I wait for the front deadbolt to lock when I step out. My bike fires up with a low snarl that matches the rage boiling under my skin. Twenty minutes later I'm at the compound. Ghost is already geared up wearing a black hoodie, no cut tonight, Glock on his hip, that knife he never talks about strapped to his ankle. Riot's in the van, laptop open, feeding live pings.
"Truck's in the driveway," Riot says over comms. "Living room light on. He's home alone."
I nod. Pull my helmet off. We roll slow down Maple Grove like we're just two guys out for a night ride. Ghost parks the van one street over. I kill the bike two houses down, let the engine tick as it cools.
Brian's house looks exactly like I'd expect from a guy who thinks therapy fixes what fists broke. A neat lawn, an American flag on the porch, motion light that snaps on the second my boot hits the walkway.
He opens the door before I knock, wearing a pair of sweatpants, T-shirt, beer in one hand, that smug half-smirk plastered on his face like he thinks he's untouchable. "Lucky Kane," he says like we're old pals. "Figured you'd show up eventually."
I step forward and he backs up, leaving me free to enter his home. Ghost slips in behind me, shuts the door quietly, then leans against it with arms crossed.
Brian's eyes flick to Ghost, then back to me. A smirk twitches on his face. "Brought muscle for little old me? Cute."
I don't smile. "You've been texting my woman. Calling her. Driving by her job. You know her schedule. That stops tonight."
Brian takes a slow swig of beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Texting? Calling? I don't know what the hell you're talking about, man."
My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache. "Don't play stupid. We got the receipts. Burner number. Timestamps. Messages. You saw her in my hoodie this morning. You said it yourself. 'Bet it smells like him.' Ring any bells?"
He blinks. Once. Slow. Then he laughs, short and ugly. "Sounds like someone's got a jealous streak. Maybe she has a side piece who talks like that. Wouldn't surprise me. She's always been dramatic. Likes attention."
Ghost shifts behind me. I feel him tense but he stays silent.
Brian keeps going, voice dropping like he's sharing a dirty secret. "She always was a needy little bitch. Crying over nothing. Bruises? Please. Half of them she gave herself just to make me look bad. You really think she's changed? She's still the same loud-mouthed cunt who couldn't keep her mouth shut. Probably still flinches when you raise your hand too fast. Bet she likes it rough now, likes a man who actually hits back."
Something snaps in my chest. Cold. Focused. I grab the front of his shirt, slam him back against the wall so hard the picture frame crashes down. Glass shatters. Beer spills across his chest.
"You don't talk about her like that," I say, voice low enough it barely carries. "Not ever again."
Brian's eyes go wide but he still tries to smirk. "Hit me, tough guy. Go ahead. Prove you're no better than I was. She'll see it eventually. She always comes crawling back when the shine wears off."
I drive my fist into his stomach. He doubles over, gasping. I grab his hair, yank his head up so he has to look at me.
"You think this is about me?" I say slow. "This is about her sleeping without nightmares because of you. This is about her sitting on our kitchen floor shaking because your pathetic ass won't leave her alone. We got proof it's you. Burner pings. Messages. You can deny it all you want. Doesn't change shit."
I slam my fist into his jaw. Blood sprays. He staggers. I don't let him fall. Another punch—cheekbone this time. Bone crunches under my knuckles. He drops to his knees.
Ghost steps forward. "Enough, brother. He's down."
I'm breathing hard. Knuckles split and bloody. Brian's on the floor wheezing, one eye already swelling shut.
I crouch so we're eye level. "Listen real careful," I say. "Delete her number. Block her on everything. If I see your name on her phone again—if I hear you drove past her dad's office, her house, her grocery store, any fucking place she might be—I will come back. And next time I won't stop at a bloody face. I will make sure you understand what it feels like when someonedecides your lungs don't work anymore. And I won't leave enough for the cops to identify. You understand me?"
Brian nods once, blood dripping from his lip. "Yeah. I understand."
I stand slow. Wipe my hand on his shirt like he's trash.
Ghost opens the door. I walk out without looking back.
We ride home quiet. No rush. Night air cools the blood on my knuckles. Ghost doesn't say a word the whole way. He doesn't have to.
Savannah's waiting on the couch when I walk in. Wrapped in my hoodie, knees pulled up, eyes red but steady. She sees my hand first—the split knuckles, the drying blood—and her breath catches.
I lock the door, set the alarm, cross to her in three strides, and drop to my knees in front of the couch.
"He won't bother you again."
She reaches for my hand, gentle, thumb brushing over the cuts. "What did you do?"
