Page 77 of Monstrosity

"You're telling me my pregnant wife died because she was good at her job?"

"I'm sorry?—"

"No." I pick up the blowtorch. "You're not sorry. Not yet. But you will be."

What follows would make what I did to Carlos look merciful.

Every ounce of rage, every moment of grief from the last five years gets channeled into making Bembe understand the cost of his choices.

He screams about Flora. About the threat to Dasha. About targeting my children.

He screams until he can't anymore.

And when it's finally over, when Bembe is nothing but meat and memory, I step back and survey my work.

"Feel better?" Tor asks quietly.

"No." I wipe my hands clean. "But it's finished. He can't hurt anyone else."

"What about his story? Someone inside tipping them off about Flora?"

"Maybe true, maybe not." I'm exhausted suddenly. "If someone did betray her, they've had five years to cover their tracks. But, I saw the fear in his eyes—he was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear, thought I’d let him keep his life."

Gorm offers. "If someone in our city got your wife killed, we'll find them."

I nod, grateful for the support, but I know a desperate man will do and say anything. "Right now, let's finish here. Get the drugs moved, scene cleaned. I want to go home to my family."

"Rio?" Tor holds up his phone. "The Irish are asking about Bembe."

"Tell him Bembe didn't make it. Tried to escape, forced my hand." I look at what's left of the cartel leader. "Tell him I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but we had no other choice.”

Runes comes up, overhearing every word. “Leave Liam to me. You did what needed to be done. All of you, clean the place up”

We do exactly what our Prez wants—cleaning up evidence, making sure our tracks are covered.

By the time we're done, you'd never know the massacre that took place here.

Except for the missing drugs. And the missing cartel leader.

But those aren’t our problems.

CHAPTER NINE

Dasha

"Dasha, this box says 'kitchen stuff' but there's a lamp in it," Florencia announces, holding up evidence of my terrible packing skills.

"That's... uh, a suggestion, not a rulebook," I offer weakly, looking around my apartment at the chaos we've created.

Two weeks since the night Rio came home covered in blood but whole, and we're finally making it official.

I'm moving in to his house.

The morning sun streams through the windows, highlighting the disaster zone my once-tidy apartment has become.

Boxes are everywhere, some taped, some still gaping open, most labeled in my increasingly creative shorthand that made sense at the time but now seems like a foreign language.

"You're really bad at packing," Cali observes from where she's "helping" by putting my throw pillows into a box one at a time, stopping to hug each one first.