The Billionaire’s Fight For Redemption (Noah and Sierra) novel Chapter 384

The warehouse is tucked away in a part of the city most people would pass without a second glance. For a moment I don’t get out, just stare at it silently. From the outside, it looks abandoned, just the way Uncle Reaper likes it.

There are already cars parked outside and immediately I spot his among four others.

I step out, not bothering to wait for the others as they move behind me. Gravel crunches under my boots as I head straight for the entrance, my focus already narrowing.

Two of his men stand guard at the door. They don’t say anything, just give me a single nod as I approach before stepping aside.

The door opens, and I step inside and the moment I do, the hair shifts, feeling heavier. There’s a faint metallic scent hanging in the space, and it settles at the back of my throat in a way that makes something in me tighten.

My eyes adjust quickly, taking in the layout, the shadows, and the positions of everyone in the room before finally landing on Uncle Reaper. He stands further in, exactly where I expect him to be, his presence filling the space without him needing to move or speak. A few of his men are scattered around, leaning against walls or standing off to the side, their posture loose but their attention sharp.

He looks up the moment I step further in, his gaze locking onto mine like he’s been expecting me.

“You took your time,” he says.

“I came as fast as I could,” I reply, not slowing as I walk toward him, my eyes already moving past him, scanning everything. “What did you find?”

I know him, and I know he wouldn’t have called or told me to meet with him if he didn’t have something.

He doesn’t answer me right away and that alone tells me whatever he found isn’t something small. Instead, he shifts slightly to the side, just enough to clear my line of sight and that’s when I see them. Two men tied to chairs.

Their heads hang forward, their bodies barely upright, like the only thing keeping them in place is whatever’s binding them there. Their faces are bruised, split in places, and dried blood marks where someone already started asking questions they didn’t want to answer.

One of them tries to lift his head when he hears us, but he doesn’t get far before it drops again. The other doesn’t move at all.

For a moment, I just stand there, taking it in and Uncle Reaper just watches me, as if he’s gauging my reaction. As if he’s checking if the lessons he gave me took root.

I step closer. “Who are they?”

“Well,” he pushes from the wall, “This Mark and Julian.”

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