I rise. My hand drips red, sticky to the knuckles. My chest heaves once. Twice. Then still.
The gun clears leather.
George’s eyes bulge, wild and wet. “No—wait?—”
One shot. Clean. The crack shakes the rafters, echoes tearing into the walls. His head snaps back, then drops, chin sagging to his chest. Blood sprays across the sawdust, steam curling off it in the cold air. The stink of piss hits a beat later, bitter and acrid, cutting through copper.
The chair creaks under his dead weight, groaning like it’s tired of holding him up.
I wipe my hands down my jeans. The blood clings, tacky and stubborn.
“We’ve got a name,” I rasp, voice rough, ground to rust. “Sebastian Vale.”
The men shift like the name itself unsettles them. Even Carter steady, unflinching Carter—looks at me like I’ve just spoken the devil’s name out loud.
“Vale,” Mason mutters, jaw tightening until it pops. “Of course it’s him.”
I turn on him. “The name’s familiar, but I can’t place him.”
“You know him, boss.,” Mason snaps. “Defense lawyer. Big-shot bastard who moved from out of state last year. He represented Moore against the state. He’s kept half these animals out of prison since. Always two steps ahead. Always clean. You think Jackson’ssmart? Vale’s smarter. He doesn’t just cover tracks—” Mason spits into the sawdust, eyes burning. “—he buys the whole fucking road.”
A bitter laugh scrapes out of Grove. “And he’s untouchable. Money, politics, judges in his pocket. You can’t put a man like that in cuffs.”
I slam the side of my fist into the workbench. Tools rattle. Wood splinters. “I’m not putting him in cuffs.”
Silence settles, heavy as lead.
Carter clears his throat, steps closer. “So, Vale’s the one harbouring Jackson? That’s where Summer is?”
I meet his eyes. “That’s what George said. And if he’s lying, he’s dead anyway.”
The words taste like iron.
The men exchange glances. None of them argue. They don’t want justice anymore. They want retribution.
Something in me splits wide open—an animal tearing free of its cage. The thought of her in their hands, their mouths on her skin, those bastards touching her. I see them passing her between them, using her, breaking her, and it burns through me until all that’s left is violence.
I holster my gun, my voice flat.
“Then let’s go find the son of a bitch.”
Chapter 33
Pieces He Gave You
Summer
The front doors swing wide. They’re carved wood, taller than any I’ve ever seen, etched with vines and roses. A man in a perfectly pressed black suit stands waiting. White gloves. His face is weathered, sagging like melted wax, but his eyes are blue glass under pressure—cold, brittle, ready to break.
“We’ve been expecting you, Miss Miller,” he says, his voice crisp, rehearsed.
My stomach folds in on itself. Expecting me. Like this is an appointment. Like I’m a delivery scheduled for a Tuesday afternoon.
“Thank you, Harris,” Jackson says smoothly, the name rolling from his tongue like he’s rehearsed it too. He even dips his head, all courtly and charming.
But Harris—he doesn’t smile. He only bows, stiff, mechanical. I catch the flicker in his eyes when they slide to me. Pity. It’s gone in an instant, smoothed over with professionalism, but I saw it.
Behind him, a woman emerges. She’s tall, thin, her black hair scraped into a bun so tight it drags her brows up into arches. Her apron is spotless. Her hands folded.
