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“He’s not my father,” I shoot back. “And I never get drunk.”

“Which is exactly why you need Jesus. Because you’re twelve years old,” she counters, not missing a beat.

“Could’ve sworn I was at least thirty, Matilda,” I snark.

She mutters, almost to herself, “What the fuck did I do to earn a son like—”

“Ah, ah,” I interrupt, exhaling another puff of smoke. “Don’t lose your Sunday salvation,”

She rolls her eyes and sighs, then reaches over and tucks an imaginary strand of hair behind my ear in that motherly way she never quite let go of.

“Fine. I’ll pray for you then.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Matilda only smiles wistfully, that same dimpled, unconditionally loving smile she wore a few weeks later when she saved my life.

And damned hers.

My eyes snap back to Luna, her teasing glances now so blatant, she’s practically begging me to come get her. This spoiled Mafia princess might flaunt sex and decadence, but she’s never truly experienced the horrors of the dark life. Which is whyshe’d find a man like me fascinating.

Still, that smile will haunt me forever if I let Hector go through with his plan. And since the Middle East isn’t a place I plan to extract a broken woman from, I know I have to stop this sale.

Delilah says something, and Luna laughs—but there’s a delay, the kind that happens when someone’s trying too hard to seem fine. Her eyes take a fraction too long to focus. Then she raises a shaky hand to her mouth.

It’s starting.

She blinks, her face slightly green as Delilah hands her another drink. Luna accepts it clumsily and, for good measure, throws back the second poisoned glass, swallowing hard.

“Can’t fucking make this shit up,” I mutter, grinding my molars as the urge to shake some sense into her morphs into a full-blown desire to drag her out of here by her thick, glossy hair.

Hector is supposed to be wearing concrete boots tonight, Antonov tomorrow, and Alfred Romano next week. But my carefully laid plans are curling at the edges, an imaginary flame licking through them.

“You might want to catch your princess before she falls,” I murmur dryly.

Luna mumbles something to Delilah, who smiles knowingly. Then she stands on unsteady feet and makes a beeline for the bathrooms.

“Bingo,” Hector beams.

And just like that, my countdown starts.

I re-map the place in seconds. Two bouncers at the entrance, one near the bathrooms. Security by the back door. Emergency exit behind the DJ booth—alarmed. Kitchen access to my left. I’ve got two, maybe three minutes, tops,before shit hits the fan.

The most inconvenient detail? I brought my Ducati. Hardly a rescue-friendly vehicle.

I pat my pocket, feeling the syringe of ketamine meant for Hector. Quick, quiet, and efficient. Far better than bullets.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, bringing my phone to my ear, feigning irritation. “For fuck’s sake, man, tie her up if you have to, but I want no marks. Be at the docks now.”

I end the fake call with a disgusted look at Hector.

“Idiots. Last time, my merch was sporting a black eye and broken nose on sale day.”

Hector nods in understanding and shoots Eduardo a subtle look. “Of course. Damaged goods are half their sale price.”

“Don’t I fucking know it.”

I slip out of the club, veering around the building toward the back entrance.