Nobody says a word. They don’t have to. They’re here. Not just in the room. With me. Waiting.
Malachi glances at Nash and gives him a low nod. Nash responds in kind, stepping aside to open the back hallway. Malachi’s hand hovers near the small of my back—not touching. Just there. Solid. Grounding.
And I need that.
“You good?” Ruby asks softly, her voice rough around the edges.
I nod.
“You sure?” Sloane presses.
No. But I’m not going to break. Not with all of them behind me.
“Let’s do this.”
Frankie slips something into my palm as I pass. Brass knuckles. Polished. Heavy. Mine. “In case your words don’t land hard enough,” she says, flashing the ghost of a grin. I don’t smile. But I hold them tighter.
The cool weight of them in my hand feels forged for purpose. Closure made metal.
We walk in silence down the hall, past the rooms, through the back door that leads to the warehouse where they keep the ones who don’t deserve daylight. The metal door groans as it opens, swallowing the sound of our boots on the concrete floor.
The room beyond is dim, lit only by a hanging bulb swaying gently overhead. It casts a flickering halo over the man tied to the chair. His head is sagging, shirt soaked in sweat and blood, wrists red and raw from struggling.
My father. Chuck Giles.
His face is almost unrecognizable. One eye swollen shut, lip split wide, jaw already blooming with purple. Dried blood streaks his collar and the front of his once-crisp shirt. He looks ruined.
Because he has been. Malachi’s doing.
I know it before he says a word. I feel it in the tension still coiled beneath his skin, the slight tremble in his hand as he opened the door for me and stood aside. Not nervousness—restraint. This isn’t fresh rage. This is aftermath. Aftermath he made sure my father lived through.
Now I am here. To finish what he started.
I step inside slowly. The others don’t follow, but I feel them behind me. Ruby. Frankie. Sloane. East. Nash. All of them. Holding the line. Holding me.
Their silence is a war drum behind my ribs. Their presence a shield I don’t have to ask for.
Chuck stirs. Groans low. His head lifts sluggishly. When his one good eye focuses and lands on me, a slow smile spreads across his bloodied face.
“Look who it is,” he rasps. “My ungrateful daughter.”
My fists curl at my sides. “Don’t speak to me.”
He blinks. Surprise, maybe. I’m not. The devil always expects worship. Not resistance. I keep walking, each step heavier than the last. Not with fear. With knowing.
“Do you even remember who I was before you broke me?” I ask, my voice calm, quiet. Deadly.
He licks his lip before wincing. “You don’t know what it’s like, Candy. Losing everything. Losing her. She took everything from me.”
“You lied,” I say.
He laughs, a broken sound. “That’s what this is about? You mad I kept Mommy a secret?”
I lunge forward, brass knuckles slamming into his jaw with a crack so satisfying it echoes. His head whips sideways. Blood splatters the floor. He groans, slumping. I step back, chest rising and falling, but my voice stays steady.
Taking my time, I circle him and watch the way his eyes follow me. “You knew what they were going to do to me. You let it happen.”
“I needed money,” he spits, louder now. “And you? You turned your back on me first. After everything I gave you—”
