Zane shook his head from where he stood by Ansel. “You can’t call it poetic when it’s just gruesome.”
Avi pursed his lips. “Okay, fine. Not poetic. Cathartic.”
Enzo wasn’t registering the words. He was seeing the pit again: black and slick, an oily eye watching from the bottom. He forced himself not to picture a body sliding into it.
When Seven turned in his arms, he forced his gaze downward. He read an assent in Seven’s eyes that made his gut drop. His pupils were blown wide, pain and something else flickering behind his gaze: a thrill, a grim satisfaction that made Enzo equal parts proud and terrified. That look—hungry and hollow—wasn’t excitement exactly; it was relief.
“He’s right,” Ansel said suddenly. “They did the worst. They lied, sold, used people… Little kids. Babies. These men are disgusting. They tried to set up Seven’s mom.”
Elio nodded, earnest. “Those women and kids are still out there. I know you said the Mulvaneys would handle it, but these guys deserve everything this machine gives them.”
Enzo didn’t know how to feel when his baby brothers recited this case for vengeance, but disgust wasn’t it. He felt a sour kind of calm, the kind that happens once a decision you didn’t ask for has already been made. Part of him wanted the men to die screaming, but another part felt like hearing the rationale from his baby brothers just proved that Enzo had converted them into something monstrous.
Ansel and Elio hadn’t been raised in the dark the way the older Contis were. Their understanding of violence was raw and new; they fought the bad guys with keyboards and terabytes. Hearing them justify what was about to happen made Enzo both uneasy and proud.
“Shouldn’t they suffer for their crimes?” Ansel asked, then nodded like he was answering his own question. “They should be punished. They should know fear.”
“Your brothers are sharp,” Asa said, voice flat. “They understand there’s a thin line between justice and revenge.”
A heavy hush dropped over the plant. Even the wind seemed to lean in. One of the captives shifted, and the sound was a small, horrible thing—leather against concrete—dragging across Enzo’s nerves. The men’s eyes, once sharp with entitlement, now ratcheted between panic and pleading, like animals being shuttled into a kill zone.
“I don’t want to rush anyone, but we have to pick up the kids soon,” Lucas said.
“Us, too,” everyone except Seven and Enzo’s brothers echoed.
Seven nuzzled Enzo’s neck, lips dragging over his pulse point, like he was considering taking things further even with an audience. Enzo’s pulse jumped.
“You okay?” he whispered against his shoulder, fingers curling into Enzo’s shirt. He smelled of iron and sweat and the faint medicinal sting of antiseptic. Enzo could feel every shaky breath, every tremor, like it was his own.
Enzo leaned down until their foreheads touched. “I’m fine,” he lied, because the truth would’ve made him sound unhinged. “You’re okay. That’s what matters.”
Seven looked up, the corner of his mouth curving into that wry smile that had undone Enzo from the beginning. “Does it bother you that I’ll probably have a scar?”
“No.” Enzo’s laugh cracked. “It’s—” He exhaled hard. “I’ll take a thousand scars over the alternative. You were a little too pretty, anyway. Now, you’ll look just menacing enough to give you an edge in court.”
He tried to sound teasing, but his chest ached with everything that could have gone differently. He’d seen that bullet miss by a hair. The thought made his stomach twist.
Avi looked at Seven. “They went after your mom and mangled your pretty face. You want to do the honors?”
Enzo’s fists clenched. It was hard—almost impossible—to reconcile the man in his arms with the predator the others saw. This washisSeven. The one who teased him into late-night takeout runs, who kissed him quietly, who was soft even when he tried to pretend otherwise. The world didn’t get that version. Only Enzo did.
All Enzo wanted was to go home. To lock the doors. To bury himself in their bed with Seven alive and warm and safe.
Almost like he sensed Enzo’s trepidation, Seven shook his head. “No, they’re all yours.”
“We ready?” Asa asked.
No. They weren’t. Enzo wanted time to line all this up in neat moral boxes and label it justified, but the Mulvaneys didn’t wait for permission. Seven was beat up, but his gaze was steady and calm. There was a quiet hunger in it, and something in Enzo’s chest gave way. He kissed Seven’s temple, a quick, hot press of lips.
“Okay,” he said finally, voice rough with restraint. “Let’s just do this and get it over with. I want to get my brothers home, and I want to take Seven to a real hospital.”
Avi saluted, grinning. “Yes, sir. Clean. Courteous. Educational.”
Seven turned in his arms, back warm against Enzo’s chest, watching the procession. They moved like a unit. Efficient. Practiced. A pack that had seen every shade of cruelty and learned how to choreograph around it. Enzo didn’t watch the details; he couldn’t. He dropped back onto a stack of thickwooden pallets, Seven draped across his knee, his hand resting softly over the curve of Seven’s ribs just to feel him breathe.
His brothers floated closer, wide-eyed, transfixed by the mechanical ballet unfolding in front of them. The captives’ ropes were cut, and they were brought forward one by one, their faces sliding from confusion to terror in an instant. They pleaded, of course. Grant stammered excuses, swore he’d been forced, swore he’d never meant to hurt anyone.
The words fell on deaf ears. Avi almost laughed himself sick. “Even if that were true,” he said, “nobody cares. Nobody here even has the capacity to give a shit.”
