Victor says something — I don’t even register the words, simply hear the wanton, unspeakable cruelty in his tone. Then there’s a moment, a single heartbeat stretched infinitesimally thin, where the universe pauses and everything feels balanced on the head of a pin. My soul teeters on the brink, ready to rip free from this world. My heart knows it’s only seconds from shattering in two, from breaking beyond any hope of repair.
And then…
BANG.
The gunshot cracks through the stage like a thunderclap.
I scream. A raw, animal sound that tears out of my soul.
“No!”
Chapter Forty-Three
Tank
The second I hear the crack of the gunshot pierce the air, I drop to the floor. My body slams awkwardly into the stage, my shoulder screams, and wood groans beneath me. A fierce laugh escapes my lips, mingling with a ragged breath of relief. I’m alive — I know that shot didn’t come from Victor’s gun.
It came from my brothers.
A thunderous eruption of return fire lights up Club Sin. Chaos detonates like a bomb. The air is alive with ear-splitting noise and frenzied motion. Screams rip through the darkness. Bullets tear across the room. My boys — Havoc, Mayhem, Diesel — I spot them through the chaos, and my gut clenches with fierce pride. They’re here. Just like I knew they would be.
And they are painting this place red.
A shot ricochets off the stage, and I shove against the gritty floor, spring up, and see Victor recoil, shock twisting his face, his gun hand jerking and unsteady as he staggers back.
This is my chance — I don’t hesitate.
I put my head down and charge him like a fucking freight train. The impact is raw and brutal, the sound of bodies crashing into each other, bone and meat slamming together. Victor’s gun flies from his hand, skitters across the stage, but I’m on him, fists finding his ribs, his face, feeling them connect. He grunts, lurches, and throws me back against the stripper pole. Pain flares through my shoulder, but I swing around, keep my momentum, and drive my boot into his gut. He doubles over, but comes back swinging, a wild street brawler. His blows are brutal, fight dirty, sharp elbows slamming into me, and I taste blood in my mouth.
I laugh.
I feel my leg scream with pain, but I grit my teeth and keep going, fueled by rage and the need to end this. We brawl like fucking animals, fists smashing, grunting, raw fury choking us as we fight. A ring rakes across my cheek, and Victor tries to gouge my eye with his thumb. I headbutt him, feeling the crunch of his nose against my forehead. He claws at my face, scrambles for a hold, but I drive my knee up into his sternum, feel something give, something crack, and a breathless grunt escapes his lips as he shoves me off.
I stumble back, but keep my balance.
And then he draws another gun.
I throw myself to the side as the muzzle flashes, the gunshot roaring over the madness, and a white-hot bolt of pain crashes through my thigh, a searing and savage thrust. I hit the ground again with a howl, fiery agony tearing through me, my leg suddenly dead weight, blood soaking through my jeans, an angry burst of red. I clutch at the wound, fingers slipping on the slickness.
Victor's boot stomps the floor as he limps toward me, a harsh laugh curling from his lips, thick with triumph and disdain.
"You really thought you could take me down? You’re just some lovesick grunt with a bakery.” He sneers the words, brings the gun to bear, aims it at my chest with a merciless steadiness. “I should've put you in the ground the second I saw you sniffing around my sister.”
Bianca screams, launching herself into him with sudden ferocity, a blurred streak of fists and fury. She hits him screaming like a banshee, explosive enough to knock the pistol from his hand. It skids across the stage, metallic clatter lost beneath the storm of gunfire that still rules the club. Victor growls, spins on her, hands clawing for her throat, rage and shock twisting his features.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I bellow, roaring with every ounce of fight left in me.
I lunge, dragging myself forward, grabbing for the gun. My hands are slick with blood and sweat — his, mine, I don’t know anymore — but I lock my grip around it. My leg is screaming, but I force myself up, adrenaline pumping like a damn drug. Victor turns just in time to see me rise, eyes wide with surprise and fear. The bastard.
I grab him by the collar, drag him back, and slam him in the face with the butt of the gun. Once. Twice. Three times. Flesh splits under the impact, blood and teeth spraying the floor in grim arcs. He staggers back, a ragged gasp rattling from his lips, maybe a sob, maybe a curse, but it doesn’t fucking matter.
“Open up,” I grow, every word a bullet of its own. “Open your fucking mouth.”
He crumples, but I haul him up, dragging him back into the fray, a grim dance of death. His mouth gapes, a hollow O of terror in the middle of his blood-smeared face, and a smile splits my lips as I jam the barrel between his teeth, cold metal meeting the wet warmth of the back of his throat.
“I told you I’d kill you, motherfucker.”
I pull the trigger, feel the jolt of it, a brutal, joyful exclamation. The gun cracks like thunder, and his head snaps back, a red bloom where the back of his skull used to be, the rest collapsing in a heap as his body gives up the fight.
