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Gibson Sinclair. The little prick from the lobby, the one who’d been at The Palmetto Rose the night Diego died, watching him like a vulture.
I didn’t think—just acted. I snatched him off the street as he fumbled with his keys, the greasy bag of tacos spilling across the pavement. He didn’t even fight, just yelped like a kicked dog as I shoved him into the back of the van, blindfolded him, and hauled him out to the concrete box near the base. Logical move. Only move.
Now here we were, him strapped to a steel chair in the middle of the room, me circling him like a shark.
The place was bare—gray walls, a single flickering bulb overhead, the faint hum of distant traffic filtering through the reinforced door. Smelled like damp concrete and old blood, a scent I knew too well. Very Tarantino.
Gibson Sinclair—twenty-something, scrawny, with a mop of dark hair and a face that screamed soft—satthere trembling, his cheap tie loosened, his button-down stained with sweat.
I hated him from the jump. Hated his nervous ticks, the way his eyes darted like a cornered rat, the way he looked like he’d fold under a stiff breeze. I couldn’t wait to pound the truth out of him, to feel his bones give under my fists, to hear him spill everything he knew about Hart, about Diego, about Department 77.
Didn’t take punches at first. The kid was a weakling—well-placed slaps did the trick, sharp cracks across his cheeks that turned his pale skin red fast. He started talking, voice high and shaky, blood trickling from a split lip.
“I was just there to keep an eye on him—Diego Gil. Discreet, she said. That’s all I was told!”
I didn’t buy it. Leaned in closer, my shadow swallowing him, my breath hot on his face.
“You expect me to believe that? You were there when he died, and you justwatched?”
He flinched, hands twisting against the zip ties. “It’s the truth! I swear! Hart told me to tail him, report back. I didn’t—I didn’t do anything to him!”
Bullshit. I drove a fist into his ribs, precise, hard enough to make him grunt but not to crack bone. He doubled over as much as the ties let him, gasping, tears mixing with the blood on his chin.
“Why you?” I growled, grabbing his jaw, forcing his head up. “Why send a sniveling little shit like you? You’re not cut for this.”
“I don’t know!” he whined, voice breaking. “I work for the mayor—odd jobs, whatever she needs. She’s been giving me weird tasks lately, that’s all I know!”
“Weird tasks?” I tightened my grip, my knuckles white against his skin. “What kind?”
He stammered, snot bubbling from his nose. “Stupid stuff—pick up her dry cleaning, drop off envelopes, follow people sometimes. Nothing big, I swear!”
I cut him off with a slap, harder this time, his head whipping to the side so fast I thought it might spin off. He was an easy bleeder—red streaked down his face, dripping onto his shirt, pooling on the concrete.
“Where’s Hart?” I snarled, leaning in so close I could smell the fear on him, sour and sharp.
“Home or the office, probably,” he mumbled, eyes squeezed shut. “She works a lot.”
“Wrong answer.” I straightened, driving another punch into his gut, this one lifting him an inch off the chair. He wheezed, choking on his own spit. “I’ve been to both. She’s gone. Poof. Where is she?”
“I don’t know!” he sobbed, head lolling. “She told me to take the rest of the day off—said she had to catch up after the masquerade. That’s all I got!”
Masquerade. The word hit like a ricochet, but it didn’t tell me shit. I’d been at that damn gala too, watching Claire, watching Diego, and Hart had been there, all smiles and silk. Now she was smoke, and this kid was my only lead.
I laid into him harder—fists finding his ribs, his chest, his face, each hit calculated to hurt, to break, but not to kill. Not yet. Pain radiated up my knuckles, a dull ache I welcomed, grounding me as his cries turned shrill, then ragged.
“Where. Is. She?” I roared, punctuating each word with a blow, his blood slicking my hands, splattering my shirt. He didn’t answer—just whimpered, head rolling, too weak to even beg.
My desperation clawed at me, raw and jagged, a beast I couldn’t cage. Nothing was working. Not mycontacts, silent as graves. Not our tech, spitting out dead ends.
Hart was the only thread tying us to Department 77, and she’d slipped through my fingers. I had to know. Had to. For me. For Claire. For my father, whose ghost loomed larger every second, his secrets choking me like smoke I couldn’t clear.
I didn’t want to admit I was unraveling. That’d mean weakness, and I wasn’t weak. I’d buried men stronger than Gibson Sinclair, walked through fire without blinking, built Dominion with my bare hands alongside my brothers.
But this—this was different. This was personal, a wound I couldn’t cauterize, and I was ready to kill this kid even if he knew nothing, just to feel something give under the weight of it all.
I raised my fist again, blood dripping from my knuckles, Gibson’s face a mess of red and purple, when the door banged open behind me. I spun, rage flaring hot, and there she was—Claire, storming in, gray eyes blazing, Ryker on her heels like a shadow.
“What the fuck?” I roared, rounding on my brother first, my voice bouncing off the concrete. “You brought her here?”