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I walk over to him, standing over his body like it’s trash someone forgot to take out.

I crouch low.

"You wanted to put me in white lace and lock me in a fucking palace of lies," I whisper. "You killed Noel. You sent his head to me like party favors. You touched everything I loved."

He groans, blood bubbling between his teeth.

I lower the gun to his forehead. I want to pull the trigger. God, I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

But we don’t have time.

Sirens.

Distant, but getting closer.

Lazaro steps in fast. His hand wraps around my wrist. Not rough. Just enough to remind me.

"If you kill him now, he wins. We get nothing."

I bite my lip until I taste blood. My finger trembles over the trigger.

But he’s right. Fuck. He’s right.

I stand up, breathing hard, hand shaking.

In the corner, a rusted barrel glows orange. Flames lick the air like they’re hungry.

I reach into my coat pocket and pull it out—the original blood pact. Still sealed. Still cursed in its own way. Ink, signatures, threats... and my name, signed in blood by men who thought they owned me.

They promised me to Zano like I was a weapon to be passed down. A womb. A symbol. Never a woman.

I stare at it one last time—at the contract that was supposed to chain me for life—and toss it into the fire.

The flames catch instantly, curling the parchment inward like it’s screaming. The wax seal melts into blackened wax, the ink blisters and runs.

“I was never yours to give away,” I whisper. “And now, I belong to no one.”

The warehouse doors burst open.

Flashing lights explode through the broken windows, red and blue strobing like the world’s about to end. Boots slam on concrete, the scuffle of bodies storming in, shouting over each other—"Hands up! Drop the weapon! Step away from the body!"

I stay perfectly still. Not even a fucking blink.

The cops descend on Zano like a pack of wolves. One grabs his arms, another forces him flat, knee digging into his back, pinning him down in a pool of his own blood. He’s still fucking screaming, even though he can barely breathe—cursing, snarling, frothing like a rabid dog.

"Get the fuck off me! You think you can do this to me?! I AM DE CORSI! I OWN THIS CITY!"

His voice cracks halfway through that last word, broken by pain and whatever dignity he has left scraping its last breath. Blood’s pouring from his shoulder, soaking into the floor, pooling under his body like it’s trying to drown him. He’s trying to fight, but his limbs barely work anymore. It’s pathetic. Arms flailing, knees buckling, dragging his limp body an inch before they shove him flat again.

One of the officers zips the cuffs on hard, twisting his busted wrist for good measure. Zano lets out this guttural cry—half rage, half sob. God, I’ve waited so fucking long to hear that sound.

I just stand there. Breathing. My hands hang at my sides, slick with sweat and rage. My heart’s still pounding like it hasn’t realized the fight’s over. My throat’s dry. My legs are stiff. But I can’t stop watching. Watching him squirm. Watching them drag him to his feet like a bloodied rag doll.

Detective Molina asks if I’m hurt. I think I nod. Everything feels like I’m underwater. The words hit my ears but never land.

I hear my name. Once. Twice. Then Lazaro’s voice cuts through like a blade.

"She’s with me."