Page 19

Chapter 18

Seanna

The scene in front of me is more than a ‘situation’. It’s a fucking nightmare come to life.

Blood pools like dark lakes across the polished floors, crimson splashes painting a grotesque masterpiece. Bodies litter the club, twisted and sprawled in unnatural positions—Cruz and his creepy lackeys reduced to nothing but broken puppets, their strings cut suddenly. No spray of bullets, no messy firefight. Each of them was executed quickly, efficiently, and methodically. Even the man at the door lies slumped over, surprise still etched permanently on his slack face.

But it’s not the violence that freezes me in place, muscles taut and pulse hammering—it’s the message scrawled across the wall in blood-red strokes near Cruz’s corpse:

Rage detonates in my chest, molten and wild. I charge forward, instincts screaming to do something, to hunt, to punish—but Eli steps into my path before I get too far. His arms wrap around me, locking me in place.

"Seanna—stop," he says firmly. "You know we can’t contaminate the scene, not now."

I struggle in his grip, chest heaving, throat raw with a scream of frustration I don’t even realize I’m letting out. He holds firm, his voice low in my ear, steady even as my fury shreds through me like shrapnel.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know what this looks like. But we can’t touch anything. Not yet."

I stop fighting. Not because I’m calm. Because I’m shaking too hard to stand.

Matteo arrives seconds later, his boots skidding slightly on a blood-slick tile. Jensen is already here too, his expression grim, scanning the carnage with professional detachment. Matteo takes one look at the scene, at me half-collapsed in Eli’s grip, and his expression darkens. But before any of us can speak—

"Darling!"

The voice barks across the room. Ford.

He pushes through the side entrance, a group of agents close behind. He doesn’t even glance at the bodies. His eyes are locked on me.

"You and your team. With me. Now."

We follow him out into the alley, silent and stunned.

Once we’re out of earshot, Ford turns on us. "You’re all on leave. Effective immediately."

"Excuse me?" I snap, stepping forward. "You can’t just—"

"I can. And I am." He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t have to. His voice cuts like glass. "This entire op is now under internal review. Until I say otherwise, you’re benched."

"Ford—"

"No. Not this time, Seanna." He points a finger at me. "You show up at the scene of a cartel massacre with a personal message in blood? You think I’m not pulling you off the board?"

I want to argue. To scream. To punch a wall until my hands break.

But I don’t.

Because I know the worst part isn’t being pulled off the mission.

It’s knowing they got here first.

And they did this for me.

Ford storms away, leaving the rest of us standing in stunned silence. Jensen breaks the quiet first, confusion etched deep into his features. “What the hell happened, Seanna? What does that message even mean?”

I shake my head slowly, exhaustion bleeding through my voice. “Don’t worry about it. Just...go home. All of you. Take the break, don’t do any digging or investigating—nothing about Reyes or Cruz. Everything needs to be legal, squeaky clean right now. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

Jensen steps closer, concern clear in his eyes. “Seanna, talk to us. You’re not okay. We can see that.”

I force a tight smile, my voice carefully even. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I have a family member on holiday—some tropical island. I might just go join them.”

He doesn't look convinced, but he nods anyway. Matteo and Jensen turn away, heading slowly down the alley, their steps heavy and uncertain. Eli hesitates, hanging back, eyes narrowed on mine.

“You were not fine in there,” he says softly, voice laced with worry. “At all. Do we need to have someone shadowing you?”

I meet his gaze, swallowing the lump of frustration lodged in my throat. “No, Eli. I’ll handle this. Just... trust me. Go home.”

He studies me a beat longer, reluctant but finally nodding. “Alright. But call if you need anything. Don’t try to carry this alone.”

I wait until he’s out of sight before letting the brave facade crumble away, sagging against the cold brick wall as the reality settles in—I can't risk them. Not if Rule and Ruin are willing to slaughter an entire club just to send me a message.

Eventually, I push off the wall, forcing myself upright, and walk to my car parked a short distance away. I sink into the driver’s seat and sit there in silence, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Months chasing Reyes, countless hours of work, meticulous planning—all thrown aside because of two fucking stalkers.

Frustration and rage boil over, and I punch the steering wheel hard, feeling the sting radiate up my arm. Hot tears blur my vision, a brief moment of weakness that I attribute to exhaustion and raw, overwhelming anger.

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself, allowing the rage to build again, fierce and consuming like a tornado. Grabbing my phone, I furiously type a scathing message to the last number I received a text from:

You fucking assholes think you're untouchable? You're cowards hiding behind your twisted games. Come at me directly if you're brave enough—otherwise, stay the hell out of my way.

