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A ngel Fury sits shotgun, his massive hands clenched into fists against his thighs, his jaw locked tight as steel. He’s pissed, and for once, it’s not at me.

Good.

Because I don’t have time to deal with him.

Not now.

Nico and Luc sit in the back, each on a call, voices clipped and lethal. One is on the phone with my father, the other with his head of security. Their words are razor-sharp, slicing through the thick tension inside the SUV.

And me?

I can barely breathe.

Not until I see her again.

Not until I have Aella back.

“You got a guard named Benny?” Nico asks, his voice dark.

I nod. Tension coils in my gut like a snake.

“He’s dead.”

Fuck.

The word rips through me, my vision darkening with the weight of it. Benny was an innocent. The youngest of my old team. I knew he didn’t do this.

This is all fucking Santos.

“How many others?” My voice is ice, steady even as my fingers flex against the steering wheel, aching to rip something apart.

“Six bodies altogether,” Nico confirms grimly. “Want my guys to ID them all?”

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw clicks. Six.

Six men who were supposed to protect my home. My wife.

They were handpicked.

Either by me—or by Santos.

And that’s where I fucked up.

I trusted him.

And now? Now, I’m going to tear him apart.

Angel finally speaks, his voice low, controlled, but deadly as a bullet to the skull.

“Tell me about the guy.”

His fury is no longer aimed at me.

Good. Because tonight, we’re on the same side.

So I tell them. Everything.

I tell them about Santos, how we served together, how he was a brother in arms before he became a betrayer.

How I let him into my world, into my family, without ever seeing the venom pooling in his veins.

I tell them how I never saw this coming.

And that’s the part that burns the most.

“So this guy was your right-hand man,” Angel states, voice dripping with pure, undiluted fury. “He betrayed you. You trusted him.”

I exhale slowly, pushing the rage deeper, turning it into something cold.

“I did.”

I meet Angel’s electric, menacing gaze and let him see the promise in my eyes.

“And now, I’m going to wipe him from the fucking planet.”

His lips curl. “Good.”

Nico, ever the smartass, leans forward.

“Uh, not to ask the obvious, but where the fuck are we going?”

My fingers tighten on the wheel. “To get my wife. And my sister.”

He raises a brow. “Yeah, no shit. But how do you know where she is if he killed their phones? I’m sure a guy like that knows how to disable the vehicle’s GPS.”

“He does.”

I glance at Angel.

This is the part where he might kill me.

Or at the very least, try to.

“But he doesn’t know about the tracker inside her wedding ring.”

Silence.

Thick. Charged.

Then— Nico bursts out laughing.

“Of course, you fucking lo-jacked your wife.”

Angel?

Not laughing.

His head turns, slow and deliberate, his glare a loaded gun.

“You put a tracker in my daughter’s ring?”

I hold his gaze.

Unflinching. Unapologetic.

I will never apologize for keeping her safe.

“Look,” I say evenly, meeting his lethal stare head-on, “I’m trying to give her space. Aella is independent and fierce as fuck, but I worry.” I shrug, rolling my shoulders.

I mean, I’m not sorry.

Not even a little.

Because the same thing he’s pissed about?

It’s going to save her life.

Angel lets out a slow breath, nostrils flaring.

If he is pissed, then I don’t give a fuck.

Because his daughter— my wife —is out there.

And I will burn the world down to bring her home.

Luc, smirking, leans back comfortably in his seat.

“Well,” he muses, “I have to say, I do love the classics. Funny, isn’t it Angel? That he’s tracking her?”

I’m mildly confused, but Angel just snorts.

Still, I don’t respond.

Because my mind is already there— on the battlefield.

With her.

And Santos.

Rage. Pure, unfiltered, animalistic rage.

It’s in my veins, my bones, my fucking soul. I let it settle. Let it burn through me like gasoline waiting for the match. I don’t fight it.

No. I marinate in it.

Let it fester. Let it build. Let it consume me.

We’re two minutes out.

Two fucking minutes from hell.

Two minutes from war.

I grip the wheel like I want to snap it in half.

Santos— that motherfucker —chose an abandoned factory in Bayonne, right outside Jersey City.

He picked this place on purpose cause it’s close to the Den.

Like maybe he wanted this to come to a head sooner rather than later.

Like he’s been waiting for this.

Like he thinks he’s ready.

He’s not.

I am, though.

I am so fucking ready to end him.

I am going to kill him.

And I already know how.

The SUV speeds forward, tires screeching as I make the last turn.

The factory looms ahead, its skeletal frame barely holding together. Rusted. Crumbling.

But it won’t be the only thing falling apart tonight.

I don’t hesitate.

I reach beneath my seat and pull out my favorite weapon—a custom tactical knife, black as death, sharp as a scalpel.

The blade is curved and I smile. It’s an empty smile. Cause to me, this knife looks like death. And to Santos it might as well be the Grim Reaper’s scythe cutting him down.

My fingers curl around the handle.

A promise. A death sentence.

Then I turn to my father-in-law.

Our eyes meet.

His rage is a living thing, simmering beneath his skin. But mine?

Mine is already an inferno.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice a razor-sharp edge.

Angel Fury’s lips curl back into something dark.

Lethal.

His fingers flex, cracking his knuckles, as if he’s already picturing the carnage.

“I was born ready,” I answer.

The others grab their guns, and maybe a grenade—then all four of us move.

And hell follows.