Page 16 of Always A Villain (Revenge Duet #2)

“ T he system’s running smooth now.” Griffen tosses me the keys to the Range Rover, leaning back like he doesn’t have a single fucking concern in the world.

“The shop replaced the hard drive, updated the software, and installed the perimeter cameras you wanted. Still rides rough, though. Air suspension’s off, but that’s Range Rovers for you.

” He smirks. “Not that she’ll notice. Still a hell of a lot better than that piece-of-shit G-Wagon she drives. ”

I pocket the keys and take a sip of my coffee, already bracing for another long-ass day at the Iron. Isaac’s been a fucking nightmare since the attack—short fuse, no patience, barking orders like we’re all seconds away from war.

The lockdown’s lifted. I relieved the extra security around the house, and Sovereign clubs are reopening.

The Pavilion’s first—Siren shows back on schedule.

But the thought of Rory on that stage doesn’t sit right.

Maybe she’s been safe so far, but everything’s different now.

It’s like a loaded gun waiting for someone to pull the trigger.

I glance at Griffen. “Still got your hook with City PD?” Scrolling through my phone, I delete the flood of useless emails.

He frowns. “Yeah, why?”

“Pull the police reports from the night Rory’s mother was killed. Everything—DNA, prints, any evidence. I want to know if it was actually investigated or if they buried it.” My fingers drum against the table, my jaw tight.

He gives me a sharp look. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“They never caught the men who did it. And they should have.” Her father should’ve made them pay—made someone pay.

Shaking his head, he huffs a laugh. “What, you suddenly give a shit? You gonna avenge her mother now?”

I shoot him a look. “This isn’t a fucking joke. No, I’m not talking about revenge. I just find it real fucking strange that a Commander’s wife gets slaughtered in his own house, and no one’s caught. And the men who killed her were Italian.”

Griffen sits up as his smirk fades. “You think it was a hit?”

“I don’t know.” Frustration coils in my gut. “But something’s off. There’s too much that doesn’t add up.”

He nods, serious now. “Alright. I’ll make some calls. Get access to the case files.”

“Tornerò per te,” I mutter.

“What?”

“The intruders told Rory, ‘I’ll come back for you.’ They weren’t just there to kill—they were going to take her.”

“Why?”

“Exactly.” I lean back in my chair, the wood creaking under my weight.

“What was their fucking angle? They rape and murder your wife in front of your kid, and instead of finishing the job, they leave, telling her they’ll be back?

Then what? You’re one of the most powerful Sovereigns, who issues Death Bonds all the fucking time.

And you can’t catch the bastards who did it?

” Rage seeps into my voice. “If you lost your wife, almost lost your kid, wouldn’t you tear the world apart to hunt those bastards down? Why wasn’t Conrad all over this?”

“Why the hell are you digging into this?” His eyebrow arches, like he’s waiting for me to say something stupid.

“Because.” The word grinds out of me like gravel.

The truth’s been clawing at me for a while now, but it’s only just hit me full force.

“Rory deserves closure. She’s carried the weight of her mother’s death for years, and her father’s done jack shit about it.

No justice. No revenge. It’s not right.”

Griffen scoffs. “And you’re gonna do what, exactly? Go on a one-man crusade?”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck it takes,” I snap. “She deserved better. She still does.”

Griffen leans back, arms crossed, smirking again. “Since when did the Reaper turn vigilante?”

It’s a dig, but he’s got a point. I’m a killer with no conscience. When the hell did I start giving a damn about anything?

“It’s not about being a vigilante. She needs closure. I’m just giving her that. ”

“Right. It’s okay to have a crush on your wife, Axe. It’s normal, even.”

“I don’t have a fucking crush. I’m just—” I stop myself. Saying it out loud would crack open something I’ve kept locked down for too long.

“Caring about someone other than yourself?” He’s smug as ever. “Experiencing human emotion beyond rage and murderous intent? Wow. Big steps.”

“Fuck off.” I roll my eyes. “Just get the police report. And stop running your fucking mouth.”

I stand before I throw something at him harder than the car keys.

“Sure thing, boss.” With a mock salute, he dodges the keys I whip at his head. “And don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to your wife about your feelings. Scout’s honor.”

“Bastard,” I mutter, storming out the door. His laughter grates against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because I can’t deny it anymore.

I fucking love her.

And I’m going to find out what really happened the night her mother died. When I do, the ones responsible will bleed for it. Time doesn’t erase a debt like that.

Her father let it slide, like the fucking coward he is. Let her grow up without answers, without justice.

He should’ve burned the city down for her.

But he didn’t.

So I will.

I grip the wheel tighter as I drive to the Iron, my mind filled with violence and...her. The more time I spend with Rory, the more I realize how badly I need her. I want her in my life, in a way that’s real. Not some fucked game of revenge.

I navigate the corridors of the Iron, weaving through the controlled chaos, then push inside the Command Center doors. Arsen’s already hunched over the screens, eyes locked on whatever the hell he’s uncovered. He’s been texting me all morning to get my ass to the Command Center.

“What’ve you got?” I grunt, scanning the monitors.

“The footage is garbage from the stadium, but we pulled some clearer shots,” Arsen says, nodding to one of the techs. No surprise. That stadium is a ghost town, only used by us for the Red Arena. “Managed to ID a few of the bastards we killed, but this is what you need to see.”

He taps the screen, hitting play. Grainy footage shows a pack of idiots in black, storming the arena, guns in hand. It’s laughable, the way they move—no coordination, no training. They’re spraying bullets like kids playing with Nerf guns.

“Jesus. They can’t shoot for shit.”

“Exactly,” Arsen agrees. “Amateurs, but look at the gear. That’s not cheap. Helicopters, military-grade firepower—someone funded this.”

I narrow my eyes at the screen. “What's the endgame here? No way they thought they'd make it out alive. It’s a suicide mission.”

Nodding, Arsen scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, they had no exit strategy, just went in guns blazing. No real plan beyond shooting up the place .”

He moves to the other side of the room, motioning me to follow. One of the techs hands me a folder, and I flip through it. A man in his late forties, Portuguese, small-town. Nothing special, a fucking nobody.

“Mateus Sanches. Owns a tile company,” Arsen says, his voice steady as he lays out the details.

“Widowed, four kids—one’s an addict, in and out of treatment.

Currently reported missing. No criminal record, no ties to organized crime.

Facial recognition confirmed him from the video.

The others we’ve ID’d are all varying backgrounds: different incomes, education levels.

But all have clean records, no connections to each other.

They had no reason to be in a stadium packed with Sovereigns in upstate New York—and none of them made it out. They were all shot dead on the spot.”

“What a bunch of fucking idiots. What the hell was the point? Other than to die?”

“Whoever was behind this was prepared to sacrifice them. Collateral damage.”

An entire group of people thrust into a death trap, each one a stranger to the next. No training, no real plan—just a command to unleash hell on the Sovereign and die.