Page 2 of Toxic Revenge, Part Two (Mafia Omegas #2)

Chapter

Two

WEST

My blood boiled, discomfort seizing my muscles in a vise grip. Rage ripped apart my mind, filling me with a deep desire for violence and sex. I clenched my fists on the steering wheel and breathed out a growl, trying to calm down.

None of those emotions belonged to me.

I was being rational, dropping these cursed bullets off somewhere they would be safe.

I’d stolen a car to get me back to Villem but would have to ditch it blocks away from my destination. The roundabout path I forced myself to take was necessary—if I was anything less than a hundred percent sure I wasn’t followed, we would all be fucked.

But I didn’t know what the hell was going on with my packmates other than how they felt.

Conrad was nothing but a black hole of predatory desires. They pulsed through the bond, impossible to shut out, eager to force me into the same feral state he was in.

First, those desires were centred on sex, and I had to stop myself from swerving the car back toward the hospital. Talia was with him, and I wouldn’t let him do something we’d all regret.

He quickly turned bloodthirsty.

That was when Mercer’s emotions punched through the din.

Fury, fear.

That fear dissipated, though, as I ditched the car in an alleyway and began on foot through empty streets. Talia wasn’t there anymore—he wasn’t scared for her.

That had to mean she was safe, right?

I cursed under my breath.

The crate of ammo was swinging in a branded fabric bag from the hair salon, probably getting jostled way too much. The manufacturing plant I was aiming for was only a few corners away.

With the overwhelming distraction of my pack’s distress, I couldn’t be confident there was no one following me. I had to take a minute.

Leaning my back against a wet brick wall, I took a few deep breaths. I tried to slow down each one a bit more than the last. Even them out, so I wasn’t panting like a dog.

I’d once thought focusing on breathing was a ridiculous tactic. It didn’t seem like it could do fuck all to help calm a person down. They had to focus on removing the source of stress—I’d assumed that was the only way.

Then I’d learned not all stressors could be removed.

What happened when it was your own brain working against you?

Violet couldn’t get rid of her demons—but she’d tried. Oh, she’d tried every possible way .

I closed my eyes and inhaled, picking up scents but letting them disappear from my perception as fast as they came. The breath held in my chest until I consciously released, banishing all the swirling emotions that didn’t belong in my head.

An image of Violet formed. A memory. It was the first time I’d skeptically tried this with her when she’d had one of her panic attacks.

2 years ago

Dull silver hair hid her eyes, but I knew they were wide. She’d shrunk back as far as she could go into the corner of the bedroom, her knees to her chest. My sister trembled with terror, and I stood helplessly across the room.

I couldn’t soothe her.

I was useless.

And this was my fucking fault.

Every time we thought she was getting better, she slid backward. There were days she resembled the bright teenager who’d shown up on our doorstep, claiming we were relatives. The fearless omega who hadn’t cared she was knocking on the door of a pack she’d never met.

Today was one of those days.

She’d even smiled at me, her chapped lips turning upward. The few bites she’d taken of the buttered toast had been promising, but then the neighbours had started mowing the lawn.

I’d lost her again, the bitter notes of fear overpowering her sweet scent of almond cookies. The whimper that tore from her chest sent a lancing pain through me. I’d frozen while she scrambled away, abandoning the only food she’d eaten in days.

“Vi,” I croaked, reaching a hand out to her. She flinched back even though I was across the room. “It’s a lawnmower. Nothing bad.”

Knowing the truth couldn’t smother her panic. She shook and panted, her body struggling to keep up with how she hyperventilated.

I wracked my brain for some way I could help her. The therapist had said she probably wasn’t comfortable with people towering over her. My hand grabbed the desk, and I lowered myself quickly to my knees without making much noise.

My sister had refused to see the therapist, but I’d gotten pamphlets. Countless pamphlets of strategies for handling fragile omegas. Dr. Jalisco had disapproved of Violet not coming in to be assessed, but she’d gone soft when she saw my desperation.

The pamphlets said breathing was important. God, it felt stupid. I couldn’t watch her like this, though. My vision was blurry from tears that fell without permission.

“Hey, breathe with me,” I said.

She didn’t react when I inhaled, held, or exhaled. But I did it again because it was all I could do. I closed my eyes and focused on my own breathing, wondering why it helped me when it was supposed to be helping her.

When I’d opened them again, she’d brushed her hair from her face and her lips parted to exhale on a rhythm that matched mine. I smiled faintly and kept breathing.

It wasn’t enough for Violet— I wasn’t enough —but it helped.

I helped.

Present

Conrad and Mercer’s emotions left the forefront of the bond, banished by the hint of calm I’d grappled for. I envisioned locking them away in a box, not allowing any part of them to be free. The feelings would come back, oozing through the seals, but it would take some time.

The visualization was another fragment of woo-woo bullshit that had turned out to be surprisingly helpful.

Dr. Jalisco always said it wasn’t magic, but science. She’d linked me to articles on the benefits of meditation and yoga and breathing exercises. I’d read them all.

“Is anyone following me?” I asked under my breath, reminding myself of what it was I needed to figure out.

Quickly . I needed to call Talia, but the nearest burner was at our safe house.

I inhaled, sorting through the scents that hit me for anything out of place. I backed up down the alley the way I’d come, repeating the process.

