hang in the damp air. “Or,” he continued, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, “you can be discouraged. Eduardo here is a master of discouragement. He can make you forget your own name, let alone a silly game.”

  Eduardo cracked his knuckles, the sound like pistol shots in the empty space.

  Saniz’s mind screamed. Every instinct told him to nod, to agree, to run. But something else, a stubborn, quiet ember deep inside, glowed. It was the memory of Alara’s voice. “The true value of anything... is never found on the surface.” Alonso saw only the surface. The title. The prize. The power. He was trying to open the box with a hammer.

  “The box is useless if you don’t solve it,” Saniz heard himself say. His voice was shaky, but it didn’t break. “And you can’t solve it by stealing it. Or by threatening people.”

  The silence that followed was profound. Alonso’s face underwent a subtle, terrifying transformation. The cultured mask dissolved, revealing the raw, petulant fury beneath. He took a step back, a flush rising on his neck.

  “You think this is a riddle to be solved with cleverness?” he spat. “This is about power. And I have the power to make you disappear into this warehouse. They’d find you in a month, if the rats left enough.”

  Ramirez cleared his throat. “Alonso, unnecessary violence is a risk. The old man would—”

  “The old man is finished!” Alonso roared, the sound echoing off the distant walls. He regained control with a visible effort, smoothing his sweater. “Fine. We do this a different way.” He looked at Saniz with icy contempt. “You want to play the game? We’ll play. You have your box. Keep it. But know this: every step you take, we will be there. We will take every clue you find. We will break every alliance you make. We will make your life a waking nightmare until you crawl back to your hole and give up.” He leaned in close again. “This is my inheritance. And I will burn down everything and everyone in my path to get it.”

  He straightened up and nodded to Eduardo. “Show him the door.”

  Eduardo grabbed Saniz’s arm, yanking him to his feet. The weasel-faced man opened the rusted metal door, letting in a slash of grey, rainy light from the alley.

  Alonso tossed the wooden box. It arced through the air and Saniz caught it, fumbling. “Run along, rabbit. Run and hide. See how far you get.”

  Saniz was shoved through the door. He stumbled into the alley, the cold rain immediately soaking through his clothes. The metal door slammed shut behind him, followed by the sound of the lock turning.

  He was alone.

  He stood there for a full minute, trembling, the rain mixing with the sour smell of the linen still clinging to him. The box was back in his hands. He was free. But Alonso’s words echoed in his skull. Every step you take, we will be there.

  He started to walk, then to run, his dress shoes slipping on the wet asphalt. He ran without direction, turning corners at random, putting distance between himself and that rusted door. He emerged onto a busy, neon-lit street, a canyon of cheap takeaways and minicab offices. The normalcy of it was jarring.

  He leaned against a wet phone box, gasping for breath. He was alive. He had the box. But he was utterly, completely lost. He had no plan. No safe place to go. Alonso’s network was vast. His flat? Watched. The office? A trap.

  He was adrift in the city, a marked man with a piece of carved wood.

  Then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A single, encrypted message from an unknown number. It contained no text, only a dropped pin location on a map. It was somewhere in the Docklands, by the old wharves.

  And beneath it, a one-word message from Carmela:

  “Breathe. Now move.”