Page 51

Chapter 50

Seanna

Marcus took care of everything.

The cars. The bodies. The blood spatter threading through the dirt like a broken vein.

It turns out he was never Javier’s errand boy.

Not really.

He was Bodhi’s. Or, more accurately, an ally . An embedded ghost who’d been working quietly for years to dismantle Reyes’ empire from the inside—cutting off its limbs one by one until the body collapsed under its own weight. They had even turned Navarro.

The plan I hadn’t been trusted with.

The one they kept telling me to wait for.

And now? According to all of them—Marcus, Bodhi, Matteo— Kingston Reyes is dead.

Buried alongside his father.

The cartel?

Shattered.

It won’t survive the week.

The pieces are already falling.

We’d fallen into bed sometime after. Still bloody. Still wrecked. Still too wired to sleep and too exhausted to speak. Every muscle in my body screamed, but I didn’t care. Not when I finally had control again. Not when Javier Reyes was cold and silent beneath a blanket of pine needles and dirt.

I don’t remember who fell asleep first.

Doesn’t matter.

Sleep came for me like a drug, pulling me under hard and fast.

I don’t know how long I’m out.

But I jolt awake with a hand on my shoulder—soft, careful.

My breath catches.

My eyes snap open.

Hydessa.

Her face is inches from mine, cast in an eerie neon glow. One side tinted red. The other green. Her expression is urgent. Pale. A little wild. Her dark hair is tangled, her mouth parted like she’s halfway between a whisper and a scream.

And that’s when I see them.

Two figures—one on each side of the bed.

Still as statues.

Each wearing a glowing neon mask—one red, one green.

Each holding a knife to the throats of the men I love.

Matteo jolts awake.

His hand flies up—almost catches the wrist of the man holding the knife at his throat—but the blade doesn’t move. It just presses harder.

Bodhi comes to a half-second later, blinking up at the ceiling, then glancing down at the blade beside his neck like it’s an inconvenience.

Matteo snarls low, voice rough and venom-laced. “How the fuck do people keep getting past my security?”

The red mask tilts toward him, and the voice that comes out is modulated—cold, robotic, with just enough edge to make my spine stiffen.

“Because your security is a joke ,” he says dryly. “Even a five-year-old could hack that system. Honestly, I expected better.”

Matteo’s glare could set bone on fire.

Hydessa clears her throat, her hand still lightly pressed to my shoulder. “So…” she says, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking between the masked men and the half-naked chaos of the bed, “you need rescuing or…?”

Her gaze lands on Bodhi and lingers. I know that look.

She recognizes him.

Of course she fucking does. She knows him from the organization. But she’s not saying anything. Not yet.

I sit up slowly, rubbing a hand across my face. “I’m good,” I mutter. “Don’t need rescuing.”

Hydessa arches a brow. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing it looks like you lost an argument with a knife.”

“We’ve moved past the bloodletting,” I mutter. “Mostly.”

Bodhi shifts under the knife, stretching lazily like a jungle cat. “Wouldn’t say no to a coffee, though.”

“Shut up,” Matteo growls.

Hydessa snorts and flicks her eyes back to me. “Well, in that case,” she says, voice suddenly more clipped, “maybe get up. Fix your hair. Wipe the sex off your face.”

I blink at her. “Why?”

She gives me a long, weighted look. “Because our parents are about ten minutes behind us.”

My soul leaves my body.

“And Uncle Max,” she adds sweetly.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

The masked intruders vanish like smoke—as quickly as they arrived. Just a final, glitchy “Upgrade your firewalls, moron,” tossed over a shoulder in that same modulated tone.

Then one blink, and they’re gone—slipping back into the shadows like a shared hallucination. Hydessa rolls her eyes like this is somehow normal and mutters something about cloak-and-dagger freaks needing to schedule their chaos before she disappears out the door too.

Matteo flips off the air they vacated with a murderous grunt. “I hate people.”

“You’re not allowed to talk about security ever again,” I mutter, yanking on a hoodie over my dirty shirt and frantically dragging my fingers through my hair. “Ever.”

Bodhi somehow finds and shrugs into a fresh t-shirt like we’re late for brunch, not dealing with the fallout of abduction and cartel war. “So what you’re saying is, we don’t have time for a shower orgy?”

I glare at him.

Matteo’s already at the mirror. “We have under three minutes to look less like we just had a cartel execution preceded by feral sex in the woods.”

“Then you better move fast, Ruin ,” I snap, hopping into pants with more frustration than grace.

By the time we scramble toward the front door, we’re still rumpled, but not bleeding. Mostly clothed. Not actively fucking.

So, progress.

I can hear the rumble of tires—engines cutting off, doors slamming.

My stomach flips.

Fuck.

I throw open the door and step outside just in time to see them .

My parents.

Armed. Angry. Dangerous.

Dad’s got a sidearm on his hip, Papa has a gleaming knife drawn, Mom’s got her gun plus a crossbody harness—which I know has at least two knives in it—and they all look seconds away from declaring a personal war zone.

Uncle Max is with them. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him with a gun.

They’re storming toward the house like they’re ready to breach and clear.

I throw my hands up and march forward quickly.

“I’m okay. I’m fine,” I say loudly. “Everybody calm the fuck down.”

They all stop.

They all give me the exact same look.

A mixture of exasperation, disbelief, and sheer parental rage barely held in check.

Then—I hear the footsteps behind me.

I don’t have to turn. I know who they are.

Bodhi’s the first to step into view.

Mom squints, and then her mouth opens in shock. “ Bodhi? ”

Shit.

Uncle Max is a half-step behind her. His face shifts instantly from confusion to shock to something far more rattled. His eyes widen.

“Huxley??”

Everything halts.

All eyes land on Matteo —still brushing dirt from his sleeves, hair a mess, shirt half-tucked.

He looks up.

Then shrugs faintly. “Hey, Dad.”

A beat.

“I can explain.”