The Gift
Scarface's phone buzzed just before sunrise. He grunted as he rolled over on the old mattress, the glow of the screen illuminating his scarred face. One glance at the caller ID made him sit up straighter.
It was the client.
He answered with a grunt. "Yeah?"
A smooth, muffled voice came through the line. "Plans have changed. You'll deliver the girl to a different location. Sending it now."
A message popped up immediately after. A hotel. A private suite.
Scarface frowned. "What about the payment?"
"You'll get the second half once she's in the room. Do it quietly. I want no noise, no attention."
The line went dead.
Scarface stared at the address for a moment, his mind racing. A change this late in the game wasn't normal. Still, orders were orders. And the money was good.
He rose and barked at his crew. "Get ready. We're moving the girl."
Inside the locked room, Elena stirred in her sleep, unaware of the decisions being made that would alter her life forever.
---
The door creaked open.
Elena's eyes fluttered halfway, then closed again. She was curled up in a corner of the room, shivering slightly in her thin nightdress. Her lips were dry and cracked, her breathing shallow.
"There she is," one of the thugs muttered.
"Don't wake her," Scarface said. "We do this clean. Quick. She'll scream if she's alert."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial and a needle. One of the others approached Elena, gently lifting her arm.
She stirred and groaned softly.
Then her eyes snapped open.
"No—!"
She twisted, tried to fight, but Scarface already had the needle pressed to her skin. It slipped in smoothly, and within seconds, her limbs went limp again.
"Sorry, princess," he said. "But tonight's not your night."
They wrapped her in a dark shawl, disguising her fragile form, and carried her out the back of the building to a waiting van. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, the streets were empty, and no one saw them leave.
---
Across the city, in a high-end lounge nestled in one of the top skyscrapers, Alexander Knight tilted his glass of whiskey and watched the amber liquid swirl.
He wasn't drunk, not really—just comfortably loose.
His companion, a sleek man named William Wynne, raised his own glass. "To a prosperous partnership."
Alexander clinked glasses with him. "I'm still not sure what your angle is, Wynne."
William smiled. "I've followed your career for years. I've always believed in investing early in visionaries. And you, Mr. Knight, are going to change the world."
Alexander chuckled dryly. "Most people think I'm trying to buy it."
"Same thing, these days."
They both laughed and downed the rest of their drinks.
William leaned forward. "You've had a long week. I took the liberty of booking you a suite upstairs. Just one floor up. Figured you might want to rest… and enjoy a small thank-you gift."
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "A gift?"
William gave a vague smile and handed over a key card. "Consider it a surprise."
Alexander should've questioned it more, but the alcohol dulled his instincts. He stood and stretched. "Fine. But if it's another reporter in lingerie, I'll throw her off the balcony."
William chuckled. "Nothing like that. Just… enjoy it."
Alexander pocketed the key card and headed for the elevator.
---
The hallway on the 47th floor was quiet, lit with dim gold lights that gave it an expensive, hushed glow. He found the room easily—Suite 4713. A luxury suite. Of course.
He slid the key card in and stepped inside.
The room was dark, save for the soft glow of a bedside lamp.
And on the bed… someone lay curled up, barely visible under the sheets.
Alexander frowned.
The silhouette was small. Delicate. Female.
He walked in slowly, the door clicking shut behind him. "Hello?"
No answer.
He stepped closer, blinking as his vision adjusted.
Long hair. Pale skin. A nightdress.
Something about the shape of the woman's face tugged at his memory.
He moved closer, then froze.
"Elena?"
His voice cracked the silence like thunder.
He staggered back a step, blinking in disbelief. It was her.
Unconscious. Pale. Her breathing shallow.
Alexander's heart punched against his ribs.
"What the hell…?"
He looked around the room—no signs of a struggle, no signs of forced entry. But she looked wrong. Like she'd been drugged.
He rushed to her side, checking her pulse. It was faint, but steady.
"Elena," he said again, softer this time.
She didn't respond.
---
Meanwhile, in the van parked just outside the hotel, Scarface watched the security feed from the hotel's rear exit.
"She's in," one of the thugs confirmed. "They delivered her. Suite 4713."
"Good," Scarface muttered, lighting a cigarette. "We're done here."
The others chuckled, unaware of the storm they'd just unleashed.
---
Back in the suite, Alexander gently cupped Elena's cheek.
"What happened to you?"
Her skin was clammy, her body barely responsive. He pulled the sheets up to cover her better and reached for the phone.
"Front desk," a woman's voice answered.
"This is Alexander Knight. I need a doctor up to Suite 4713 immediately. And send hotel security. Now."
He hung up and paced the room.
This wasn't a coincidence. Elena hadn't come here willingly. Someone had delivered her—like a gift. Like property.
His jaw tightened.
Whoever was behind this had made one mistake—they'd chosen the wrong girl to use as a pawn.
And the wrong man to cross.