The message immediately comes back as undeliverable. My fingers fly over the screen as I try every other number I’ve received messages from, only to have each attempt bounce back undeliverable.

With a growl of frustration, I throw the phone toward the other side of the car, breathing deeply as I try to regain some semblance of calm. Suddenly, the phone rings, and I scramble to retrieve it from the passenger footwell, pulse hammering with expectation. Maybe it's those bastards.

But then I see it’s Mom.

I force myself to exhale slowly, trying to calm myself as I answer the call.

"Hey, sweetheart," Mom's cheerful voice greets me, and I can hear Dad and Papa talking quietly in the background.

"Hey, Mom," I reply, forcing a smile into my voice. "How’s Chicago?"

"Busy, as usual," she chuckles lightly. "How’s your investigation coming along?"

"Fine," I lie smoothly, projecting ease I don't feel. "Just a few bumps. How about yours?"

"Progressing," she replies casually. "You know how it is, one step forward, two steps sideways."

Dad's voice suddenly joins, warm and steady. "Make sure you're looking after yourself, sweetheart. Are you eating properly?"

"Always," I promise, throat tightening with emotion. "You know I can handle myself."

"We know you can," Papa chimes in affectionately from the background. "But even superheroes need downtime, kid."

"I'll try to remember that," I reply softly, smiling despite the ache in my chest. "You guys stay safe too."

"We love you, sweetheart," Mom says gently. "Don’t forget to take a break now and then."

"Love you too. All of you," I whisper, feeling the sting of tears again.

We end the call with soft "I love you's," and I let my head fall back against the seat, the ache of their absence sharper now than ever. Normally, solitude doesn't bother me—but right now, I miss my family fiercely.

With a heavy sigh, I start the car, heading home to my cabin. Maybe a hot shower can wash away some of this stress and drama, but deep down, I doubt it'll make a damn difference.

It's starting to get dark when I get home, and I'm relieved there aren't any twisted gifts waiting for me—because they'd be immediately tossed into the dense forest that backs onto my cabin.

Stepping inside, I slam the door behind me so hard it's a wonder the glass doesn't shatter. Rage and frustration coil tightly inside me, suffocating in their intensity. Shrugging off my jacket, I drop it on the couch, placing my gun alongside it with a heavy thud.

I pour myself a generous glass of whiskey, draining it in one swift, burning swallow without bothering to move from the spot. The warmth does little to ease the bitter fury still clawing at my insides. With a sigh, I turn and walk down the hall toward my bedroom, hoping sleep might at least dull my anger.

But before I reach the door, someone steps smoothly from the shadows of my bedroom, filling the hallway ahead of me. Even in the fading twilight, I can clearly see the figure's full tactical gear and mask, obscuring every feature.

Rule.

Or maybe Ruin—I haven't seen him yet. I wouldn’t put it past them to have matching sinister getups.

A fresh surge of fury floods my veins. I want to launch myself at him, to claw and fight—but I've already tasted Rule's strength. Instead, I pivot quickly, desperate to reach my gun on the couch. My escape route is abruptly blocked by a second figure stepping silently into the hallway, identical gear and mask cutting off any hope of retrieval.

Fuck .

One of them speaks, his voice distorted by a modulator, chilling and detached. "You left us with no choice."

I don't wait—I lunge forward, aiming a brutal strike at the one blocking my path to the couch. My fist connects solidly with his chest, but it's like hitting solid steel. He barely shifts, absorbing the blow easily. Undeterred, I throw a swift kick at his knee, forcing him to sidestep slightly.

The other one—the first who emerged from my bedroom—moves forward, attempting to restrain me from behind. I twist sharply, driving my elbow backward with all my strength. It catches him in the side, eliciting a distorted grunt. Encouraged, I follow up with another strike, this time higher, aiming for his masked face.

He deflects my strike effortlessly, grabbing my wrist and twisting it painfully, forcing a hiss of pain from my lips. The second figure moves in swiftly, catching my other arm before I can lash out again, trapping me securely between them. I fight against their grip, kicking and snarling like a feral animal, but they're too coordinated, too powerful.

"Let me fucking go!" I scream, rage bleeding into every word.

The figure in front steps back slightly, pulling something out from one of his many pockets. The other uses his free hand to hold my jaw in an almost bruising grip. When I see what’s in his hand I thrash harder, panic edging into my movements. "No!"

It's too late—the spray feels cold in my nose, almost immediately dulling my senses, limbs turning sluggish against my will.

As darkness creeps into my vision, a distorted voice murmurs, almost soothingly, "This is for your own good, little storm."

Then everything fades into oblivion.