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I crank the huge lock and swing open the door. “Get in.” Without a word, they file in like scared sheep. The last one is shaking so badly I can already hear his teeth chatter against the freezing air.

“It won’t kill you,” I mutter, shutting the door and flicking the power off. “Hopefully.”

Escape route clear, I retrace my steps to the bathroom to collect Luna, gently throwing her over my shoulder.

The back alley is bathed in sickly yellow light from ancient sodium lamps, shadows twisting like they’re hiding something worse than me.

I scan the space for witnesses. And then I see a shadow move in the corner—it’s the security guard peeling away from the darkness.

“Hey!” His fists come up as he barrels toward me. “What the f—”

The gun’s already in my hand, leveled at his chest. “Turn around and go back,” I growl. “You don’t want this.”

For a heartbeat, I think he might take the smart option. His eyes flick from me to Luna’s limp form in my arms, uncertainty creeping in. But then his jaw tightens. I see the exact moment he chooses to play hero.

Idiot.

The shot is barely more than a soft pop through the suppressor. His body jerks from the impact, and he crashes to the ground, groaning, blood seeping through the fingers clutching his shoulder.

Leaving him alive is going to be a problem, but tonight has already been messy enough. What’s one more loose end?

I step over him and move on, Luna’s warmth against my shoulder a constant reminder of why I’m burning everything to the ground tonight.

My motorbike waits in the shadows, but there’s no way I’m getting her on a bike.

I scan the lot, counting seconds and calculating risks. Then, I spot what I need. A beat-up Chevy lurking in the corner. Old car. Manual locks. The kind of forgotten piece of shit that’s perfect for what I need right now.

I hurry over and slam my elbow through the driver’s side window. Glass shatters, and then, unbelievably, the blare of an alarm pierces the night air loud enough to wake the dead.

Who the hell would put an alarm on this junk?

I yank the door open, quickly depositing Luna into the backseat. She flops awkwardly onto the dirty seat, but there’s no time to adjust her position. Already, shouts pierce the distance. Someone’s coming.

Ignoring the ringing in my ears, I drop into the driver’s seat, glass shards crunching under me. My fingers move with practiced speed, twisting the exposed wires together.

Come on, come on.

The engine sputters, coughs, and dies.

Shit.

I try again, my eyes darting between the ignition and the rearview mirror. The shouting grows closer. Footsteps—multiple sets—pound across the pavement toward us.

The engine finally roars to life with a rattling cough.

I slam the gearshift into reverse, tires screaming as I gun it out of the lot. The alarm wails on, echoing down narrow streets like a beacon. I take a sharp corner, clipping a parked car, and metal shrieks against metal.

In the rearview mirror, the lot shrinks into the distance, Enigma’s neon signs fading like a bad dream. No one’s tailing us. Yet.

That doesn’t mean tonight wasn’t an epic disaster.

The car is still alarming, lighting up my trail like a cop magnet. I left witnesses. Stashed a body in the supply closet. Wounded a guard. Left Hector alive. And my custom-made Ducati is sitting in the lot like a signed confession. Not to mention Scar and Kat, who are likely still waiting at the docks, wondering why no one has shown up.

What the hell am I thinking, throwing away months of careful planning for a woman whose father I intend to put in the ground a week from now?

My jaw tightens as I glance into the backseat. Luna is oblivious to the chaos unspooling around her. Dark hair spills across her face, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.

The car alarm finally cuts off, but my heart’s still hammering as I weave through city streets, each turn more reckless than the last. I push harder, needing distance between us and the mess I left behind.