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RAY

W ouldn’t life be perfect if it were just long bike rides and wild kisses under the open sky?

That thought keeps circling my head. It dug in three days ago and won’t let go. I know why. It’s instinct. A defense mechanism.

My brain clings to the softness of that dream, desperate to balance the harsh reality I’ve been trudging through with my brothers.

Sammy calls what we’re about to do “taking care of business”—he never uses rough words if he can help it.

Ever the gentleman—even in war. Raul, on the other hand, doesn't sugarcoat it. He says we’re going to “tear those sons of bitches to pieces.”

Me? I call it what it is: doing whatever it takes to get our lives back.

We’ve been living in a shadow for too long.

That cursed building out in the middle of nowhere.

The ambush on Erica and Stacy. And worst of all—my brother was kidnapped, leaving us all thinking he was dead.

The grief nearly broke us. These psychopaths didn’t just take Sammy.

They took something sacred to our entire valley—our peace of mind.

This isn’t about comfort—it’s about survival. Without that peace, everything collapses. I won’t call this revenge because it isn’t. This is justice, a reckoning, and a restoration. We’re not committing a crime. We’re righting a wrong—meeting cruelty with resolve.

Until now, we’ve been reacting to everything they’ve done.

And all of it led us here. A goddamn fundraiser in one of the fanciest hotels in New York, the Mandarin Oriental.

None of us belong here. We aren’t rich. We’re not celebrities or Wall Street sharks with private elevators and fake smiles.

We’re just three wolves from the woods, clawing our way into enemy territory.

But Monica had a plan.

“There’s an ID check at the front. Unless you can pass as someone famous, you won’t get in. But janitorial staff? They don’t check their IDs. Grab a blue uniform, a bucket, a mop—that’s your golden ticket,” she told us.

And she was right. It worked like a charm.

We’re dressed like maintenance workers—uniforms on, tools in hand. The valet barely glances up, checks his watch and waves us through.

“Come on, people,” he mutters. “I want to be able to eat off that basement floor.”

The hotel sparkles like a polished jewel in the city’s crown.

Lights shimmer against the glass, reflecting a city that never learned how to sleep.

The place hums with expensive perfume and fake laughter.

Limousines line up like predators waiting to pounce.

High heels click across marble. Cameras flash.

Reporters shout. And up there, behind all that glamor, our enemies lurk.

“Damn,” Raul whispers as we crouch on the landing of the grand staircase, peering down at the scene below. “That guy’s suit probably costs more than I’ll make in a year.”

“Can you focus?” I mutter, brushing past the row of spotless toilets.

“I am focused,” he says, and I hear the edge in his voice. He’s watching. Listening. Calculating—just like me.

Downstairs, the applause begins. Another big donor must be entering. The pack of leeches claps like trained seals.

“They’re here. If either of you has a plan, now’s the time,” Raul murmurs, leaning in.

“Relax,” Sammy says, his voice smooth as he slides his bucket across the floor. “There’s no bathroom in the lobby. They’ll have to come down here eventually.”

Raul isn’t convinced. “Enlighten me on this master plan of yours.”

“We don’t want to make a scene,” Sam replies, calm as ever. “So, they come to us.”

I don’t need more explanation. We trust each other. If Sam has a plan, I’ll follow him through hell.

The sting of chlorine clings to the back of my throat. I keep clear of the restrooms, patrolling thirty feet out so I can see without being obvious. Everything’s clean. Everything’s quiet. Too quiet.

I scan the hallway. Men and women glide through like ghosts, dripping in gold and drowning in cologne.

Especially the women—layers of perfume so thick I could track them blindfolded.

They remind me of Erica, but not in a good way.

These women wear their scents like armor.

Trying to be noticed. Trying to matter. They don’t realize how desperate they smell.

Then I hear it. A lazy, drawling voice. Ivan Peterson. We watched his interviews—his smug tone etched into my memory.

Sam whistles as Peterson clears the last step. Raul shifts, silent and sure, kicking his bucket across the tiles and pulling the caution sign out of his cart. Sam’s already near the elevators, fiddling with his mop, waiting for the bait to bite.

Peterson pauses, phone in hand, clearly annoyed.

“Sir?” Sam calls out, his voice mild. “Can you give me a hand? The bucket’s stuck, and I need to swap the water.”

Peterson glares.

“Do you have any idea who I am?”

“I do. That’s why I’m asking. Just need an inch. Won’t take a second.” Peterson sighs like it’s the hardest decision he’s ever made, then steps forward.

Sam moves fast. As Peterson leans in, Sam grabs his collar, spins him, and slams him into the chrome wall. His cheek hits with a crack that echoes.

“Hey!” a voice shouts from the far end.

Donahue. Raul’s moving.

“Come here, you piece of shit!” Raul snarls, grabbing Donahue’s arm and slamming him into the bathroom door.

The door bursts open with a bang as Raul shoves him inside.

“Make it quick,” Sam mutters, yanking the caution signs into place. “We’re on the clock.”

I step into the elevator, staring at Peterson lying crumpled on the floor. His expensive tie is crooked. His combed-over hair is a mess.

“You bankrolled Donahue’s little war,” I say in a low voice. “Meeting you isn’t a pleasure. It’s overdue.”

“Who—?” he gasps, trying to rise. I crouch beside him.

“I’m the last face you’ll ever see.”

Rage hits like a wave. No hesitation. I lock both hands around his throat. He squirms, eyes wide with disbelief. He doesn’t think something like this can happen to him, but I know it can. And I’m not letting go.

He fights, slamming his fists against my arms. I don’t budge. My fingers tighten. He gasps for air, tongue pushing past his lips.

“Wait—please—I can pay?—”

“One death,” I growl, squeezing harder.

He bucks, his face turning red, then purple. His legs kick weakly. I yank his head up—then slam it down hard. The crack echoes off the chrome. I don’t flinch. He gurgles. The fight drains from his limbs.

One last twitch. One last gasp. Gone.

Sam’s voice breaks through the haze.

“Good. Now help me get him out. We can’t hold the elevator forever.” I exhale heavily, still panting.

My heart pounds like a war drum. I shift around the body, grab his arms. Sam takes the ankles. Together, we drag the bastard into the nearest bathroom, adrenaline roaring in my veins.

Upstairs, the fundraiser keeps buzzing—music, laughter, toasts to things they don’t understand. Down here, death hums quiet and sure. As I step back into the hall, Raul meets me with a grim nod.

“Is it done?”

“Yeah.” My voice is steady.

“What about you?”

“Donahue won’t bother us again.”

I glance once over my shoulder. Two monsters down.

“Let’s move.”

We vanish before the blood even cools.