Page 1 of Monstrosity (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #5)

Rio

The abandoned Tyson meat processing plant squats in the industrial wasteland like a tomb, all broken windows and rusted metal bleeding into the Florida night.

It’s the perfect place for what needs doing.

My phone buzzes as Tor kills the engine.

Doran's name lights up the screen, along with a simple message:

Gift delivered as promised. Enjoy.

I pocket the phone without responding. The Bratva prince keeps his word—I'll give him that.

Three hours ago, he texted intel about Miguel Santos making a late-night pickup at this exact location.

Personal favor, he said.

But this isn't about favors or alliances.

This is about Flora.

"Place gives me the fucking creeps," Bodul mutters from the passenger seat, eyeing the plant's skeletal frame.

Kid's barely twenty-six, still thinks prospect work is about riding bikes and looking tough.

He'll learn tonight that our world runs on different fuel.

Blood fuel.

"Good," I say, checking my Glock before sliding it back into its holster. "Creepy means isolated. Isolated means no witnesses."

Tor kills the headlights, plunging us into darkness thick enough to taste.

He's been with the Raiders longer, knows the drill.

Knows what I am when the leash comes off.

"Target secured?" I ask.

"Zip-tied to a chair in the main floor kill room," Tor confirms. "Been there twenty minutes, probably pissed himself twice by now."

"Good." I step out into air that smells like decay and old death. "Bodul, you're observing tonight. This is where you learn, not participate."

"What am I supposed to learn?"

I look at him across the roof of the car—this kid who thinks violence is about anger and passion.

Who hasn't learned that the most effective monsters are the ones who never lose control.

"How to make someone tell you everything they know before they die," I say simply. "And how to enjoy the work."

The plant's main entrance hangs open like a screaming mouth.

Inside, our footsteps echo against concrete that's seen too much blood over the decades.

Some of it animal.

Some of it not.

The kill floor stretches out before us, old hooks dangling from chains like metal fingers.

Someone—Tor, probably—has set up a single work light, casting harsh shadows that dance and writhe with each sway of the overhead chains.

And there, center stage under the light, sits Miguel Santos.

He's smaller than I expected.

Mid-forties, soft around the middle, the kind of man who orders violence but doesn't get his hands dirty.

Zip-tied to a metal chair, duct tape over his mouth, eyes wide with the kind of terror that comes from knowing exactly who you're dealing with.

Smart man.

Fear means he'll talk faster.

"Gentlemen," I say conversationally, pulling on leather gloves. "Meet Miguel Santos. Mid-level lieutenant in the Culebra organization. Responsible for moving product through three elementary school zones, including the ones the club kids go to."

Santos makes a muffled sound behind the tape.

"Where my daughters go," I continue, circling him slowly. "Funny how the world works, isn't it, Miguel? You poison children, and fate delivers you to a man whose children you threatened."

I nod to Tor, who rips the tape from Santos' mouth in one swift motion.

The man gasps, tears streaming down his face.

"Please," he wheezes. "I got kids too, man. I got?—"

"Valentina, age twelve. Juan, age nine." I stop in front of him, letting him see death in my eyes. "I know, Miguel. I know everything about you. Where they go to school. What time your wife picks up groceries. Which playground Valentina likes to visit after school on Wednesdays."

His face goes white. "How do you?—"

"Because knowledge is power, and power is survival." I crouch down to his eye level. "And right now, your survival depends on how useful you can be."

I stand, walking to the small table Tor's set up with my tools.

Nothing fancy—pliers, a knife, a small blowtorch, some other implements that have served me well over the years.

"Let's start simple," I say, selecting the knife. "I want to know about the existing Culebra distribution routes in Jacksonville and Miami. Names, locations, schedules."

"I can't—they'll kill me?—"

"Miguel." My voice drops to barely above a whisper, the tone that's made grown men piss themselves. "They're not here. I am. And I promise you, what I'll do to you will make anything Bembe threatens seem like a fucking massage."

For the next hour, Miguel Santos becomes very cooperative.

He spills everything—drug routes, safe house locations, upcoming shipments, personnel movements.

I work methodically, starting with small cuts when he hesitates, escalating to more creative persuasion when needed.

Nothing lethal, nothing that would end our conversation prematurely.

Bodul watches from the shadows, silent but attentive.

He’s learning, and Tor keeps watch, occasionally checking his phone for updates.

This is business, and while Tor would normally take the lead, I have unresolved issues with the Culebra cartel.

The fuckers who took my wife from me.

The ones who left my daughters motherless.

"The elementary schools," I say, making a shallow cut along Santos's forearm. "Why target kids?"

"N-not targeting them directly," he gasps. "Just... convenient locations. Less heat from cops, you know? Who expects dealers hanging around playgrounds? They’re too busy looking for pedos to worry about us."

"Men who've studied your operation for two years." I clean the blade on a rag. "Men who've been watching, waiting for the right moment to cut the rot out of their city."

"Look, man, I just follow orders?—"

"Whose orders?" The knife finds the soft spot between his thumb and forefinger. "Bembe's? Or someone higher?"

"Bembe! It's all Bembe! He wants Jacksonville locked down, wants to push north into Georgia—fuck, he wants everything he can get his greedy hands on!"

Blood drips steadily onto the concrete. "Keep talking."

"He's been planning something big. Says he's got leverage now, something that'll bring the MC to their knees." Santos is babbling now, pain and fear making him stupid. "Says he knows how to hurt the guys who matter most."

My hand stills. "What kind of leverage?"

"I don't know the specifics, man, I swear! Just that he's been watching, learning routines. Looking for soft spots."

"Soft spots." I set the knife down, picking up the pliers. "In the MC?"

"In the leadership! The guys with the most to lose!" He's practically screaming now. "Families, kids, girlfriends—anyone who matters to the shot-callers!"

Cold spreads through my chest like ice water. "How long has he been watching?"

"Months! Maybe longer! Please, that's all I know, I swear on my kids' lives!"

"Don't." My voice goes deadly calm. "Don't swear on children's lives. Not when you've been poisoning them with your product."

I apply the pliers to his pinky finger, just enough pressure to get his attention. "Names, Miguel. Which families has he been watching?"

"I don't know names! I just deliver shit and collect money!" The finger snaps with a wet crack. His scream echoes off the concrete walls. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Wrong answer." I move to the next finger. "Try again."

"The president's daughters! Runes's twins!" Blood and snot stream down his face. "And some coffee shop girl, I think? Someone important to one of you?"

The world stops.

Everything goes perfectly, terrifyingly still.

Coffee shop girl.

Meghan’s coffee shop.

Tor is even more interested than before. Meghan’s his ol’ lady.

"What coffee shop?" My voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.

"I don't know! Some place downtown! Bembe's got pictures, surveillance shit! Says she's the key to breaking one of your guys!"

The pliers clatter to the floor.

Five years.

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 me exactly what 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’m still just 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!"