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“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”
He shoves me. Hard. “If anything happens to her?—”
I shove him right back. “Then blame the man who took her, not the one who would crawl through hell to bring her back.”
Scar steps between us, calm but cold. “Enough. Save it until we find her. Maxine’s our priority now, and if the Aviary have her, they’ll be planning to ship her out of the country again.”
“Bloody hell,” Mason mutters.
“Brando is not to know,” Scar adds.
“God, no,” Lucky mutters. “If Brando finds out Mia’s sister is missing, he’ll paint the streets in blood. We’ll never find her.”
Mason doesn’t speak again, but he doesn’t swing either. That’s progress.
I watch the screen,bile rising in my throat. The CCTV footage flickers in and out, grainy and gray, like something out of a nightmare. It’s from a streetlight cam at the end of Maxine’s block. The moment plays in slow motion—the white van crawling forward, hesitating at the stop sign. The driver leans into the light just long enough for the camera to catch the shadow beneath the balaclava shift. He pulls it up. And there it is. His face.
Zack Morgan. That smug, rat-bastard face with ice in his eyes and not a single goddamn trace of fear. Shock doesn’t even scratch the surface when I realize he’s the one who took Maxine. I always knew Zack was dangerous — that slick, hollow-eyed charm was a red flag from the start. But this? Drugging a drink was coward’s work. Kidnapping? That’s war.
“But why?” Mason roars, fists clenched so tight his knuckles go white. “What does he want with her?”
“This isn’t aboutwantingher,” Scar mutters, arms folded, brow creased in a rare show of unease. “This feels planned.”
Zack’s smarter than I gave him credit for. Used a rental. No plates on any registry we can access. Thought he was careful. But he underestimated the old infrastructure in this city. Most of those cameras are junk. But not all.
Two cameras. Same intersection. One facing east. One west. And the westbound lens caught him. That’s all we needed. Now it’s a manhunt.
We hit the streets like a goddamn plague—shaking down junkies, bribing ex-cons, dragging secrets from back alley rats too strung out to lie. Every whisper leads us closer, until finally—finally—we get a hit.
A bar that’s off-grid. No cameras. No digital footprint. The kind of place that doesn’t show up on Google Maps or police radar. The kind of place you only find if someone invites you—or if you’re a monster looking to drink in peace.
We pull up to the curb, engines rumbling low, a threat moving through the night. The bar looms ahead — no name, no lights in the grimy windows. Just a sagging grey door, its hinges rust-bitten, its frame leaning like it’s tired of standing. It squats on the corner, hunched and decaying, like it clawed its way up from the concrete just to fester in the dark.
Kanyan De Scarzi steps out of his car, dark and unbothered, exuding the kind of power that doesn’t need to announce itself. Head of the Moreno family. A Gatti loyalist. A man who’s turned blood into legacy. Once the Gatti family’s blunt instrument, he’s now a king in his own right. A ghost. A legend. A man who doesn’t so much as blink, even as the world burns.
I glance behind me at the line of men assembling like a goddamn mafia war council.
Scar Gatti—head of the Gatti Empire, possesses enough clout and enough brutality to make most cartels flinch. He doesn’t speak unless it matters, and when he does, people tend to die shortly after.
Then there’s Lucky Gatti—technically Vicci now, running that family with his wife, Jacklyn, a woman as terrifying as she is brilliant. Lucky plays the part of the charming devil, but anyone who’s seen him angry knows he’s not just dangerous—he’s surgical.
Mason Ironside stands off to the side, coiled like a loaded gun. Enforcer, underboss, and the kind of man who’s survived so much violence that I’m sure he has ice in his veins. He’s carved out his loyalty and proven himself with his fists and firepower, yet right now, every ounce of his rage belongs to Maxine.
It hits me all at once that I’m surrounded not by men, but by legends. A full deck of monsters, every one of them carved from violence and vengeance. The kind of men who don’t inherit power—they bleed for it. Build empires out of chaos and ruin.
They talk in low voices, move with purpose. There’s no fear here. No hesitation. Just a quiet kind of dominance that makes the air feel heavier, like it’s choosing sides. These men aren’t kings in the fairytale sense. They’re crowned in bone and gold. And I’m in their orbit. If the Bureau could see me now? They wouldn’t just bench me. They’d drag me back in chains, toss me in a cage, and weld the damn door shut.
Because this—this world I’ve stepped into—it’s everything I swore I’d never become. And yet, I can’t deny the grudging respect curling in my chest. These men aren’t here for power plays or pissing contests. They’ve banded together for one reason: Maxine. Her safety. Her return. And if anyone can help me find her... I couldn’t pick better company.
Mason’s silent, clenched tight with fury as he stares me down. I know he’s just looking for a chance to strike out at me again. Scar’s the buffer. Again.
“You don’t have to like each other,” he says. “Just don’t let it get in the way of the job we have to do.”
Mason spits. “Wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”
“Not asking you to,” I mutter. “Just help me bring her back.”
We push through the door, and the atmosphere shifts as though the devil just walked in.