I’ll burn down the world to make sure I can crawl through the ashes to get back to them.
“They are all waiting for you in the back,” the priest says, voice low as he grips the wooden box like it might save his life. “I will take you through. God help you if this turns violent.”
My jaw ticks.
Ifhewere looking out for us, we would never have ended up here. We wouldn’t have lost what we’ve lost. We wouldn’t be standing in a church, pretending peace exists, while men like the Preacher walk free.
If God were real, why are there monsters out there that traffic women and children like they’re cattle?
I lost my faith a long time ago.
The only person I trust to keep me alive… is myself.
“It won’t,” Declan replies, calm as always. “We’re adults. Not animals.”
I follow, dropping my handgun into the box without hesitation. I don’t need weapons. I’ve been trained to be one.
And like that, I slip back to the man they need me to be today. The one ready for war.
One by one, the rest of our men do the same, the clink of metal echoing through the church like a countdown. The priest sets the box down on a pew and leads us past the gold cross, down the dingy stairs, deeper into the place where sins go to rot.
Enzo has eyes everywhere. This whole building is wired. He’s close by, but far enough that he remains safe. The king is guarding his empire.
But no matter how many fail-safes we create…
There’s always a weakness.
Always a crack.
And men like the Preacher know how to slip through them.
The priest doesn’t speak as he stops at a heavy wooden door. His hand trembles slightly as he unlocks it, and my gaze narrows.
A man who spends his life in the house of God shouldn’t look like he’s about to piss himself.
He opens it.
Declan straightens his tie like he’s stepping into a boardroom, not an underground chamber where men come to lie and kill. We’re all suited up for a meeting hiding bulletproof vests underneath.
He strides inside, power in every step.
We follow.
The room is bigger than I expected. Brick walls are sweating and damp. Harsh lighting. A long wooden table like a damn courtroom.
No windows. No escape routes that don’t require violence.
Declan takes the head of the table. Conan and Finn sit on either side of him.
I take my place beside Conan, the twins opposite me.
And then I look across the table.
Six men as agreed upon.
A huge guy sits in the center, leaning back like he owns the air in here. Tattoos run across his face, his head, his neck. Gang ink. Prison ink. Loud ink.
I shift in my seat, not because I’m scared, but because men who want to be ghosts don’t decorate themselves like billboards. What’s the point in being a ghost if you walk around like you want the world to fear you?
