“I’m just the messenger,” she says, flicking her cigarette lighter. “But if you’re done throwing tantrums, El Jefe’s got a job.”
I pull on my jacket, the leather still sticky from the heat of the ring. “Where?”
“Alcazar District. Penthouse bar. Target’s named Emil Santoro. You’ll know him.”
I pause, boots scuffing the tile. “Shifter?”
She nods once, slow. “Rat. Snitch. Roman’s old meat puppet.”
I don’t like the way her voice curls around Roman’s name like it still tastes sweet. I shove past her, the hallway reeking of mildew and spilled tequila. Outside, the night air is hot and thick, the scent of oranges and old smoke hanging low over Seville.
I hop on my bike, an old Ducati that purrs like a cat with a knife between its teeth. Streets blur. The Seal pulses again, softer now, like it knows I’m trying to outrun it. I ignore it. I ignore everything.
Until I can’t.
The penthouse bar is too clean. White marble floors, glass walls, abstract art trying too hard to impress no one. I step in like I own the place, every patron turning just enough to catch a glimpse of the tattoo across my throat: the broken circle of the Pact, inked over a scar that never healed.
Emil Santoro’s already sweating. He knows why I’m here.
“Rafe,” he says, hands up. “Let’s talk.”
“We are.”
I drag a chair backward, the screech loud enough to cut through the music. I sit across from him, leaning back with the casual threat of a lion stretching before the kill.
“I got nothing left to give,” he says quickly. “I didn’t know they were Roman’s men.”
“You always know,” I say, voice calm. “You just didn’t care.”
His mouth twitches. “I was trying to protect my daughter.”
“You got her caught in a crossfire. You think that’s protection?”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
I slam my hand on the table. Not hard. Just enough to crack the glass. He shuts up fast.
“You sold out a wolf from the Andalusian clan,” I say. “Name was Nico. Didn’t shift fast enough. Took a bullet between the eyes.”
Emil swallows. “I didn’t think they’d kill him.”
“You didn’t think,” I say, standing. “That’s your problem.”
I pull the blade from the sheath behind my back. It’s old. Ceremonial. Still sharp enough to cut a soul in half.
“Rafe,” he says again, voice cracking. “Please.”
I look into his eyes, and I see it: fear, yes, but something else too. Regret. Real. Tangible.
I hate that. Because it means I can’t pretend this is justice anymore.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t walk away.”
He blinks. “Because maybe you’re not the monster they think you are.”
I stare at him, the words ringing in a place I don’t want to look too close at.
Then I drive the blade into his heart.
