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His mouth curves into that slow, infuriatingly sexy smile that makes my heart skip. He leans in, and when our lips meet, everything else vanishes. Just him. Just us. The night, the wind, the stars—all of it fades into nothing.

A soft breeze stirs the field around us, lifting strands of my hair into the air. They brush his face, his cheeks, his temples—but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He’s all in.

And so am I.

The world can fall apart tomorrow. But tonight? I have this. I have him. And for once—that’s more than enough.

28

RAY

Wouldn’t life be perfect if it were just long bike rides and wild kisses under the open sky?

That thought keeps circling my head. It dug in three days ago and won’t let go. I know why. It’s instinct. A defense mechanism.

My brain clings to the softness of that dream, desperate to balance the harsh reality I’ve been trudging through with my brothers. Sammy calls what we’re about to do “taking care of business”—he never uses rough words if he can help it. Ever the gentleman—even in war. Raul, on the other hand, doesn't sugarcoat it. He says we’re going to “tear those sons of bitches to pieces.”

Me? I call it what it is: doing whatever it takes to get our lives back.

We’ve been living in a shadow for too long. That cursed building out in the middle of nowhere. The ambush on Erica and Stacy. And worst of all—my brother was kidnapped, leaving us all thinking he was dead. The grief nearly broke us. Thesepsychopaths didn’t just take Sammy. They took something sacred to our entire valley—our peace of mind.

This isn’t about comfort—it’s about survival. Without that peace, everything collapses. I won’t call this revenge because it isn’t. This is justice, a reckoning, and a restoration. We’re not committing a crime. We’re righting a wrong—meeting cruelty with resolve.

Until now, we’ve been reacting to everything they’ve done. And all of it led us here. A goddamn fundraiser in one of the fanciest hotels in New York, the Mandarin Oriental. None of us belong here. We aren’t rich. We’re not celebrities or Wall Street sharks with private elevators and fake smiles. We’re just three wolves from the woods, clawing our way into enemy territory.

But Monica had a plan.

“There’s an ID check at the front. Unless you can pass as someone famous, you won’t get in. But janitorial staff? They don’t check their IDs. Grab a blue uniform, a bucket, a mop—that’s your golden ticket,” she told us.

And she was right. It worked like a charm.

We’re dressed like maintenance workers—uniforms on, tools in hand. The valet barely glances up, checks his watch and waves us through.

“Come on, people,” he mutters. “I want to be able to eat off that basement floor.”

The hotel sparkles like a polished jewel in the city’s crown. Lights shimmer against the glass, reflecting a city that never learned how to sleep. The place hums with expensive perfume and fake laughter. Limousines line up like predators waitingto pounce. High heels click across marble. Cameras flash. Reporters shout. And up there, behind all that glamor, our enemies lurk.

“Damn,” Raul whispers as we crouch on the landing of the grand staircase, peering down at the scene below. “That guy’s suit probably costs more than I’ll make in a year.”

“Can you focus?” I mutter, brushing past the row of spotless toilets.

“Iamfocused,” he says, and I hear the edge in his voice. He’s watching. Listening. Calculating—just like me.

Downstairs, the applause begins. Another big donor must be entering. The pack of leeches claps like trained seals.

“They’re here. If either of you has a plan, now’s the time,” Raul murmurs, leaning in.

“Relax,” Sammy says, his voice smooth as he slides his bucket across the floor. “There’s no bathroom in the lobby. They’ll have to come down here eventually.”

Raul isn’t convinced. “Enlighten me on this master plan of yours.”

“We don’t want to make a scene,” Sam replies, calm as ever. “So, they come to us.”

I don’t need more explanation. We trust each other. If Sam has a plan, I’ll follow him through hell.

The sting of chlorine clings to the back of my throat. I keep clear of the restrooms, patrolling thirty feet out so I can see without being obvious. Everything’s clean. Everything’s quiet. Too quiet.

I scan the hallway. Men and women glide through like ghosts, dripping in gold and drowning in cologne. Especially the women—layers of perfume so thick I could track them blindfolded. They remind me of Erica, but not in a good way. These women wear their scents like armor. Trying to be noticed. Trying to matter. They don’t realize how desperate they smell.