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The music stutters, then dies completely—cut off mid-beat like the bar itself just held its breath. Every head turns. Every drink pauses mid-air. The crowd freezes in a ripple of tension that spreads across the room like spilled gasoline.
This isn’t the kind of place that welcomes strangers. It’s the kind of place where people mind their own damn business because the alternative gets you buried behind it. But the air shifts when they see us—Scar and Kanyan’s cold fury, Lucky's lethal smirk, Mason coiled like a loaded weapon.
And then there’s me. The Fed who shouldn't be here. The outsider who walked into a den of criminals and decided to stay. Together? We radiate violence. Controlled and contained, though barely.
It’s enough to kill any thought of trouble before it starts. Because whatever we’re here for—it’s not a drink. It’s retribution. And I’m sure everyone in the room can read our intentions on our faces.
Zack is tucked in a back booth, smug and laughing with two blondes like he hasn’t just lit a match under all of us. A bandage is wrapped around one ear. He looks up. Sees me. And freezes.
I’m across the room in a few long strides. I grab him by the shirt, lift him out of his seat, and slam him into a nearby wall. His drink hits the ground. A woman screams.
“You’ve got three seconds,” I growl. “Where is she?”
“What…”
“Where. Is. She.” I roar.
“I don’t?—”
I hit him.
Mason moves in fast, trying to get a punch in, but Scar holds him back.
Zack coughs, blood gurgling up between his cracked teeth. It spills down his chin, thick and dark, but the bastard still finds it in him to grin—wide and wicked, like he’s already made peace with the devil.
“You think I’d give her up?” he sneers, voice raw and jagged. “Let you ride in, all righteous and foaming at the mouth, like some kind of fucking savior?”
His contempt is a blade—slow and deliberate. He leans forward just enough to make it personal, then spits a thick glob of blood-stained saliva at my boots. It lands with a sick splat, then rolls down the leather and onto the cold floor.
It’s not just an insult. It’s a declaration of war.
And somehow… his words land harder than any punch. They strip the breath from my lungs, scrape across bone like they were made to wound. Because he means it. He’d rather bleed out on this floor than hand her over.
And suddenly, I don’t want justice. I want ruin.
My vision tunnels. The edges blur. Fury roars in my ears. I slam him into the wall again, harder this time—hard enough to rattle his bones and mine.
“Either way,” I say, my voice low and lethal, “you’re a dead man walking. Doesn’t matter to me if you go out grinning or screaming.”
That smug little grin of his falters—just a flicker, but I catch it. The first crack in his armor. It’s a start. I drive my elbow into his gut. He folds with a strangled gasp. I grab a fistful of his shirt, drag him across the floor like trash, and slam his face down onto the bar with a sickeningcrackthat echoes through the silence like a warning shot.
“Tell me something Idon’twant to hear again,” I growl, my mouth close to his bleeding ear, “and I’ll scatter your teeth across this floor. I’ll rip every secret out of you, one bone at a time.”
The bar is frozen. No one dares move. Even the bartender looks away like he doesn’t want to be an accidental witness. I haul Zack up, half-conscious, and drag him outside. The cold air hits us like a slap. He stumbles. I don’t let him fall—I throw him into the SUV so hard the door rattles.
Then I lean in, my face inches from his, voice razor-sharp. “If she’s hurt—if Maxine so much as has thesniffles—I will end you. And it won’t be fast. You’ll beg for a bullet before I’m through with you.”
His eyes flicker, and for the first time, I see it—fear.
Scar nods, wordless, eyes hard. Mason says nothing — but his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bone-white. He wants blood as badly as I do. Maybe even more.
We’re not friends. We’re not a team. But right now? We’reunited—by fury, by purpose, by the one person who means more to us than revenge.
Maxine.
She’s the only thread holding us together. And the only reason I haven’t painted the pavement with this bastard’s blood.
I slam the SUV door shut, steel and fire locking in place. Then I slide into the front seat, my grip tight on the dash, the weight of everything crushing down on me.