Isolde crumples to a chair, arms around her knees. I crouch beside her, unsure what to say.
“He’ll be okay,” I offer.
She nods, but doesn’t look up. “He has to be.”
Rhett finally walks towards us, phone to his ear. “More coming. Parking lot. Two cars, maybe three. We need to get to Cai. O is still laboring, but she’s on her own, doctor can’t get in.”
Bam’s whole body tenses. “You stay with Isolde,” he tells me.
“No. I can shoot and hold my own. If my father isn’t there, I can reason with Leone.” I tip my chin high as Bam sighs.
“Fine. But you stay behind me and don’t do anything stupid like exchange yourself. We’ll find another way if we have to.”
I nod before following Rhett towards the elevator, Bam in front of me, Julian behind.
Of all the things I thought would happen today, negotiating with the most stubborn man in the universe in the middle of a woman giving birth, with the man he hates by my side, wasn’t one of them.
Chapter 18: Bam
Thestairwelldoorshissopen, and the world past them is blood and white tile.
Julian takes it in with the kind of smirk reserved for art galleries. Dahlia just steps forward, unblinking, like a ghost. I go last, shouldering the metal so it doesn’t slam, already reading the room the way you read a fight before the first swing.
The hall is lit to hell—bright enough to burn out your retinas. The first thing I see are the bodies: three, maybe four, all in black, sprawled in a way that says they died stupid and fast. Hands open. Eyes wide.
Next: the men who did the killing.
Vicious Kings muscle is easy to spot, even when they’re not breathing. The ones left alive are the real threat—nothing but bespoke suits and thousand-dollar shoes, but the hardware under their jackets is military grade. They form a blockade at the mouth of the corridor, every man spaced three feet apart, hands loose and ready. Behind them, two guys with thick necks are checking the pulses of their dead, but not bothering to close the eyes.
On the opposite side, not more than thirty yards away, five men stand shoulder to shoulder. No suits… just leather jackets, denim, boots that say they stomped their way through the old world and liked it. Every one of them has a gun visible, no one even pretending to hide. They’re hunkered down around the maternity desk, making a human wall between the Kings and a single room behind the glass: the delivery suite.
It’s like a nature documentary. Wolves on one side, lions on the other, waiting for the weakest animal to move so they can shred it.
Between them, in the no man’s land, stand two men. The first is obvious: Don Aurelio Bonaccorso, in a suit so black it eats the light, skin the color of wet clay, hair cropped close to the scalp. He’s not big, but everything about him says alpha: he’s the one the room is really afraid of, and even the Kings keep half an eye on his hands at all times.
The second guy is built like a fridge. Big arms, knuckles bruised, dark hair messy. I don’t recognize him, but something tells me this is Cai’s cousin, Slade.
Julian leans close and breathes, “Aurelio Bonaccorso. What a fucking sight.”
I want to laugh, but my mouth is dry.
Dahlia walks first. She doesn’t check to see if we’re following.
All the suits see us at once, and the first two in the line go for their jackets, no hesitation, just pure instinct. But the Don holds up a finger, and that single motion is enough to freeze the whole line.
He turns, slow, and his gaze hits Dahlia like a searchlight.
For a second, he doesn’t know her. He sees the ruined face, the slight limp, the borrowed clothes, the way she’s holding herself up on hate alone. Then the mask cracks, just a little, and the eyes—so much like hers—go soft.
He opens his arms.
“Lia,” he says, like it’s a fucking funeral.
She doesn’t move.
Julian whispers, “Do I get to shoot him or do you want the first go?”
I ignore it. My eyes are on the Don, but my body is tuned to everything that could fucking go wrong. My hands twitch. Myteeth grind. I could have them all dead before they blink, but only if Dahlia keeps walking.
