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The enforcer strikes again, but this time I’m ready.

I sidestep his strike, letting his momentum carry him past me. In that split second, I drive my elbow into the back of his head. He stumbles forward, and I follow through with a knee to his gut. The knife clatters to the ground.

“You talk too much,” I growl, grabbing him by the throat. His eyes widen as I slam him against the warehouse wall. Blood from my arm drips between us, but I barely notice the pain anymore. “Where’s Alessandro?”

“Fuck you.” He spits in my face.

I tighten my grip, watching his face turn red. “Wrong answer.”

Through the chaos around us, Seb’s voice shouts orders. Good. At least my brother’s still alive. Gunfire continues to echo through the night, but it’s more sporadic now. The tide is turning.

“Last chance,” I tell the enforcer, pressing my forearm against his windpipe. “Where is he?”

“He’s … not here,” the man chokes out. “Never was. This was just … a message.”

Fury burns through my veins. I slam him harder against the wall.

“What message?”

A bloody smile spreads across his face. “That you can’t protect them all. Not your brother, not your men.” His eyes gleam with malice. “Not your pretty cunt.”

The rage inside me explodes. My fist connects with his jaw, then his temple. Again and again until his body goes limp in my grip. I let him crumple to the ground, unconscious or dead—I don’t care which.

A scream pierces the chaos—one I’d recognize anywhere. My blood runs cold as I spin toward the sound just in time to see Seb crumple to the ground, clutching his chest.

“No!” The word tears from my throat as I sprint toward him, bullets whizzing past my head. My own injuries fade to nothing compared to the sight of my baby brother lying there, blood seeping between his fingers.

I slide to my knees beside him, hands shaking as I assess the damage. The bullet caught him high in the chest, too close to vital organs. His breathing comes in short, ragged gasps, his face already too pale.

“Stay with me.” I press my hands over the wound. Hot blood pulses against my palms. Too much blood. Fuck. “Eyes on me, Seb. Don’t you dare check out.”

His dark eyes find mine, pain glazing them over. “Shit timing, huh?” He coughs, red staining his lips. “Should’ve … ducked faster.”

“Shut up,” I snap, fear clawing at my chest. More gunfire erupts around us—we’re completely exposed here. I need to get him out, but moving him could make things worse. “Eli. I need cover. Fire now!”

Seb’s hand grabs my wrist, his grip weaker than it should be. “Zeke.” His voice comes out as a whisper. “If I don’t—”

“Don’t.” I cut him off, pressing harder on the wound. My throat tightens as memories flash through my mind—foster homes, running the streets together, building our empire fromnothing. He’s all the family I have left. “You’re not dying here. I won’t let you.”

His eyes drift closed. Panic surges through me as I shake him. “Sebastian! Eyes open, damn it!” I can’t lose him. Not like this. Not ever.

“Boss, this way.” Micah’s voice is a welcome calm in this wrathful storm. “Eli’s got the car. Let’s go.”

With the strength of an army, I lift Sebastian into my arms and follow Micah through the smoke and havoc. We only have to dodge a few bullets before I’m sliding into the back seat of one of my black SUVs.

As soon as the door shuts behind, Eli takes off, tire’s screeching on the pavement.

“Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me,” I chant like a desperate prayer, cradling Seb’s limp body against my chest as Eli floors it through the dark streets. My brother’s blood soaks through my shirt, hot and sticky against my skin. Too much blood.

“How far out?” I demand, pressing harder on Seb’s wound. His breath comes in shallow gasps, each one a knife in my chest.

“Five minutes,” Eli says from the driver’s seat.

“Doc Martinez is already heading to the mansion,” Micah adds.

Seb’s head lolls against my shoulder, his skin ashen under the passing streetlights. “Hey,” I shake him again. “No sleeping, little brother. Talk to me.”

His eyes flutter open, unfocused. “Reminds me of … that time in Queens,” he slurs. “Remember? When those … Russians jumped us?”