Page 4 of Monstrosity

Five fucking years I've been hunting Culebra scum, making them pay for what they took from me.

Five years of careful distance, of keeping my two worlds separate, of protecting what matters most by never letting it touch the darkness.

And they've likely been watching her too.

Watching Dasha.

"You know her, don't you?" Santos' voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through my rage like a blade. "The coffee shop girl. That's your weak spot."

The truth is, there are multiple women associated with the club who work at the coffee shop.

It could be any one of them.

I turn to look at him, and whatever he sees in my face makes him shrink back in the chair.

"Tell meexactlywhat Bembe knows."

"I don't?—"

The roar rips from my throat, five years of controlled violence finally breaking free. "Tell me!"

"Okay! Okay!" He's sobbing now, broken finger dangling uselessly. "He knows about your routine! How you drop your kids off every morning, how she makes your coffee special, how you look at her! He's got photos, man, hundreds of them!"

So, this is about Dasha.

But… I’mstilljust a prospect.

Why the fuck would they be watching the woman I care about?

"What photos?"

"You with your kids at her shop! Her walking to her car at night! Her apartment building! He knows where she lives, where she works, what time she gets off!"

Each word is a nail in my coffin. A knife in my heart. A promise of history repeating itself.

"He knows she matters to you," Santos continues, mistaking my silence for permission to keep talking. "Says when the time's right, he'll use her to make your club hurt even more, to make you pay for what you did. He said taking one woman wasn’t enough, he’s taking the other too."

"What I did?" The knife is back in my hand, though I don't remember picking it up. "What I did was justice."

"You killed his cousin last year! Bembe's been planning revenge ever since!"

"His cousin?" He hasn’t even named who the bastard is. "Wait… was he the one who liked to rape the girls he was trafficking. Yeah, I remember that fucker!"

I remember every detail. How he begged. How he cried. How he died, slow and scared and alone.

"Please, man, I'm just telling you what I know! Don't kill the messenger!"

"I'm not going to kill the messenger," I say quietly, setting the knife aside. "I'm going to kill the child poisoner who just told me my family is being watched."

"Wait—"

"But first, I want you to tell me about Flora."

Santos goes perfectly still. Even bleeding and broken, he recognizes the name.

"I... I don't know any Flora?—"

"Flora Maria Rojas." I pull up a chair, sitting directly in front of him. "My wife. Five years ago. Shot in the chest while she was pregnant with my youngest daughter."