We might not know their faces yet… but it’s clear we’re chasing the same endgame.
We’re only a few blocks out when the world detonates without warning—a thunderous blast that slams into the car like a sledgehammer. The windshield rattles. The chassis groans. My heart rockets as fire rips across the sky in a violent, breathtaking bloom. A fireball erupts just ahead, turning night into a stuttering wash of orange and heat. Even from this distance, the air ripples with it, and for a split second everything hangs suspended—weightless, unreal, like the world forgot how to breathe.
I slam on the brakes, and the car skids to a hard stop in the middle of the road. Neither of us has to say it—we both know we’re not going any closer. Not until we understand what just detonated. Not until we’re sure it isn’t a trap waiting to pull us in next.
“What thefuck!” I yell, almost at the same time Rowen does, our voices overlapping as we stare out the windshield, wide-eyed.
Flames twist upward in a chaotic spiral, licking the sky, thick smoke curling into a black, choking tower that blots out the stars. The blast keeps echoing, bouncing off the surrounding buildings until the city itself is coughing on the violence.
Rowen keeps his eyes locked on the blaze ahead, jaw clenched, shoulders coiled tight. Whatever hit Stanley’s property wasn’t chance. It wasn’t chaos. It was deliberate. Precise.
And whoever’s behind the hits?
They’re not slowing down.
They’re making a point.
Loud.
Unmistakable.
“Shit,” I mutter, eyes still locked on the inferno lighting up the skyline just a few blocks ahead. “How much do you want to bet that’s the dealership?”
Rowen lets out a humorless chuckle, glancing sideways at me with a tight smirk. “Not a bet I want to take, brother.”
Neither of us moves, still parked dead center in the street, our car idling as we watch smoke billow into the night like a goddamn beacon. Part of me—hell, most of me—is tempted to just sit here and watch it all unfold. Whoever’s behind these attacks is working fast, brutally, and efficiently. Part of me wants to let them keep going, just to see how far they’ll take it… and if they’ll get to Dean and Bryce before we do.
But Rowen’s already pulling out his phone, thumbing in the number without hesitation. Dean picks up almost immediately, voice sharp, impatient. Rowen doesn’t waste time. “Building’s gone,” he says flatly. “We were a few blocks away when it blew. Didn’t even make it onto the property.”
Dean starts cursing on the other end, a rapid stream of profanities threaded with frustration and something heavier beneath it—panic.
“We haven’t checked the other sites yet,” Rowen adds, calm but pointed. “But if I had to guess, they’re probably already gone too. Whoever this is, they’re organized. They’re not just making noise—they’re cutting through every piece of your supply line.”
There’s a pause. Then Dean mutters something under his breath, voice lower, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “You need to figure out who the fuck is behind this. We can’t afford more hits like this.”
Rowen tilts his head slightly, eyes still on the blaze. “Any names come to mind? Anyone with enough hate—and balls—to make a move like this?”
Dean sighs. “You know as well as I do, we’ve made plenty of enemies over the years. Could be a rival. Could be someone we burned and forgot about. I couldn’t even begin to narrow it down.”
Of course he can’t. Dean’s burned so many bridges he’s practically made a career out of it.
Then something shifts in his tone. “I talked to Ronan earlier,” Dean says, almost offhandedly. “Told him about Stanley. Figured he’d already looped you in.”
I glance over at Rowen just in time to see a muscle tick in his jaw. But he plays it cool.
“Right,” Rowen says evenly. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t mention that Ronan never answered him. Doesn’t correct Dean’s assumption that we’re all still on the same page, that we’re working as a unit. We both know we’re not—and Dean probably wouldn’t handle the truth well.
The call ends a moment later. Rowen lowers the phone without a word and rests it in his lap, his grip so tight around it I hear the faint creak of plastic.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and neither do I. We just sit there in the flickering orange glow, watching one more piece of the empire crumble.
Whoever’s doing this isn’t just throwing punches, they’re cutting arteries.
Rowen breaks the silence first, voice low, flat as he stares at the distant fire still clawing at the sky. “Screw this,” he mutters. “Let’s go blow off some steam. Hit the club. Forget the rest of this night ever happened.”
I glance at him again, raised brows. “Seriously?”
