Page 187 of Blood & Throttle

The screens flicker. Buzz. Blink. Lit up one by one until the center monitor expands.

Kane.

Standing right where we are now. He paces the room like he owns it, like the floor itself is lucky to hold his weight. That smug tilt to his jaw. Calm in that creepy way snakes get rightbefore they strike. Then the frame shifts. And there he is. The kid. Young. Defiant. Black hair. Pale skin. Eyes full of fire.

Stephan.

He stands across from Kane, shouting—though the feed’s silent. His hands are clenched. His shoulders squared. He’s not begging. He’s calling him out. Kane’s expression doesn’t flicker. He just lifts the gun. One clean shot. Straight to the chest. Stephan stumbles back like the breath’s been ripped from him. He drops. Kane steps forward, looking down at him then spits. Cold. Final. Like he was never anything more than dirt.

And that, right there, is what not only burns this whole kingdom to the fucking ground, but it clears my girls name.

“That’s him,” she chokes out. “That’s… my brother.”

The words hit the air like a bullet.

The crew stiffens.

Bishop’s jaw tics. Luca’s brows pinch. Even Taz lets out a low, uneasy whine like she felt the shift in the room too.

No one says a word.

Not yet.

But I catch the glance Luca throws me—brief, sharp. The unspokenDid I hear that right?hangs between us like smoke. We both file it away. We’ll unpack it later.

Right now, there’s only one priority: burn it all down.

Ghost keeps typing. Still silent. Still calm. His screen glows against his face, cast in that cold blue light of vengeance finally coming home.

More footage now.

Kane again, ordering beatings. Signing executions. Clips of him giving the nod as people are dragged away—screaming, begging, bleeding. Names being wiped from files like they never fucking existed. Every lie. Every coverup. Every murder—documented and bleeding across every screen in the compound like the walls themselves are confessing.

“Ghost,” I say, “we seeing what I think we’re seeing?”

“Yep. We’re in,” Ghost mutters, eyes locked on the screen. “And the second I hit this key, it all goes live. OmniCast, full override. Every district, every screen. The whole goddamn empire’s about to choke on its secrets.”

I smirk, leaning in close. “Drench it in gasoline, brother.”

He hits the key. The feed detonates across OmniCast like a virus with a vendetta.

Screens meant for race stats and betting odds glitch once then Kane’s face takes over. His voice. His confessions. That smug fucking tone bleeding into every sector—Dusk, Forge, Hollow. Syndicate brass freeze mid-command. Handlers stop moving. The crowd? Dead silent. No more cheering. No more deals. Just the sound of power crumbling under its own filth.

And Kane?

Broadcast in 4K, as the king who killed his own blood.

Sin watches the screens, her fists clenched. Her face looks carved from war itself.

“You did it,” I whisper to her.

Ghost spins in his chair, eyes locked on the data. “Riot. Get over here.”

I move behind him, wiping blood off my jaw as the monitors flicker.

He points at a cluster of screens. “Three offshore accounts. Clean. Untraceable.”

“How much?”