Now we’re walking into his game. His rules. His arena.
He’s moved the board.Flipped the fucking table, and now we’re not the hunters anymore, we’re the prey.
I drag a hand over my face, rage building under my skin like pressure behind a dam.
“Matteo?”Emery's voice is cautious, laced with worry.
I hold up a finger, needing just one second.Just a breath.One move that won’t get her killed.Because that’s what this is now… a fucking countdown to the moment my father sees her and puts a bullet in her skull just to prove a point.
To teach me another one of his twisted fucked up lessons.About loyalty.About weakness.About what happens when you love something enough to bleed for it.
I quickly type, adrenaline spiking through every nerve.
Matteo:I’ve got something you want more than my head.
The pause drags… seconds stretch into eternity, my heart a live grenade in my chest.
Then the screen lights up.
King Prick:You’re in no position to negotiate, son.
I clench my jaw, thumbs flying again, fighting the urge to put my fist through the dash.
Matteo:I have the traitor.Alive.But I’m not walking blindly into your guns.We meet somewhere neutral.No guards.No bullshit.Just you, me, and your little fucking traitor.
Silence again.
Longer this time.He’s making me sweat.Deciding whether he wants to crush me now or make me bleed first.
I can practically feel his rage seeping through the screen… slow and poisonous, the kind that comes wrapped in a smile and ends in someone’s body hitting the floor.
Emery watches me.Intense.Quiet.
Her father shifts in the back seat, nerves turning his spine to jelly.He opens his mouth, then shuts it.
Smart fucking choice.
Then… finally, my phone buzzes again.
King Prick:Name your place.
My grip tightens around the phone like I could crush the bastard through the glass.
He took the bait.A cold smile pulls at my mouth, it’s twisted, full of the kind of satisfaction that comes with getting one up on the fucker.
I type fast, fingers steady despite the storm rising in my chest.
Matteo:The old slaughterhouse.One hour.
I toss the phone onto the dash, the burn of it still crawling up my palm.
I turn toward Emery.“We have a meeting,” I say, voice low, flat.“Neutral ground.”
“You trust him to keep it neutral?”
“Fuck no,” I breathe.“He’ll bring his whole fucking army.He needs the show.The performance.He needs to remind me, and every fucker watching, that he’s still the one pulling the strings.This is how he does it.Smoke and blood and power plays.”
She nods once, then flicks her gaze to the back seat, where her father shrinks further into himself, barely breathing.
