After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 201: There’s No Loyalty Among Thieves

Damien did not go straight to Sinclair Headquarters.

The sleek, midnight-black Maserati, flanked by two heavily armored SUVs, took a sharp detour off the pristine avenues of the financial district, plunging deep into the neglected, rotting underbelly of the city’s industrial sector.

The motorcade glided to a smooth halt in a narrow, dead-end alleyway. The area was a wasteland of overflowing dumpsters, shattered glass, and the pungent, unmistakable stench of stale sewer water leaking from rusted pipes.

Inside the climate-controlled sanctuary of the Maserati, Damien sat in absolute silence. His bespoke charcoal suit was immaculate. His silver hair was perfectly swept back.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a small, sterile packet. He tore it open, extracting a pair of surgical latex gloves.

He pulled them onto his large hands, the tight rubber like second skin. He reached up, sliding a pair of dark, polarized Tom Ford sunglasses over his golden eyes.

Diego, the burly, heavily scarred driver, opened the rear door.

Damien stepped out.

His three-thousand-dollar Italian leather Oxford shoe touched down on the mucky, grease-stained asphalt.

A massive, greasy brown rat, startled by the sudden intrusion, scurried out from behind a trash can. It darted directly over the toe of Damien’s expensive shoe, its claws scratching faintly against the polished leather before it vanished down a storm drain.

Damien stopped. He slowly looked down at his shoe, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. He glared at the spot where the rat had touched his shoe with a look of such profound disgust that Diego actually took a subconscious step backward.

"Is this the place?" Damien asked, his voice flat.

"Yes, sir," Diego confirmed quickly, holding up a tracking tablet. "Your phone inside this building."

Damien didn’t say another word. He turned and walked through the rusted, hanging metal doors of the long-abandoned warehouse.

The interior was a cavernous graveyard of urban decay. The air was thick with the smell of mold, stale cigarette butts, and cheap booze. Shafts of harsh morning sunlight pierced through the massive holes in the tin roof, illuminating thick clouds of dancing dust motes.

Damien walked to the exact center of the room, stepping into one of the pillars of sunlight. He stood there, hands clasped loosely behind his back, looking like a dark, untouchable god who had descended into purgatory strictly to pass judgment.

He waited.

A minute later, the metal doors at the back of the warehouse banged open.

Four of Damien’s operatives marched in. Between them, they were dragging three men by the scruffs of their filthy jackets.

The operatives reached the edge of the sunlight and violently hurled the men forward. The three suspects hit the concrete floor hard, tumbling over each other like discarded bags of garbage right at Damien’s feet.

They were street-level scum. They wore grimy, oversized jackets, their faces scruffy and gaunt.

One of the men groaned, rubbing his bruised shoulder as he looked up.

His eyes trailed up the polished leather shoes, the impeccably tailored suit trousers, the latex gloves, and finally, the silver hair and the dark shades.

The man’s breath hitched. The color instantly drained from his unwashed face.

He recognized the Demon King of New York. Everyone in the criminal underworld knew the face of the man who owned the city.

"Oh my god," the man whispered, pure terror seizing his throat.

The other two realized who they were looking at a second later.

"Mr. Sinclair!" the man on the left sobbed, scrambling to his knees and pressing his hands together in a frantic prayer. "Please! We didn’t do anything!"

"I swear to God!" the man on the right babbled, his voice cracking as he talked right over his partner. "I swear on my mother’s grave, we’re clean! We just snatch purses from tourists! We would never, ever cross you!"

They were a cacophony of pathetic, weeping noise, crawling backward in the dirt, trying to put distance between themselves and him.

Damien looked down at them.

He didn’t see human beings.

He saw insects.

"Shut up."

It wasn’t a shout. It was a single, dangerously low command that barely carried over the echo of the warehouse.

But the crushing weight of his authority hit the men like a physical blow. The sobbing cut off instantly. The men froze, their mouths snapping shut, their chests heaving with terrified, silent breaths.

Damien slowly tilted his head, his dark shades reflecting the terrified faces of the men groveling in the dirt.

"One of you," Damien stated coldly, "stole from me."

The men’s eyes widened to comical proportions.

"No!" the man on the left gasped, shaking his head so fast it was a blur. "No, sir, that’s impossible! We would never target you! We aren’t suicidal!"

"We didn’t even see you!" the man in the middle pleaded, tears leaking from his eyes. "How could we even get close enough to steal from you?!"

Damien watched them squirm.

"I was undercover," Damien clarified, his tone dropping into a bored drawl. "Yesterday evening. Midtown Manhattan. Someone bumped into my shoulder and lifted my phone."

The word yesterday hung in the air.

The two men on the outer edges froze. Their eyes darted wildly, their pathetic brains running through their petty crimes from the previous night. Then, slowly, simultaneously, they both turned their heads to look at the man kneeling directly in the middle of them.

Without a single second of hesitation, the two men raised their trembling arms and pointed aggressively at their partner in the center.

"HE’S THE PHONE GUY!" they screamed in perfect, synchronized desperation. "WE ONLY DO BAGS! HE DOES THE PHONES! IT WAS HIM!"

The man in the middle gasped, looking betrayed as his friends violently threw him under the bus to save their own skin.

Damien didn’t even look at the two cowards. He simply flicked his latex-covered fingers in a dismissive gesture.

"Get out of my sight," Damien ordered.

The two men scrambled to their feet, practically weeping with relief. "Thank you, sir! Thank you! Bless you!" they cried, bowing repeatedly as they tripped over their own feet and sprinted out of the warehouse as if the devil himself were on their heels.

The doors slammed shut behind them.

The middle thief was left completely alone, kneeling in the dirt, shivering violently under the weight of Damien Sinclair’s undivided attention.

"Where is it?" Damien asked.

The thief swallowed hard. His mind raced frantically. He was trying to figure out how this was possible.

"I... I swear, Mr. Sinclair," the thief stuttered, his voice trembling. "I don’t have your phone! I didn’t see you! The only guy I bumped into yesterday was some fat, sweaty loser in a mustard sweater!"

The words left the thief’s mouth.

And then, his brain finally caught up.

The thief stopped breathing. He looked at Damien’s broad shoulders. He looked at the silver hair. He replayed the memory of the "fat, sweaty loser" who had been walking with a woman in a trench coat.

A cold, horrifying realization crashed over the thief like a tidal wave of ice water. His stomach dropped completely out of his body.

"Oh my god," the thief whispered, all the blood draining from his face as he stared up at the man who was currently deciding whether or not he was going to live to see tomorrow. "You... you were the sweater."

Damien slowly pulled off his dark shades, revealing his cold, golden eyes.

"I want my phone," Damien repeated.