Three minutes.
“We strike,” I say quietly. “We disappear. This ends tonight.”
I give the signal, and the room explodes into motion—teams break off, bodies flow toward exits, and shadows slip into the night. Within minutes, the city will burn in precise, calculated flashes of chaos. By dawn, Rinaldi’s empire will be nothing but smoke and silence.
Maverick and I take the direct route.
Straight to the source.
Rinaldi’s mansion rises ahead of us like a grotesque monument to excess, all marble and iron gates, and the illusion of untouchable power. He built it to intimidate, to remindthe city who he thought he was. But power like his is always brittle beneath the surface, no matter how polished it looks.
Guards patrol the perimeter, unaware that their fate has already been decided. Suppressors whisper in the dark, and bodies drop before alarms can sound. Maverick moves beside me like a predator fully at ease in its element—silent, efficient, and lethal. There’s no hesitation in him, no wasted movement. We clear corridors methodically, leaving only stillness behind us as we make our way toward Rinaldi’s study.
We find him waiting.
He sits behind an ornate desk, untouched by the chaos unraveling around him, gray hair slicked back, and tailored suit immaculate. A glass of scotch rests near his hand, the amber liquid barely disturbed. He knew we were coming. He must have. The realization prickles at the back of my neck, doubt creeping in where I don’t allow it to live.
I thought moving the Russian would force him into desperation. Thought it would blindside him. But if he expected this—if he anticipated my move—then my men could be walking into a slaughter. The possibility claws at me, sharp and insistent, but I shove it down. There’s no room for hesitation now.
“Redmont,” Rinaldi says smoothly. “And Maverick. Bold of you to come yourselves.”
Maverick doesn’t respond, his gun already trained on Rinaldi’s head. I step forward, eyes locked on the man who framed Violet for murder and tried to dismantle my world piece by piece.
“Why?” I demand. “Why this war?”
Rinaldi exhales slowly, swirling his drink like he’s savoring the moment. “What else?” he replies. “This was never business, Asher. It’s personal. It’s always been personal.”
Confusion flickers beneath the rage.Personal?This was about Violet. About stopping him before he could strike again. That was supposed to be the beginning and the end of it.
He watches me carefully, lips curling. “Your father stood in the way of everything we had. Controlled her. Crushed her under his will. And the real betrayal?” His eyes sharpen. “That’s on you.”
I move closer, heat flooding my veins. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Serafina.”
The name hits like a gunshot.
The room tilts. My breath locks in my throat, my pulse roaring so loudly it drowns out everything else. I can’t move. Can’t think. The air thickens, pressing in, crushing.
Serafina.
I see her face like it’s burned into the backs of my eyelids. The fear in her eyes. Her fingers digging into my wrist that night, trembling as she begged me to listen. I was supposed to save her.
I didn’t.
“You don’t know a fucking thing about her,” I snarl.
“But I do,” Rinaldi says softly, cruelly. “I know how she begged you for help. I know how she tasted, how she whispered my name in the dark. I know the choice you made.” He stands slowly, placing his glass down with deliberate care. “I loved her. Your sister. And your father destroyed her. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she turned to you—the only person she believed would protect her. She trusted you. And you let her die alone in the street.”
The words gut me, tearing through memory I’ve spent years trying to bury. Her voice. The panic. The way I hesitated. One mistake. One moment of doubt.
“That’s on you, Asher,” Rinaldi finishes. “And now I’ll burn the Order to the ground for her.”
The room closes in. Her ghost presses against my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs.
That hesitation—that single, catastrophic second—is all he needs.
The gunshot cracks through the space.
