My heart plummets into my shoes and a lump forms in the back of my throat.
Pier 47. I know the place. Old shipping warehouse, isolated from the main port, perfect for keeping things private. Easy to control access, plenty of space for a crowd if they want to make a show of it for their members.
And it's eight fifteen now. I have forty-five minutes.
I text the address to Bronx and tell him to get Reign and the crew together. Fuck going in alone. If they want a war, I'll give them one.
My truck roars to life in the garage, and I peel out onto the street. Traffic is light this early, which means I can make it to the docks in twenty minutes if I ignore everytraffic law in the city.
My phone rings again.
"Bronx filled me in. What's the plan?" Reign says.
"The plan is, I go in and kill every fucker who's touched my wife."
"That's not a plan; that's a suicide mission."
"Then don't follow me."
"Like hell. We're family.”
“Yeah, and she’s family, too,” I remind him. “She’s Livvie fucking Viacava, Reign. She’s one of us.”
“Where you go, we go."
I take a corner at fifty miles an hour, tires screaming against the asphalt. "Then you’d better bring enough firepower to level the building."
"Already on it. See you at the pier."
The line goes dead, and I'm alone with my thoughts and the throbbing between my ears. Livvie thinks she's saving me by sacrificing herself. She thinks if she gives them what they want, they'll leave me alone.
She's wrong.
But I'm going to save her anyway. Even if it means burning the whole fucking Red Tribunal to the ground.
They want blood? They're about to get it.
Just not the blood they were expecting.
33
LIVVIE
The wind tugs loose strands of my hair as I stand at the mouth of an old pier.
Sulfurous dried seaweed and the acrid waft of fuel swirl in the air. Miles away, the city hums, a dull reminder of how isolated I am, how alone I’ve made myself.
Beneath my track shoes, the concrete is cracked, and it makes me wonder if there are skeletons buried in the warehouse foundation.
Waves crash against the rocks under the pier, the splashing almost louder than my thumping heartbeat.
My breath comes in shallow gasps, the salty breeze catching in my throat.
This is way out of my comfort zone and what I’m about to do could spiral out of control at any moment.
Two men stand before me. One wears a plain black mask. No mouth or nostril holes, only slots for cold eyes.
Whereas the other man hasn’t bothered disguising hisface. He’s the guy who met with Roman before I stabbed him.
