Page 123 of Desperate Games

Well, that just cemented it for me.

I’m here to do what I do best.

There won’t be a fucking trace of this cockroach left. Just the ashes born of my rage and his impotent attempt to blackmail me.

No, there’s just no other option.

I won’t ever let that bastard Julio Castillo anywhere near my little girl.

So now I’m at Sigma headquarters. It’s dark out, but only just after six.

I’m gearing up. Glock. A couple of spare clips. Four blades—one curved, two straight, and fucking Bowie in case he gets cute.

Not to mention enough fury in my chest to torch half the state.

“I’d go with the ten-inch blade myself. I bet it slices real nice through all that subcutaneous fat that piece of shit is carrying around,” a voice says from my right as I’m strapping the holster to my thigh.

I don’t startle.

Too well trained for that.

But I do lift a brow when I see Junior—Nico Fury Jr.—gearing up beside me.

And he’s not alone.

Connor. Liam. Ono. They’re all with him.

And one more—my fucking father-in-law. Andres Ramirez himself.

They’re all armed. All ready. Some are smirking and joshing like this is just another day in the office.

“Nah, he’s right to go with the six-inch curved,” Liam adds, checking his rifle sight. “Cuts the major arteries with minimal movement. Cleaner.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the advice, but—what the fuck are you guys doing here?” I demand.

“You didn’t think I’d let some asshole take my precious granddaughter away from me, did you?” Andres growls, sliding a 9mm into the holster at his hip.

I shake my head, fighting a twisted smile.

“So this is what family support looks like for the Volkovs?”

“You know it, brother,” Connor answers, slapping a mag into place with a grin. “Besides, we have to test this prick’s weapons before we buy in bulk, don’t we?”

“Fuck you,” a new voice cuts in, lightly accented, smooth as silk.

I glance over. My eyebrows damn near hit my hairline.

Atlas Stavros. That Greek royal pain in the ass.

Suited up. Armed to the gills.

And of course, looking like he just stepped out of a GQ spread and into a goddamn war zone.

“What? No army of naked women following you around?” I ask, not even joking.

“Fuck you too, Falco. Now, gentlemen, I understand we are going hunting. Might I suggest our latest,” Stavros says, unleashing a shiny new automatic weapon, cool as a cucumber.

Junior takes one.