Page 56 of Blackwood

“I’m sorry, Bella.”

“No,” I whisper.

Zeke.

Gone.

I think I scream, or maybe I just fall.

Either way, the world fractures, and I go down with it.

II

Part Two

Chapter 21

BELLA

San Francisco, California

517 Days Since Zeke’s Death

Nate is halfway in my personal space, threading the mic wire through my jacket collar with his usual laser focus, steady hands and no small talk. Across from us Knox taps through the camera feeds, eyes flicking from screen to screen like he’s already ten steps into the mission.

Laing sits near the back, adjusting his comm in silence, calm and unreadable. Six-foot-five and carved like a myth. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, and long fingers that have made me moan his name more times than I care to admit. Jet-black hair tousled just enough to look effortless and warm golden-brown skin that catches the low light like brushed bronze.

And then there’s that fucking dragon tattoo curling up the left side of his neck and disappearing beneath his shirt collar like it’s got a secret to keep.

Focus, bitch.

It was the Red Silk Triad’s intel that led us to these kids. Laing Wei took over when he was only twenty-four after his father was shot and killed by a rival gang in broad daylight on the streets of downtown Hong Kong.

Laing is lethal, brutal, and fucking brilliant. Since taking over, he’s gutted and rebuilt the entire RST from the inside out. Some of his encryption techniques make even Knox do a double take.

With Zeke gone, Laing’s been running more missions with us. Honestly, a lot of the Black Book families have. Whether it’s guilt, strategy, or straight-up leverage, I don’t care. They’re useful and that’s enough. I’ve even built actual relationships with a few of them. Strange twisted bonds forged through shared blood and secrets.

I still own their asses so they’ll do anything for me. For access to their Black Book. For the hope of getting into my pants. Sometimes both. Either way, I always get what I want.

Laing and I? We’ve been shacking up sometimes after ops. Nothing emotional. No promises. Just pain burned off in the fastest way I know how.

It’s not love.

It’s release.

Dr. Monroe calls it,avoidant coping behavior wrapped in dissociative intimacy. I call it a damn good night’s sleep.

Tex is outside with Kenji—Laing’s lean, silent, and precise sniper. The two of them move like ghosts, checking their weapons with the kind of coordination that only comes from years of high-body-count ops.

“Alright, let’s do a comm check,” Knox says, eyes on his tablet. He goes through the team, everyone’s seemed to be in working order.

“Boss?”

“It’s good Knox. I can hear you loud and clear,” I reply.

He doesn’t budge. Just gives me that fucking look.

I sigh. “Really?”