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Then shrugs faintly. “Hey, Dad.”

A beat.

“I can explain.”

Epilogue

Seanna

Lovewasneverinthe plan.

I told myself that from the beginning. I wasn’t the kind of woman who got love stories—I was the cautionary tale girls whispered about behind closed doors. Too sharp, too wild, too willing to chase monsters through bloodstained streets and call it foreplay. I hunted the worst men alive, dismantled empires, and let my rage burn hot enough to cauterize the parts of me that still believed in things like fate.

But apparently, fate has a fucked-up sense of humor.

In the aftermath, the Reyes Empire collapsed like wet paper. With Javier dead, and “Kingston” officially burned from the world’s records, there was nothing left but ghosts and ashes. Max and the organization swept up the limbs the guys hadn’t already severed—quiet, precise, irreversible.

As for the DEA? They cleared me within a week. Apparently, a cartel kingpin wiping out his own men is a bureaucrat’s wet dream. Cruz’s murder—along with every single one of his men—was pinned directly on Reyes, with ballistics, doctored footage, and enough digital breadcrumbs to feed an entire task force. None of it traced back to me. Or Bodhi. Or Matteo.

Funny how easy things fall into place when the right people rewrite the story.

And Max? Uncle Max told me, days later, that when I’d asked him about the flowers early on—those first haunting red petals of the Rhododendron left as a warning—it reminded him of his wife. Matteo’s mother. Just for a moment. Then he dismissed the thought as sleep-deprived paranoia.

I should’ve known then.

I went back to work. Filed my reports. Sat through the final debrief with internal affairs. Smiled my polite little smile when the director shook my hand like I hadn’t spent the last weeks being stalked, hunted, fucked, and nearly executed.

Javier Reyes and his line were gone. And with the cartel in pieces, the threat was neutralized.

They called it victory.

The night the case was officially closed, Jensen, Eli, and Matteo dragged me out for drinks. It was tradition. Whiskey. Sarcasm. False cheer. But this time felt different.

I tossed back my whiskey neat, and then Matteo grabbed my wrist and pulled me onto the dance floor. His hand found my waist like it belonged there. I let him lead.

He moved like he already knew every inch of me. Like he wasn’t asking, just taking what he wanted. Like I was his—publicly, privately, always. I didn’t fight him.

Not when I caught the glint in Jensen’s eyes. The half-smile Eli shot our way. Like they knew. Like maybe they always had. Like I was the last one to figure it out.

And maybe I was.

Maybe I’d spent so long convincing myself I was immune to the whole twisted idea of love that I hadn’t noticed it creeping in. I’d always said if someone wanted me, they’d have to be obsessed. Dangerous. Willing to break bones just to keep me. Turns out I’d manifested two of them.

Another hand found my waist. Another heat pressed into my spine.

Bodhi.

Of course it was fucking Bodhi.

I didn’t even turn. Didn’t need to. I felt him smile against my neck.

I just leaned back into him as Matteo’s hand slid lower and the three of us moved like a single dark pulse.

I thought I’d never find a love like my parents.

Turns out, it found me first.

It carved its way in with knives and masks and bloodstained devotion.