“Get Sandro and Raf. I’m heading to her house now. If you’re not there in ten minutes, I swear to God?—”
“We’re moving.”
I hang up and slip behind the steering wheel of Miko’s stealthy black Porsche, and within seconds, I’m pushing the car to its limits as I tear down the streets, weaving through traffic.
Every second I’m not there is another second Kenji could be.
My mind is a reel of images—Stephanie on the floor, Jackson screaming, Kenji’s smug face—each one twisting the knife in my chest.
She told me she didn’t want me in her life anymore, and I respected it. I walked away.
But that doesn’t mean I stopped caring.
Right now, none of that matters.
What matters is getting there before it’s too late.
The city blurs past me, a smear of lights and shadow.
I’ve got one hand on the wheel, the other checking my gun, counting rounds.
Two extra mags sit heavy in my jacket pocket, my knife sheathed in my boot.
I have a backup piece in the glove compartment.
But hopefully, it won’t come to that.
I can’t imagine the trauma it might cause Jackson or Stephanie if this turns into a firefight.
I think about the last time I saw Jackson, the way he smiled up at me like I was some kind of hero. I think about Stephanie’s eyes when she told me it was over—firm, but with something buried deep I couldn’t name.
They don’t deserve to be targets in this life.
But Kenji doesn’t care. And that’s why I’m going to put him in the ground.
By the time I turn onto Stephanie’s street, my brothers are ten minutes behind me. I kill my lights as I approach, scanning for anything out of place—parked cars that don’t belong, shadows where they shouldn’t be.
But everything is still and quiet, the peaceful neighborhood entirely asleep.
I pull over one house short of Stephanie’s and kill the motor, then watch for any sign of movement.
The muffled sound of a small dog barking is the only sound that bleeds in through the window.
Slipping out of the car, I have my gun in my hand before the door shuts behind me.
I pad silently toward the gate of her white picket fence.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I find it latched. But as I open it, creeping down the flagstone walk, a tingling sense of foreboding trickles down my spine.
Several of Stephanie’s beautiful chrysanthemums near the porch have been trampled and broken.
Jackson would never be so careless as to hurt a plant with Stephanie for his mom.
And I know it’s not something Stephanie could be responsible for.
Stomach in a tight knot, I press forward, confident now that I won’t be waiting for backup from my brothers.
And when I step noiselessly onto the wood planks of her porch, I can see in the deep shadows that her cheerful yellow front door is ajar.
