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He flinches, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to figure out how far I’m willing to go. “Wren…”

“What?” I snap, stepping closer. “Let them keep coming for my family? Is that what I’m supposed to do? Stand by and watch?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping under the weight of something I can’t quite place. “I get it, alright? Just… be smart. Go in with a plan. And if it goes sideways, you get the hell out of there.”

For a moment, I see a flicker of the guy I used to know—the one who wasn’t completely consumed by drugs and street life. It throws me off balance.

“I can handle myself,” I mutter, but my voice lacks conviction.

Jake steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “Can you? This isn’t some bar fight or pissing match with local dealers, Wren.”

I turn away, unable to bear the concern in his gaze. My eyes land on a corkboard covered in newspaper clippings. Headlines scream about turf wars and rising body counts.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “It’s really that bad?”

Jake nods grimly. “Worse. The Bratva’s been consolidating power for months. Anyone who stands in their way…” He drags a finger across his throat.

I swallow hard, fear crawling up my spine. But I push it down, lock it away. Can’t afford to be weak. Not now.

“Thanks for the intel,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “And the hardware.”

Jake nods, then hesitates. “Wren, I… I’m sorry. About everything.”

I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. “Yeah,” I manage. “Me, too.”

I stride toward the door, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of the past. But Jake’s voice stops me.

“Hey,” he calls softly. I glance back, seeing a mixture of concern and regret on his face. “Watch your six out there.”

As I climb in and start the engine, my phone buzzes.

“Welcome home, little bird. The party starts at midnight, and we expect a smooth transition of power. Tell no soul, or your sister and Daddy Dearest will be swimming with the fishes. Clock’s ticking.”

Attached is a photo that makes my blood run cold. Em and John, bound and gagged, fear plain in their eyes. A masked figure stands behind them, holding today’s newspaper.

“Fuck,” I hiss, slamming my fist against the steering wheel.

“What do I do?” The words come out choked, desperate. A tear rolls down my cheek as Alex’s face flashes through my mind. My little boy, innocent and oblivious to the shitstorm swirling around us. If I make the wrong move, he could lose everything. His mom, his aunt, even the grandfather he’s never met.

67

Wren

Fuck, I’m five minutes late. Lenny’s probably having a goddamn aneurysm.

I race up to room 207, glancing around to make sure I’m not being followed. My eyes dart left and right, every sense on high alert. I rap my knuckles against the door, five quick, hard knocks. The door swings open in a flash, like a trap set and sprung.

Lenny’s standing in the doorway, phone clutched in his hand, face contorted with anxiety. “Jesus Christ, Wren! Where the hell—?”

I shoulder past him into the room, cutting him off.

“It’s okay, Lenny,” I say, my eyes flicking over his shoulder to where Alex is blissfully unaware, lost in his toys. “I’ve got what I need. Everything good here?” My voice is steady, like I haven’t just sprinted through a goddamn war zone to get to them.

Lenny follows, shutting the door with a soft click. “I was about to call… you know who,” he whispers, waving his phone.

I stand in front of Lenny on my tiptoes to reach his hair, giving it a playful ruffle. “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” I joke. He lets out a long sigh, his eyes meeting mine as he pockets his phone. I shrug off my jacket, feeling the Glock shift slightly against my back.

“Everything good here?” I ask, shooting a look at Alex. He’s got a block in his hands, making engine noises and zooming it through the air like an airplane. His little hands grip the block tightly, like a mini-pilot in training. His cheeks are rosy, his eyes gleaming with imagination.