Nothing stood out. When I listened for the telltale sounds of rustling clothes or quiet footsteps, I only heard the distant sound of cars, the hum of buildings, scurrying rats, and the intermittent sounds of a city that was still asleep.

I didn’t run when I left the alley, but I moved with purpose and long strides. Without the cacophony of my pack’s distress battering me, I could keep my attention outward.

Relief filled me. No tail.

The manufacturing plant stood up ahead, brown and imposing.

A glow shone from the high windows—Janice was already in, setting the place up for the day as her workers began to arrive.

We paid a piddling amount of cash monthly to the elderly beta woman, and in return, we got a shitty one-bedroom apartment.

There was no way the suite was legal, and I doubted any sane person could stand to live there—the banging and squeaking and creaking from conveyor belts and old equipment and employees started up at four in the morning. Didn’t really stop until seven at night, either.

Probably wasn’t legal for her to be running the place for that many hours. But Janice didn’t ask us why we rented and never came by, so we didn’t question her shady business practices.

The hidden metal back door didn’t look like it was the entrance to a residence. My key turned in the sticky lock. A cat darted out from behind a dumpster when the hinges screeched horrendously in protest of movement, but I got it open.

Up a steep set of metal stairs was another door, locked again, and then the apartment.

I discarded the crate of ammo on the scratched-up dining table and stalked to the kitchen.

We were pretty sure Janice had furnished this place by grabbing shit from the dump, but there was a working fridge and stove, not that it mattered much for us.

I yanked open a cupboard and fished around at the back.

The fake back toppled over when I hit it, and I closed my fist around one of our go-bags. “Fucking finally,” I muttered.

I stabbed Talia’s number into the burner phone, waiting for her to pick up. I needed to hear her voice, to know my packmates hadn’t hurt her.

No answer.

I tried Mercer next. Conrad. Talia again. Not a single person I called answered their goddamn phone.

Rubbing a hand over my head, I glared at the wood crate. It had to go and fuck a whole lot of stuff up, didn’t it?

We didn’t know who could have decided it was a good idea to manufacture ammo that would turn alphas feral—because Grave sure as fuck wasn’t the brains behind the operation—but I wanted to murder them.

Another call went to voicemail.

I had to stash the goods and get over to the hospital. If my packmates had been able to answer, they would have. Talia might not—maybe she was avoiding the unknown number. Plenty of people did.

The pit in my stomach was bubbling with doubt. I wasn’t betting on the answer being as simple as that.

As I stormed into the bedroom and shoved the dresser away from its place against the wall, I called Gears. She needed to keep an eye and ear out for us while we figured out what the hell we were going to do about Grave.

“What do you want?”

I’d expected a half-asleep grumble. Her tone was an alert bark instead.

That was a bad sign, considering the hour.

I yanked out a pre-cut square of drywall with one hand, revealing the large safe behind it.

“Eyes and ears,” I said.

“How about you tell me what you know about selling to the O’Connors?”

Freezing, I cursed. “Did the Windsors find out? Are they making an example of someone? I thought we would have more time to fix Grave’s fucking mess.”

She didn’t answer right away, and I kicked myself back into gear. I unlocked the safe, shoved a new gun and some ammo into my pockets, and grabbed the crate from the dining room. It was locked up and I was pushing the drywall back into place before Gears said anything.

“You,” she said.

My eyebrows drew together. “What?”

“They’re making an example out of you. Grave let all the Alpha Chariots know that you’ve been supplying someone in Medley Island behind his back. Everyone who believes him is gunning for you three.”

And Grave was a convincing bastard.

It was how he’d kept the club under his thumb for so long. People wanted to trust him because, at one point, he’d been trustworthy—and he played on that.

“That’s not fucking good.”

She snorted. “Yeah. Understatement. Even I might have believed him if I hadn’t gone on that hand off with Four Leaf. That sketchy ammo is involved in this, right?”

“At the centre of it.” I shoved the dresser back into place and took a step back to assess it. The floor was so scuffed that the marks from shoving the furniture around weren’t distinct enough to be a hint. “If you get shot, lock yourself in a reinforced room and throw out the key.”

“Not planning on locking myself away to die, asshole.”

“You won’t die. You’ll just go feral.”

I didn’t know if the bullets would work the same on a female alpha. There weren’t many around, so I doubted they’d been tested. Female alphas weren’t their intended goal.

Better safe than sorry. No one wanted a feral Gears.

“Feral? What the hell is going on, Arsenal?”

“No time to get into it. Just keep me updated on what you find. This phone number only, not any of our usual ones. And tell Hawk about what’s going on too, so he doesn’t get swept up in all of Grave’s fucking lies.”

“I’m going to need more details than that.”

I growled under my breath, the sound a clear warning for her to stop fucking asking. “I need to find my pack and my mate. You’ll wait.”

Hanging up, I checked everything over once more. Nothing about the apartment looked suspicious. It was risky to leave those bullets anywhere, considering they were solid proof of nefarious dealings, but it was better than carrying them around.

And I couldn’t stay here with them.

Not when I was barely managing to block out my pack’s distress. I needed to go.

Now.

I slammed the door on my way out, the sound barely noticeable beneath the clanging of machines from the manufacturing plant downstairs.