I didn't wait for him to move. I closed the distance between us in three predatory strides, the heavy barrel of my pistol shaking only from the sheer force of my adrenaline.
Elias didn't flinch. Slowly, he stood up and turned to face me. The high-backed chair let out a long, agonizing creak as it swayed behind him.
I shoved the muzzle of the gun into the center of his chest, right over his heart—if he even had one.
"Where the fuck is my son, Elias?" I roared, my voice echoing off the rusted rafters of the warehouse. "Why do you have him? Why did you take him? What is the price this time? Tell me!"
Elias didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't even sneer. Instead, a mask of genuine, irritating confusion settled over his face. He looked at the gun, then back at me, his eyes searching mine as if I were the one speaking a foreign language.
"I already told you, Aurielle," he said, his voice eerily calm. "I don't have your son. I don't have my grandson."
