The room goes still.
Nyx steps back, waiting.
Mav shifts beside me, tension rolling off him in waves. “She’s said enough,” he mutters. “Let me finish it.”
I raise a hand. “No.”
Mav stiffens. “You’re risking everything for her name.”
“For Violet,” I correct. “She clears Violet’s name first.”
Nyx scoffs. “That’s not how this works.”
“It is tonight.” I straighten. “We turn her in. We control the narrative. Violet walks free.”
Mav’s jaw tightens, fury barely contained. But he doesn’t argue again.
I step out to make the call.
By the time Rossi arrives, the woman is barely upright. He whistles low. “What the hell happened to her?”
I smile without warmth. “Gravity.”
Rossi doesn’t laugh.
When she’s dragged out, spitting curses and promises of war, I don’t flinch.
By morning, she’ll be erased.
And Violet will walk free.
The cost will come later.
Chapter 40
Blood in the Foundations
Asher
The city hums beneath me with the kind of stillness that feels wrong. Not peaceful—never that—but coiled and watchful, like it’s holding its breath. This kind of quiet doesn’t come naturally. It’s earned, carved out by fear and anticipation, by the collective sense that something violent is about to tear through the streets. I’ve learned to trust it. Silence like this is never an absence. It’s a warning.
We’re not waiting for the storm.
We are the storm.
I stand at the center of one of my warehouses, the air thick with the sharp tang of gun oil and sweat, adrenaline humming just beneath the surface of my skin. My men fill the space around me—dozens of them—silent, armed, and focused. Shadows move between steel beams and stacked crates, every figure locked into place, and every expression carved into something hard and unreadable. This isn’t a raid. There will be no negotiation, and no retreat.
This is an execution.
Maps cover the table in front of me, Rinaldi’s territory laid bare in ink and red marks. Safe houses. Distribution points. Weapons caches. Every place he thought was hidden, every corner he believed untouchable, and marked with a finality that leaves no room for error. We hit them all at once. No warning. No chance to scatter. By the time he realizes what’s happening, there will be nowhere left to run.
Maverick leans against a stack of crates, a rifle slung across his chest, watching me with that sharp, assessing look he gets when he already knows the answer to a question he hasn’t asked. He doesn’t need to ask if I’m ready. He knows. Dominic, the head of my security team, stands closer to the table, calm and methodical, the quiet confidence of a man who has orchestrated violence for a living etched into every line of his posture. His gaze sweeps the room, counting, calculating, and anticipating failure before it has a chance to exist.
“Everyone knows their positions,” Dominic says, rolling his shoulders like he’s settling into a familiar weight. “Teams are spread out. Every entrance covered. Every exit sealed. We hit them simultaneously. No survivors. No loose ends.”
“Good,” I reply, my voice steady, controlled, and even as something sharp coils tight in my chest. “We make it fast. We make it brutal. No hesitation.” My gaze cuts across the room, meeting the eyes of men who would follow me into hell without question. “No civilians. No unnecessary blood. But anyone who stands in our way—” I pause, letting the words settle. “Bury them.”
A low murmur moves through the space, an unspoken oath. I check my watch. 02:57 a.m.
