“Public annihilation,” Knox says, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. “I like it. How do we guarantee it goes wide?”
“My sister,” Kyle says, his voice quiet but firm. “Jenna. She’s a national correspondent and has been trying to build a case against Winston Graves for years. She’ll burn him to the ground for us.”
Malachi looks at me. I give a single, sharp nod. It’s perfect.
“Alright.” Malachi’s low command fills the room. “Winston is giving the keynote at the Mayor’s Civic Banquet tonight. It’s being televised, and it’s at the Fairmont downtown, five blocks from here. Kyle, you get the video to your sister. Knox, you give her team access to the AV feed. East, you and I will lead the team to intercept him when the bomb drops. Everyone knows their role.”
Later, the clubhouse common room is a study in controlled tension. The entire family is here, a silent, supportive wall. The women are on the couches, their usual chaotic energy replaced by a grim anticipation. It’s a shared heavy stillness. We’re all watching the large TV on the wall, where a local news anchor is introducing the banquet. My heart is a low, heavy drum in my chest. I’m not just waiting for a plan to unfold. I’m waiting for seven years of ghosts to finally get their due.
The camera pans to the podium, and there he is. Winston Graves. Smiling, confident, a wolf in a tailored suit, basking in the polite applause. My stomach clenches into a knot of pure cold hatred. I feel a small, trembling hand find mine. Darla. She’s sitting on the arm of my chair, her knuckles white as she squeezes. I squeeze back, my thumb stroking her skin, a silent promise.
My phone buzzes on my thigh. It’s Kyle, forwarding a text from Jenna.It’s done. Watch the show.
My breath hitches. I give a short, sharp nod to Malachi across the room. He straightens, his gaze fixed on the screen.
On the TV, Winston begins his speech, his voice smooth, full of empty promises. Five minutes in, Jenna stands up, a phone raised in her hand. The movement alone slices through the room like a blade. She’s breaking the unspoken rule of these perfectly orchestrated events. Reporters don’t interrupt keynotes unless they’re about to drop a bomb. “Mayor Graves!” she shouts, hervoice cutting through his speech. “Do you deny being the one who shot your son the night of his graduation?”
Winston lets out a short, condescending laugh. “That is a new low, even for you, Jenna,” he says. “A desperate, tabloid smear tactic. Security, please escort this woman out.”
He turns back to the audience, a mask of beleaguered dignity on his face. But he stops. His smile falters. His eyes lock onto the teleprompter screens. The color drains from his face, leaving it waxy, pale white.He knows.
“Knox, now,” I hear Malachi growl.
The massive screens behind the podium flicker and change. A slick, polished “Mayor’s Civic Banquet” logo vanishes, replaced by a grainy, shaky video. The sound of two boys laughing fills the banquet hall, something I haven’t heard in seven years. A choked, painful sound rips from Darla’s throat, and my grip on her hand becomes iron.
On the screen, the image is horrifyingly clear. A black car approaches. The driver’s door cracks open just enough for a suited figure to lean out, arm extending to reveal the glint of a handgun. Declan stumbles. The gunshot cracks, loud and brutal even through the TV speakers. Declan falls. The banquet hall erupts. Not just gasps anymore. Screams. People are on their feet, scrambling, pointing. Reporters are swarming the stage. The camera stays on Winston’s face for three more seconds, capturing his complete and utter public ruin, a man hollowed out by his own sins, before the feed finally cuts to a stunned, speechless news anchor in a studio.
A grim, brutal satisfaction settles over our room. It’s done. His world is burning. I look at Darla. Tears are streaming down her face, but for once, she’s smiling. A real, brilliant, broken, and beautiful smile of pure, unadulterated relief.
My phone buzzes again. Kyle. From his sister.He’s headed for the back exit. Go.We’re already geared up and have streetdetours set up that will force him to go exactly where we will intercept him.
It’s time. The guys are already on their feet, and the room explodes into quiet, determined motion. James moves to Maggie, a quick, firm kiss. “Be careful,” she murmurs. “Always,” he replies, a lifetime of promises in one word.
Knox just looks at Sloane, a hundred unspoken things passing between them. “Don’t be stupid, Knox,” she says, her voice tight. He just gives her a single, sharp nod and turns to follow.
Malachi pulls Candace into a hard, possessive kiss. “Stay here. Stay safe,” he commands against her lips.
I turn to Darla. Her face is pale, but her eyes are blazing. I pull her to me, my mouth finding hers in a kiss that is a promise of return. I feel her tremble.
“Don’t die,” she whispers against my mouth, the words a raw, terrified plea.
“Not a chance, princess,” I murmur, then I let her go.
We intercept him in a dark service alley behind the hotel. It’s a quiet, terrifyingly efficient capture. No words, no struggle. One moment he’s a panicked man running for his life; the next, he’s ours.
We take him to an old, abandoned warehouse the club has owned for years. He’s tied to a chair in the center of a vast, empty concrete floor. The only light is a single, harsh bulb hanging from the ceiling, buzzing faintly, casting a weak, sickly pool of light that doesn’t reach the corners of the room. The air is cold and smells of rust, stale water, and rat shit.
I walk in alone, the heavy metal door groaning shut behind me. The sound echoes, a final, metallic slam, then there is only the sound of my boots on the gritty concrete. Winston looks up, his eyes wide with a terror he can’t hide. The power, the arrogance—it’s all gone.
“East,” he spits, the name a curse. The recognition is instant, laced with a hatred that has been festering for years.
I don’t speak. Instead, I walk a slow circle around him, letting the silence and the weight of what he’s done press down on him. His body trembles, the fine wool of his suit jacket now stained with alley grime. He is just a man. A pathetic, cornered animal. Finally, I stop in front of him. I crouch down, my face inches from his, making him look me in the eye.
“It was always you,” he hisses, his voice a venomous whisper, his bravado a paper-thin shield. “You were a bad influence. You corrupted him, pulled him into this… filth. He was supposed to have a future. My son.”
“I was his brother.” My voice is dangerously quiet, the words a razor’s edge. “You were his owner. There’s a difference.”
“And now you have her,” he snarls, his face contorting with a new, fresh wave of rage. “You took my daughter, too. Turned her against me.”
