Semua Bab Ten Ways To Kill Alpha PENKING : Bab 31 - Bab 36

Way three collapsed completely on a Friday.Two weeks into the careful dance. Two weeks of building trust through calculated honesty and small intimacies. Two weeks of her believing she was in control of the narrative.She wasn’t.It started with a knock on the door.Penking answered it. Had a brief conversation Amelia couldn’t hear.Then he came back and looked at her. “Get dressed. Something formal. We’re going out.”“Where?”“You’ll see.”She didn’t argue. Went to the closet. Found a black dress that looked expensive.When she came out, he was in a suit. Hair perfect. Expression unreadable.They rode the elevator down in silence.The car was waiting.They drove for twenty minutes. Stopped at a building she didn’t recognize.“What is this?” she asked.“An event.” He opened her door. “You’re going to meet some people. Smile. Be charming. Don’t embarrass me.”She followed him inside.A ballroom. Chandeliers. A hundred p

She went to meet Olivia.The decision made itself somewhere between morning coffee and noon. She couldn’t stay trapped in the penthouse counting failed strategies while Devon rotted somewhere and Penking tightened his grip day by day.She needed options. Information. Anything.At 2:45 PM, she told the guard she was going for a walk.He checked his watch. “Be back by four.”She nodded and left.The coffee shop was the same. Small. Tucked away. Empty except for Olivia sitting by the window.Amelia slid into the seat across from her.“You came,” Olivia said.“You said it was about Devon.”“It is.” Olivia pushed a folder across the table. “He’s alive. Barely. Penking has him in a warehouse in Red Hook. Third building from the pier.”Amelia opened the folder. Photos. Grainy. Dark. But clear enough.Devon. Bruised. Bloodied. Chained to a wall.Her stomach turned.“When were these taken?” she asked.“Yesterday.”“He looks—”“Half dead. I know.” Olivia’s voice was flat. “Penking visits him tw

He took her to Brooklyn. Not the Brooklyn of expensive brownstones and artisan coffee shops. The other Brooklyn. The one tourists didn’t see. Crumbling buildings. Graffiti. Broken sidewalks. The car stopped in front of a condemned apartment building. “This is where you grew up?” she asked. “For the first twelve years.” He got out. “Come on.” She followed him inside. The building smelled like rot and mold. Stairs creaked under their weight. Third floor. He stopped at a door. No lock. Just hanging open. Inside, the apartment was gutted. Empty except for debris and graffiti. “My mother worked three jobs,” he said. Standing in what used to be the living room. “My father drank through whatever money she brought home. I learned early that survival meant being smarter and meaner than everyone around you.” Amelia said nothing. Just listened. “When I was twelve, my father got into debt with the wrong people. Gambling. They came to collect. And when he couldn’t pay, they killed him.