"Hey, buddy, you know who I am?" Rick Tucker snarled, trying to project a confidence he clearly no longer felt. He rolled down his window a few inches, the cheap plastic handle squeaking in protest.

Rocco didn't even glance in his direction. His gaze was fixed on some distant point. He spoke quietly into a Bluetooth earpiece, his voice calm and low. "Sir, they are resisting."

The response was instantaneous.

Two of the suited men moved forward. One produced a small, specialized tool. With a sharp crack that sounded like a gunshot, the driver's side window of the pickup shattered into a thousand tiny cubes of glass. A second later, the passenger side window imploded in the same way.

Vince and Rick screamed, high-pitched shrieks of terror, as they were showered with safety glass.

Before the screams died down, the doors were wrenched open. The suited men reached in, grabbing Vince and Rick by their collars and hauling them out of the truck as if they were sacks of garbage.

In the back, Spike fumbled for a knife tucked into his waistband. But as the rear door was torn open, a hand like an iron vise clamped down on his wrist. He let out a strangled cry of pain, the knife clattering to the floorboards. He was dragged out into the street to join the others.

Jocelyn watched, frozen, a strange mix of terror and awe washing over her. These men moved with a brutal, terrifying precision.

Another man, his face impassive, opened her door. He reached in to help her, his eyes scanning for any injuries. Then, with surprising gentleness, he peeled the duct tape from her mouth.

The sudden rush of fresh air was dizzying. She gasped, taking in deep, ragged breaths, the acrid taste of the tape's adhesive still coating her tongue. The tears she had been holding back finally broke free, streaming down her bruised cheek.

Rocco approached her. He held out a pristine white handkerchief. His voice was respectful, yet distant. "Mrs. Matthews, are you alright?"

It was the first time she had heard the name spoken aloud, directed at her. Mrs. Matthews. It sounded foreign, alien, but in that moment, it was the most reassuring sound in the world.

She nodded, her throat too raw to speak. She managed to rasp out two words. "My mother..."

"Another team has already reached Ms. Webb," Rocco said, anticipating her question. "She is safe. She is being attended to."

The massive weight of fear that had been crushing her chest lifted. A wave of relief so powerful it made her knees weak washed over her. Her mother was safe.

Across the street, Rick was still trying to bluster. "You can't touch me! My brother is—"

Rocco cut him off with a look so cold it could have frozen fire. "Be quiet," he said, his voice soft but carrying an unmistakable threat. He turned to one of his men. "Handle it. Cleanly."

Vince, seeing the grim look on the men's faces, completely fell apart. He dropped to his knees on the filthy pavement, blubbering. "Don't kill me! Please, I didn't know! It was all his idea!"

Jocelyn looked at the pathetic, groveling man who had tormented her for years. She felt nothing. Not pity, not anger. Just a vast, empty coldness.

Rocco's phone chimed. He answered, listened for a moment, and then held it out to her.

"Mr. Matthews wants to speak with you."

Her hand trembled as she took the phone. She pressed it to her ear. Houston's voice, that same cool, detached baritone, came through the line.

"Are you hurt?"

Just three words. But they were enough to shatter the fragile composure she was holding onto. All the terror, the pain, the humiliation of the last hour came rushing to the surface. A choked sob escaped her lips.

"No," she whispered, the word thick with unshed tears.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. A few seconds of silence that stretched into an eternity.

"Good," he said finally. "Now, we proceed as planned. To the hospital. To see my grandfather."

Jocelyn froze. She thought... she had assumed... after all this, he would let her go to her mother.

She gathered all her courage. "Can I please see my mother first? I need to..."

"My people will take care of her," Houston interrupted, his tone firm, unyielding. "Jocelyn, remember our agreement. You have a more important task right now."

His words were a splash of icy water. He was reminding her of her place. This wasn't a rescue born of concern. It was a businessman protecting his investment.

The warmth of her relief curdled into a cold knot of disappointment in her stomach.

"...I understand," she said, her voice flat.

"Rocco will bring you. Change your clothes. I don't want my grandfather to see anything is amiss."

The line went dead. He had hung up.

She handed the phone back to Rocco, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Gratitude, fear, resentment. He had saved her, yes. But he also owned her.

Rocco held open the door to the Bentley. Inside, on the seat, was a simple, new dress and a bottle of water. Everything had been anticipated. Everything was under control. His control.

Before she got in, she took one last look at Vince and Rick. They were being shoved into an unmarked black van, their protests silenced. She knew she would never see them again. And she felt absolutely nothing.